Chapter 11 

Chapter 11

Forest

‘With Mist Rolling in from the Trent’

Over the decades the post-match sequence has become reassuringly familiar.  A lifetime’s experience, barely changed as season has followed season, enables me to recognise the process and embrace the phases as a necessary penance.  It helps to know that I’m not alone.  Rather like the joys and reassurance that a religion brings to some, there is a comfort in the knowledge that I’m sharing similar tribulations with many of the same allegiance.

There’s very little variation.

If we’ve lost I’ll wallow in disappointment for a few hours, suddenly losing any appetite to read a match report, acknowledge the goal-scorers, or check where we are in the table.  Any victories for rival clubs, or the personal pet hates of Derby, Leeds or Man U, will add to my state of grumpiness.  Later I might force myself to watch MOTD although in the background my sub-conscious is asking questions, making excuses….

‘They’ve just bought that success!   Any team could do it with that sort of money!’

'How the hell can Leicester (or Bournemouth, or Burnley etc) still be up there?’

‘Why are we still stuck playing Charlton (or Barnsley or Bradford etc) FFS?’

The following morning I will have mellowed a bit.  Sometimes I’ll take a quick peek at the manager’s post-match excuses, trying to be sympathetic and hoping he’s taken a similar objective view to the performance that I heard from the radio or TV reporter.  Honesty will always win out for me over any head-in-the-sand clichés or moaning about the officials.  For the rest of the day I’ll allow football to take a back-seat, trying not to dwell on things, distracting myself with a family walk or some other outdoor activity.

Funnily enough, if I speak on the phone to Dad later, I’ll find myself being upbeat in comparison when discussing the result.  In recent years, he’s found it harder to keep the faith, despite regular virtual attendance, courtesy of Sky Sport or the internet.  If it’s not the playing style, it’s the mixed multi-cultural bag of players’ names, or the manager’s inability to speak in plain English that vexes him.  But of course he’ll still be tuning in for the next game.

A day later and I will have been re-born.  I don’t know how it happens, but suddenly there’s renewed hope.

'Let’s check the fixtures!  Who’ve we got next?  Is it on the box?  Where will three points get us?’

The insatiable optimism is back and I’m eagerly anticipating the next match, the recent disappointment confined, after only a couple of days, to the bin where it will languish with hundreds of other similar defeats.

If we’ve drawn, my response depends on which team scored the final equaliser.  If it’s us then I’ll take the point, content that we’ve maintained some momentum.  If it’s them, particularly if they’ve snatched it late-on, I’ll be left frustrated ruing two points squandered and find myself heading back down the same spiral as if we’d lost.

After 55 years I’ve managed to get things in perspective.  It wasn’t so easy as a boy.  Back then the world revolved around Saturday afternoon.

We’d have a simple dinner on Saturday always gammon, chips and peas; before Dad and I would head off to ‘the Match.’  I loved the routine of driving to West Bridgford, parking, usually on the Embankment and walking across the suspension bridge that bounced unnervingly up and down with the volume of footfall.  We’d buy a programme from a seller on Radcliffe Road before turning left towards the Colwick Road entrance.  I’d be given my 1/- and join the queue for the ‘juvenile’ gate.  After handing over the cash, I had to push quite hard to get through the clunky turnstile before meeting Dad on the other side.  Up the steps we climbed and out onto the open terraces of the Bridgford End and a first glimpse of the pitch.  Even now, sixty years later, whenever I emerge from the stairs into the stands at any stadium large or small, there’s something exciting about taking in the initial view of the pitch, track or wicket.  We’d find our spot by a crush-barrier halfway down the terrace; look round to see if (Uncle) Roger had turned up yet, and then, standing on a footstool dad had carried in, I’d absorb the scene.

If the players weren’t out for their warm-up, I’d first assess the pitch. In the autumn it would be a verdant green, but by the New Year it was likely to have large muddy sections in the centre and penalty areas. A quick glance to the Main Stand would reveal if the TV cameras were up in the gantry. It didn’t happen often in the early days but if they were there, we would speculate whether it was BBC’s MOTD or we’d be on ITV’s Star Soccer the following day. 

Dad would have finished with the programme so I’d avidly inspect it.  Pictures from the last game, followed by the manager’s message and the latest season’s statistics.  But more compelling was the ‘Welcome to today’s visitors’ section, a mix of photos and pen portraits of the opposition.  When they ran out for their five minute pre-match warm up I’d match the names and numbers to the characters on the pitch.  The excitement mounted until Forest ran out, the PA playing 'Robin Hood,’ the crowd cheering and the Trent End singing each player’s name until a hand was raised in acknowledgement. Invariably Forest would be down the other end so once I’d confirmed in the distance who was in our team for the day, I’d focus on the opposition’s big names.

'There’s George Best. Dennis Law looks small. Charlton looks ancient. ‘Sniffer’ Clarke’s playing.  Ball really does have red hair.  Greaves looks threatening.  Bonetti doesn’t look like a Cat.’

With some trepidation I’d spot their villains.  Most teams contained a thuggish defender who’d quite happily kick into the air any marauding forward presumptuous enough to try and get past.  With admonishments from the ref rare, these anti-heroes developed fearsome reputations. Labone (Everton), MacKay (Spurs), Tommy Smith (Liverpool) were good examples, but pride of place goes to Leeds, who easily fielded three or four each week, led by Norman ‘Bite your legs’ Hunter.  I’d asked Dad why we didn’t really have a ‘hard man?’  The worst the opposition had to worry about was a sliding tackle into the hoardings by our right-back Peter ‘the Tank’ Hindley.  ‘Forest are a footballing side,’ was his reply, but sometimes I’d wish for a bit of steel in our defence rather than the ball-playing talent of Hennessy or the old-school elegance of McKinley. (Fortunately ten years later Cloughie would grant my wish in the forms of Burns and Lloyd!)

By kick-off we were wedged in. Hopefully I could see between the heads and shoulders and whilst nervously following events on the pitch I’d listen to the sounds and moods of the crowd.  The chants, the banter, the moaner, the wise-cracker, the language.  A Forest goal produced a roaring wave as the cheering crowd surged forward en masse for several yards before flowing back up the terraces seconds later.  Standing behind the barrier, protected by Dad, I avoided being temporarily swept away.  Action down at the Trent End usually resulted in inspired speculation until the goal scorer’s shirt number appeared in a window of the scoreboard.

Half-time was only 10 minutes, enough to match the scores from the other games with the lettered windows that corresponded with fixtures in the programme.  Half-hearted groans or cheers were the responses depending how the scores from the other matches suited us.  And there was a full set of scores; all games took place at 3pm on a Saturday rather than being sacrificed to the whims of Sky TV.

The next 45 minutes would determine the mood for the rest of the weekend.

‘Could we grab a few more?  Could we hang on?  Could we get one back?  Could we at least get one?  Please.

You couldn’t tell how much injury-time the ref would give, but eventually the whistle would blow and our fate was sealed.  Would it be a chirpy walk back to the car amongst happy, upbeat fans or a disconsolate trudge surrounded by grumbling, critical moaners?  Back at home, would it be an excited race round the corner to fetch the Football Post, or a dutiful plod to fulfil my obligation?

There was never any doubt I’d be a Forest supporter.  Dad had grown up in West Bridgford, a short walk from the City Ground, and Pop had regularly taken him and Roger on his return after the War.  On Mum’s side they were County supporters, Harry had even played a couple of reserve games for them in the 1920s, and she had been bought up on the goal-scoring exploits of Tommy Lawton.  But Forest it would be and this bond was sealed only a few weeks after my birth with the FA Cup triumph that I celebrated in my carrycot.  Family and friends slowly nurtured an interest during my early years and by the time of our World Cup win in 1966, I considered myself a junior pundit, capable of naming a multitude of the First Division players.  For many of us, the England winning team line-up is hard-wired into our brains and, thanks to my frequent interrogation of the ‘Kenneth Wolstenholme's World Cup’ book I had for Christmas that year, I could also name the West German side.

(Just tested myself for the first time in probably 50 years - got nine of them.)

The following season would be my debut.  Aged seven I was deemed old enough and so, on 17th September 1966, I was perched on my stool halfway up the Bridgford End terraces to watch us beat Newcastle 3-0 ( Baker 2, Storey-Moore 1).  Regular visits over the rest of that season ensured that the initial taster session rapidly evolved into a full-blown addiction.  I was hooked.

Did it help that we finished runners-up to Man United that season?  Was I over-influenced by experiencing more of the joy of winning than a first-season supporter usually enjoyed?  We’ll never know, but I’d like to think that the family influence and the hometown association would have won out regardless.  In fact Dad and Roger had been fans as boys when Forest were in the Third Division.

I’m not sure why people sometimes choose to support teams other than their local one.  I suppose I’d have some sympathy if their home team was really languishing in the lower divisions and there was no family connection or encouragement to go to the match on a Saturday.  In these limited circumstances a kid interested in football would be drawn towards one of the bigger clubs, especially as it was compulsory to declare an allegiance at some point to ensure acceptance into the world of playground football.  This requirement follows you into the work and social networks of your future and I always feel slightly superior when I respond ‘Forest' compared to another guy, clearly not a native, who announces ‘Man U’ or ‘Liverpool'.

There’s a multitude of memories from those early seasons.  On cold winter days on a frozen or snowy pitch, the keepers would wear tracksuit bottoms and they’d use an orange ball.  We’d be shivering on the terraces, only marginally more uncomfortable than the rainy days when we’d get soaked watching the players battle it out in the muddy penalty area.  Occasionally, like a scene from a ghost film, the fog would gather, slowly drifting in from the river, and the far side of the ground would slowly fade into the gloom.  If we were losing hopelessly, there became a point when you’d start to wish for conditions to worsen and the ref’ be forced to abandon the match. Typically on the few occasions when I recall it happening we were in the lead.

A couple of matches from those early days are memorable for various reasons:

1968   Forest 3 Man Utd 1   -   Baker 2 Wignall 1 v Best 1.

Squeezed in like sardines in the record-ever crowd of 49,946. (You’d think they’d have let in another 54 just to get to 50,000.)  A great result against the star-studded champions with all our goals banged in at the Bridgford End.  Joe Baker was in his prime.

1968   Forest v Leeds.

One-all at half-time when fire broke out in the old Main Stand. Players and fans escaped onto the pitch and miraculously there were no casualties.  We watched as the whole stand was gutted but luckily a Bradford-like tragedy was avoided. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find Revie, the Leeds manager, had started it as we were looking the more threatening team.  For a nine year-old, the spectacle of real-life fire engines in action was almost worth the fact we lost the replay.

1969   Forest 2 Spurs 2

Ian Storey-Moore picked up the ball way down at Trent End and raced down the left towards us, dribbling round most of the Spurs team before slotting past Jennings right in front of us. Brilliant. Goal of the decade but sadly not captured on video.  Within the family we talked in awe about this goal for years afterwards.  Greaves equalised for them.

Like your first love, you never forget your first team.  Still hidden away in the loft are the scrapbooks and programmes that, rather like nostalgic love-letters, provide a chronicle of those early years.

However, all was not rosy, and cracks started to appear during my third season.  We languished near the bottom of the table and I was increasingly upset as, one by one, my heroes were transferred to rival teams and their replacements failed to ignite.  After a few narrow escapes, we were inevitably relegated in 1972.  It felt like the ultimate betrayal when my favourite, Ian Storey-Moore, was sold to Man U. Our reputation as a pure footballing side was also on the slide.  When Sammy Chapman was sent off in 1971, he put an end to a run of 32 years during which no Forest player was ever sent off.

The relationship would be sorely tested over the next few years.  As a teenager there were temptations elsewhere and it would have been easy to find alternative, more glamorous options to follow.  Luckily friends and family managed to stop me wandering elsewhere during this key part of my life and the relationship survived.  We didn’t have much to shout about, playing dour football under Dave Mackay and Allan Brown.  The welcome exception was a magician full of tricks called Duncan McKenzie who was the entertaining top-scorer in 73/74.  He shimmied, he dummied, he did back heels and flipped the ball over onrushing defenders.  He was a joy to watch.  He also tended to go AWOL against inferior opposition and claimed to be smoking 40 cigarettes a day.

1974 FA Cup 4th Round:  Forest 4 Man City 1

McKenzie put on a one-man display.  He ran the Manchester City defence ragged. He created two goals for Ian Bowyer and one for George Lyall before scoring himself.  It was Duncan McKenzie 4 Manchester City 1 and this was a City team that boasted Lee, Bell and Sumerbee. Forty-one thousand of us watched him put them to the slaughter on Forest’s second ever Sunday game.

I watched from the East Stand with Robbo and a few other mates.

1974 FA Cup 6th Round:  Newcastle 4 Forest 3

It remains one of the few games officially declared void.  With 20 minutes left we were 3-1 up and, listening anxiously on the radio.  It was clear we were in control against our first division opponents. But they had a player sent off prompting the Geordie fans to invade the pitch and a couple of Forest players were assaulted.  When the fans finally left the pitch, a shocked Forest conceded three goals including one that was laughably offside.  Forest protested and the FA allowed a replay at a neutral venue.  It was drawn but we lost the next replay.  We all felt cheated out of our cup run.  Watch it on YouTube.  Disgraceful but a fascinating trip back to the days of long hair, short shorts, muddy pitches and volatile crowds.

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KHWoY-0SThs

The entertainment didn’t last.  Mckenzie was bought for Leeds by Brian Clough at the end of that season during his short tenure at Elland Road.  Clough didn’t see much of him as by the New Year he himself had been ousted and even had a few weeks down at Brighton before Forest, taking a risky but inspired decision, appointed him our new manager.

Being full-on with swimming and other increasing family commitments, combined with the mediocre stuff Forest were playing, meant that my attendance record at The City Ground was at a low ebb, although you could guarantee that the broadcasts of match updates from Radio Nottingham would be avidly followed whenever possible.  We were upbeat about Clough’s arrival; the club was back in the spotlight and we knew that, however long his tenure lasted, it wasn’t going to be boring.

The incredible Clough period has been well chronicled elsewhere and most people with even a passing interest in football know the general story so I don’t propose to repeat it.  Instead allow me to just jump onto a few selected moments along the timeline to try and describe the crazy footballing adventure that took our provincial team and its devoted fans on an odyssey of cities across Europe, smashing down the doors of footballing fortresses, and reaching unimaginable pinnacles along the way.

January ’75 - Dad’s in London for work and goes to Clough’s first match to see Forest grab a 1-0 cup replay victory at Spurs.  Could it be the start of something special?

75/76 - It’s patchy but we improve to 8th and Peter Taylor joins as Clough’s sidekick at the end of the season.  For night matches I’d often go with mates as, with Mum being ill, Dad could rarely make it and Jack or Rick had their own commitments.  We’d catch the bus and had laid claim to a familiar spot in the East Stand.  I’ve always loved the atmosphere of a night match, it almost feels like a bonus treat that breaks up another mundane week.  There’s a strange added excitement, almost spooky, as any rain, snow or mist seems magnified when viewed through the floodlights.

76/77 - A few individuals (O’Neil, a curly haired Irish law graduate and Robertson, a rather chubby but elusive left-winger) were emerging from the shoestring team.  We end the season in the third promotion spot but needed Bolton to lose one of their games-in-hand to clinch it.  On Saturday May 14th I was supposed to have been playing cricket but it was called off and so a little group of us sat in our kitchen listening to the scores coming in over the radio.  Unbelievably, Wolves beat Bolton and we were up!   It was the Top House that night to celebrate.

77/78/79/80  - just three seasons

For our first match back in the First Division, we’d got a tough one away at Everton. I was working at the pool and it’s 5pm before I got a break in my shift and could listen to the radio in the small poolside lifeguard’s office.  The reception on my little trannie is rubbish but I think I hear that we’ve announced our arrival with a 3-1 win.  We’re up and running.

‘The bubble will burst’

It’s all I heard from new university friends, TV pundits and journalists as we found ourselves near the top as the autumn progressed.  With no telly or internet the radio was my only live source and I had to try and catch highlights on the Union TV or read the papers the following day in the Common Room.  Eventually we lost at Leeds in November but it was only a temporary blip as we didn’t lose again all season.  When we demolished Man U away at Old Trafford 4-0 in December (watch it on You Tube) even the doubters realised that this team had something special.

“Dad must be daft “

Looking back I’m amazed he allowed his 18 year-old son with hardly any motorway driving experience to borrow the family car, load it up with his mates, and drive to Bristol City and back on New Year’s Eve.  It was a freezing day and we stopped several times on the way back to celebrate a 3-1 win.  There’s no way I’d have trusted my own sons in those circumstances but he’d regularly let me borrow the car for such away match expeditions, scarves flying from the windows as we joined the rest of the fleet ‘following the Forest’ on the nation’s motorways.

'Wembelee, Wembelee'.

Leeds had been thrashed in the semis (that felt so good) and now we had a date with Liverpool in the League Cup Final; the first chance for a Wembley trip for my generation.  Tickets were like gold dust and we could only get a couple through season ticket entitlement and programme tokens.  It looked like I might miss out until Sally, the girl-from-next-door-but-one’s uncle, a scout for Arsenal, managed to obtain us a couple.

Dad, Rick and Sally and I headed off down the M1 and straight into a tense traffic jam where the M6 clogged with Liverpool fans, had merged with us.  We parked in a side street some way from the stadium and it was the only time I’ve seen Dad run.  Making it with minutes to spare we missed out on savouring the pre-match atmosphere and our spot at pitch level, down near one of the corners, was probably the worst view in the ground.  It didn’t matter.  With a makeshift team we hung on 0-0 and a replay against the Cup giants felt like a good result.

Only four days later it was off to Old Trafford.  I was in Blackpool for the BUCS Swimming Champs but I remember Rick went with a mate on one of the supporters’ buses.  Watching the match ‘live’ later, alone at the guest house, left me trembling with pride as we triumphed 1-0.  None of the rest of the swim team were particularly bothered and were still out on the town. I still recall with a smile the foul on John O’Hare and Robbo’s calm penalty execution.  Every time I see Phil Thompson these days reporting on Sky TV I’m reminded of his emotional sour-grapes outburst after the match claiming that his foul was outside the box.  Who cares!

‘Champions Champions.’  ‘We’re proud of you, we’re proud of you …’

Away at Coventry in April, we need a point to win the First Division.  I’ve borrowed the car and we’re squeezed into the visitor section behind a goal. Forest are nervous and understandably tired and it’s a nail-biting 90 minutes.  Shilton is magnificent, including one miraculous save right in front of us.  I’m 19 years-old and it’s impossible to describe the passion and pride I felt as our provincial town team took the crown from all those favoured, conceited footballing giants.  I hope I behaved during the celebrations that evening in the Old Market Square but my jeans were wet when I got home so maybe I did dance in the fountains.

It wasn’t an exotic continental team we were drawn against for our first foray in the European Cup;  it was the current holders, Liverpool, and time for Clough to play a wildcard.  I worked at the pool with Gary Birtles’ brother-in-law and had loosely followed Birtles’ earlier progress at Long Eaton Town, so at least I’d heard of him when he danced all around the Liverpool defences, scoring in our 2-0 win.  By the end of the season, with 26 goals to his name, everyone had heard of him.  But would two goals be enough in the return leg?

It was a long drive up the M6 and a scary night. ‘Welcome to Anfield’ says the sign greeting visiting teams but it wasn’t a friendly greeting for us, penned in the Anfield Road End and bombarded by bottles, darts and abuse from the nearby Scousers.  On the pitch we defended brilliantly with the imposing Shilton and Burns building a huge physiological and physical barrier that slowly eroded the confidence and arrogance of the home team and their supporters.  A draw was enough: we were happily becoming their bogey team and were relieved to escape back to the car in one piece.  I returned to University a couple of days later with plenty to gloat about.

By March I’d already secured a third trip to Wembley in 12 months, beating Southampton 3-1 to retain the League Cup.  But it was a warm April night that I remember most.  The gang was all home for Easter from our various uni's, polys and colleges, and we squashed ourselves into the usual spot in the East Stand for the home semi-final against FC Cologne.  I’m not sure how much Naomi and Jackie could actually see, but within 20 minutes we were stunned to be 2-0 down.  We hadn’t experienced this sort of setback for a year or two but we needn’t have worried as the team hurtled forward across the muddy pitch to recover the situation.  Birtles and Bowyer pulled us level before we went 3-2 down and it was left to a thrilling diving header from Robbo to seal a draw.

We all headed back to our house which, with Dad being in Egypt, had become something of a social hub.  A big Chinese takeaway, watch the highlights on Sportsnight, and bed.  Most of us were driving up to the Lakes early in the morning for a few days backpacking so quite a few of the gang slept over. An incredible game, and a great ‘European’ night.

One month later, on the ancient black and white telly in our Selly Oak flat, I watched with my uni’ mates as the £1million signing Trevor Francis hurled himself at a cross to give us a 1-0 win over Malmo.  ‘European Champions.’  Say that again!

‘European Champions’

Only one year later and I’m again watching in black and white with the same guys, this time in the house in Halesowen.  We’ve all got our own Finals in the morning but the spectacle of Forest keeping the star-studded Hamburg at bay is riveting and after Robbo’s scoring drive from the edge of the box the second-half is unbearable as we lift the huge trophy again.  It was another night of overwhelming pride and, like everything from those days, the memories are hard-wired.

In the space of three years we had four trips to Wembley for a total of £8, a dozen European nights at the City Ground nights for a couple of quid each time and numerous classic Saturday £1 afternoons around the country.  That’s what you call good value; especially when compared to today’s prices and entertainment levels.  Over the next few decades, if I mentioned to any European work colleague that I came from Nottingham, they always would respond with, 'Ah yes…Nottingham Forest… and Robin Hood.’  Forest and Liverpool remain the only British clubs to have won it in successive years.

Whilst mentioning Liverpool it reminds me of one other Anfield trip.  Sally, studying at Wolverhampton Poly’, had use of a small van and we’d arranged to drive up on a Friday evening to see John C in Sheffield.  Naomi travelled over on the train from Hull and, after a night out in the city, we all slept in his tiny student room.  Next morning, on a whim, we decided to head across the Pennines to see Forest play Liverpool.  Not having tickets for the visitor section, the plan was to just get into The Kop end  and keep our mouths shut.  It worked and so just before kick-off we were wedged down the front, surrounded by thousands of fanatical Scousers.  At this point Sally decided to play an ace card and, pushing to a gate in the fencing at the front, she mentioned to a policeman that we were Forest fans and could we possibly be allowed into the visitor section at the other end.  She could twist guys round her little finger and this guy was no exception. Before we knew, it the four of us were walking the length of the Anfield pitch.  By the time we passed halfway the crowd had figured out where we were heading. The Liverpool fans hurled a mixture of abuse and whistles (at the girls) and the Forest fans cheered as we safely made it to their pen.  Along the way, I made a point of stepping onto the grass just to say I’d stood on the Anfield pitch.  We lost 2-0.

‘Mist Rolling In’

With an empty Tuesday student evening ahead, of us I managed to persuade Andy, not a massive football fan, to drive me and Dean (massive Blues and general up-for-anything sports fan) over to Nottingham to watch Forest play Leeds.  It was cold, misty and frosty as we approached the town and by the time we’d arrived at the ground, the fog was so thick you could hardly see a thing!  Billowing waves drifted in from the river.  Frozen and frustrated, we drove back to Birmingham at a snail’s pace.  I was hacked off so I dread to think what the others felt about a completely wasted evening.  Hopefully they haven’t held it against me.

Just like in some relationships, the passion and excitement can start to fade.  We’d enjoyed too much of a good thing and, as the seasons marked off the eighties, we struggled to reach the same giddy heights. The occasional League Cup win, a run in the UEFA cup and regular top-half finishes in the First Division (what I’d give now…) reflected a manager, team and supporters who had started to drift and lose their spark with each other.  The team broke up, expensive signings never gelled and only a few names stand out: Hodge, Pearce, Webb, Des ‘you’ll never beat’ Walker, Keane, and young Nigel Clough.  Living in Bristol, going out with Sue (football knowledge almost zero) and being absorbed into an outdoor world of weekends spent canoeing, surfing and hill-walking allowed a little crack to form.  Whilst always making an effort to find a radio or watch MOTD I felt increasingly that I could survive without a live fix.

We had our moments.  Cloughie had never won the FA Cup but the 1988 Cup run ended in the semis with the defeat to Liverpool.  If we’d won the replay it might have been a bit tricky as the Final was on our wedding day.  The following season it was Liverpool in the semis again at Hillsborough.  Working in the garden of our new house, I listened unbelieving as the tragedy unfolded.  Some of the lads were there and witnessed it stunned and helpless from the other end.  Defeat in the replay was to a script written beyond our control.

And then in 1991 we actually made it to Wembley to meet Spurs and I dared to think that, 32 years after watching from my cot, I might have the chance to see us lift the trophy again.  Pearce cracked home a free-kick opener and Crossley saved a Lineker penalty but we succumbed in extra time to an own goal by Des Walker.  Clough, who hadn’t stirred from the bench to give a team talk during extra-time, had lost his magic somewhere amidst the swirling stories of bungs and alcoholism.  Two years later we were down and he’d resigned, bringing to an end an era it was a privilege to have lived through.  So many trophies, so many big scalps, so many goals.  The football was simple: just watch some of the You Tube clips to see the approach.  Win the ball, pass quick, race forwards, pass, shoot, or cross, shoot.  The only players allowed to pass sideways were McGovern and Webb.  The contrast with today’s build-it-slowly possession football is stark.

I followed from a distance through the nineties as we yo-yoed between the newly formed Premiership, the re-named First Division and the three years cast adrift in the dark wild lands of League One.  Parenthood and a social group that didn’t place a high priority on watching football forced me into only sporadic attendance at the City Ground or Ashton Gate.  Remote support via teletext or radio became the only way of demonstrating my ever-lasting commitment.

I tried to get the boys on board but with no local media coverage, their friends only supporting lowly Bristol clubs or Premiership giants, and rare chances to see Forest, it was a losing battle.  I thought they might be hooked when in 2003 I took them with Dad to see us thump Stoke 6-0 (Harewood scored 4) but it wasn’t enough.  Stuart ultimately wasn’t that bothered and Murray opted for Man U, though I suspect they both keep an eye on the Forest results ‘for Dad’s sake’.  I’m quite impressed how school friend Nico has indoctrinated his three girls despite them never living in Nottingham and the same can be said of Rog and Jill’s boy, my cousin Andrew, who emigrated to Australia in 1971 when he was just one.  The Sydney branch now has three generations of members who remain forever hopeful that the good times might return.  I know they’re still daft enough to watch games broadcast live in the middle of an Australian summer’s night.

It’s now two decades since we last played in the Premiership and there’s been precious little to get excited about. We’ve drifted through years of mediocre performances, with average, barely remembered players and a crazy, chaotic merry-go-round of managerial changes.  We stirred briefly in just four play-off appearances, all of which ended in the semis, before settling back again into what sometimes felt like a slowly decaying spiral.  The ownership, in the hands of multi-millionaire tycoons, has sometimes walked too close to the edge of financial regulations and the 29 managerial sackings in 20 years has become an embarrassing fact that commentators love to highlight.

Sixty light-years away on Beta Arietis our alien friends in the Aries Constellation Branch of the NFFC Supporters Club, who have only recently stopped celebrating the 1959 Cup win, still have all these triumphs, trials and tribulations to come as the TV and radio broadcasts of passing decades hurtle at light-speed towards their radio telescopes.

Back on Planet Earth a whole new generation have never experienced a day at Wembley, a cup night against European opposition or the excitement of ‘We will follow the Forest’ away trips to Old Trafford or Anfield.  They’ve not known the same hero worship, that feeling of pride when one of our own pulls on an England shirt, or even been able to relate to a commentator or pundit referring to Forest’s reputation as a 'footballing side.’

And yet.

Each new season brings renewed hope.  Each new match day is eagerly awaited.  How can I stay in touch?  Is it on Sky or am I stuck with the internet or Radio 5 Live?  More recently I’ve hooked up more closely with the Nottingham gang - same values, same humour, same hopes, and same despair.  What’s App banter and score updates fly across the invisible network, binding our little group together as though we were still standing on the terraces as optimistic teenagers rather than pessimistic sixty-year olds.

And I’ll call Dad later so we can discuss the result and performance.  Despite his 87-year-old grumbles about the lack of a goal scorer, or our persistent failure to avoid conceding in the final five minutes, I know he’ll be tuned in for the next game. Clearly once it’s in your blood, you’re infected for life and there’s absolutely no cure…

A week after I wrote this we tumbled out of an almost guaranteed play-off place by surrendering four goals in the last twenty minutes at home to Stoke.  Unbelievable yet believable.

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We’re back.  An amazing 2021/22 season under new manager Steve Cooper has seen us promoted back to the Premiership after a 23 year gap.  Dad sadly didn’t live to see it but we sprinkled some of his ashes into the river by Trent Bridge one Saturday afternoon when Forest were playing at home.  Within a minute, just as the river-borne remains would have drifted past the Trent End there was a huge roar from the ground.  Back in the car we confirmed what we already knew; a Forest goal.

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It’s not going so well.  A third of the way through the season and we’re currently bottom.

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We’re back in the Prem' after an amazing turnaround under Steve Cooper.  Can we stay up?

‘Far have I travelled and much have I seen

Darkest of mountains with valleys of green

Past painted deserts the sun sets on fire

And carries me home to the City Ground

City Ground, with mist rolling in from the Trent

My desire is always to be here

On City Ground.’     

Just search in Google images for a brief nostalgia trips or try Netflix 'I believe in miracles' for an hour of memories.