We were walking jubilantly up the road outside the ground. There was singing, dancing and smiles on faces like there hadn�t been for years. Before I knew it he was walking right towards me and I felt a buzz of excitement and chatter from those walking in front of me. It was the man who hadn�t been human four years earlier. He had been the hero who had encapsulated in one spectacular bicycle kick what it meant to support this team.
We had risen as one at Wembley as soon as the ball had left Nick Wright�s foot and sailed into the net at the far end. That moment had been replayed on video players and in memories many times since. It had been the last time we had had something to cheer about. When we had recalled what it was like to follow the Hornets and be successful. Just like the early and mid-eighties when the feats of those in yellow were yet to become folklore.
Wright had hardly played since. And two days before I saw him walking down Occupation Road he had announced his retirement. A career cruelly cut short at the age of just 27. Instinctively I reached out and patted him on his back. Just like I would have done had I been on the pitch in that play-off final in May 1999. That�s what I was doing. Thanking him for adding to the memories and being a landmark in my life.
I had just witnessed Watford reach the FA Cup Semi Finals for the first time since 1987 and get success that shouldn�t happen these days. Automatically my mind- and no doubt those of thousands of Watford fans around me - went back to the Cup run of 1984 when we got to the Final for the only time. I was eight and it seemed that at that time all of Watford was supporting the Hornets.
I remember the team coming round to my school. I remember playing football in the playground with a tennis ball and we all wanted to be John Barnes or Luther Blissett or Les Taylor. I remember all the red, yellow and black ribbons on car aerials and the similarly coloured rosette that I wore at every opportunity. Like when I went with my mum the day before the match to pick my dad up from Heathrow. A grown-up came up to me and said we would win tomorrow, or at least he hoped so.
But what I remember most perhaps was the Watford scarf and bobble hat my grandparents gave me that year. I remember it because I have still got them. Dirty and dull yellow now, but I still have them.
And as I stood there at Vicarage Road, as the teams came out to fight it out for the Semi Final spot 2003, I found tears streaming down my face. Granny had died two months before. She had indulged my fanaticism for Watford, just like she had done for my grandad. I looked from high up in the Rookery stand and shed my first tears for granny. If it wasn�t for her choosing to move to Watford all those decades ago, I wouldn�t have been here now. Wouldn�t have travelled up and down the country supporting my beloved Hornets, which has become more than just support, but is now the road map to my life. I wouldn�t be able to remember the 1984 Final defeat to Everton. And I wouldn�t have been so affected by the prospect that the club could be forced into extinction after 120 years because of financial meltdown. The team my grandad had watched from the terraces on that very spot on a Saturday afternoon from the 1950s onwards.
And I wouldn�t have understood why I had to stand and lose myself in jubilation the day Nick Wright volleyed us into the Premiership in 1999.
And as I patted him on the back in Occupation Road I think I realised time never stands still. There will be other victories and other defeats. |
