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Proud to be a Claret

Last updated : 08 November 2002 By Richard Oldroyd

At the risk of sounding like Alastair Campbell in the match day programme, I couldn’t be at Turf Moor on Wednesday night. Instead, I was stuck in a pub two hundred miles away, listening to Chris Waddle display all the qualities of incisive analysis which have made him such a successful manager, with a collection of neutrals and Tottenham fans, none of whom had much knowledge of Burnley or their players.

There are two ways you can go when you watch a game like this. After you’ve spent the days leading up to the game explaining that Burnley have enough good footballers to give Spurs a fright, it is very possible that you can end up looking very silly indeed. That is what happened during the first half at Preston on Saturday. Or, the players can turn in a performance of skill, guile and passion, which impresses even the most cynical neutral and makes you phenomenally proud to be a Claret.

When Spurs went one up inside twenty minutes, with Turf Moor hushed and Burnley unable to get hold of the ball, it was natural to fear the worst (particularly with the Spurs fans in the room looking particularly smug). The defence couldn’t cope with Etherington, Davies or Ferdinand, the midfield was clueless against Poyet and Clemence, and Robbie Blake and Gareth Taylor were not in the game. The commentators on Sky were talking about the ‘gulf in class’, amongst other pompous and condescending phrases.

But every now and again, there are truly special nights at the Turf, when the atmosphere makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and the players produce something special. In the promotion season, there was the one-nil, ten man, victory over Bristol Rovers, won by a few moments of magic from Glen Little; two years ago the victory over Fulham at the Turf. Last season, though it is difficult to recall one. Maybe that’s because we lost the tag of underdogs last year and suddenly we were expected to beat sides. What all those victories have in common is a sense we were battling the odds; we were the underdogs, in the face of some sort of adversity. The other night, against an allegedly superior team, that special spirit returned.

It is possible to pin point the exact moment the turnaround happened. From the minute Glen Little entered the arena to a reception to waken the dead, something felt right. From his first run and pass, you could sense that Little was in the mood, and the crowd and the other players fed off the rising energy.

The performance of Glen Little was one capable of gracing any match between these famous old clubs. It was the Little of old, finding space, wanting the ball and beating his man effortlessly time and again. Down the Burnley right, it was clear the Goran Bunjevcevic didn’t belong on the same football pitch as Glen. He was taunted mercilessly as Little found the extra yard of pace that when he is out of form, he never appears to have. Maybe it was because he was freed from the shackles of the close marking which has eroded his confidence in the first division, but if Tottenham had deployed three men to mark him then it would scarcely have made a difference. As the game went on, even the neutrals were in admiration. Back on the TV, Chris Waddle was being asked to praise the man who he once came close to discarding. The man was squirming as he did so.

But it would be wrong to single out Little as the one man who proved himself a Premiership class performer. Robbie Blake was magnificent, dropping off the front to link up the play, finding Little time and again with incisive passes, and generally looking the most likely goalscorer in a claret and blue shirt. But a word should be reserved for Paul Weller, another individual who has not reached his standards of a year ago this season. When he moved into the centre of the park to accommodate Little, Stephen Clemence and Gus Poyet were dictating terms. Weller produced a performance of industrious running, intelligent passing and determined tacking, which almost single handedly rested control of the midfield for the Clarets. He has had his critics this season, and on Saturday against Preston he looked dreadful, but the other night he too showed his true qualities. Then there was every other player wearing the shirt with pride. Graham Branch has not always been this observers’ favourite player, but he was magnificent down on the left hand side. Steve Davis was monumental; Arthur, aside from a few scares provided by Robbie Keane, was like a rock alongside. Then there was Marlon Beresford, who made great saves and timely interventions whenever they were needed, including that spectacular, one handed last-gasp save to deny Keane. Gareth Taylor, Lee Briscoe, Dean West, Tony Grant…all ran until they had nothing left to give, and then ran some more.

And then there was the crowd, the twelfth man: it came alive during the first twenty minutes of that second half. It was almost as if the quality of the football suddenly produced a realisation that this Burnley team has more class and quality than any thing that the last twenty five years has dreamt up. After a year in which Turf Moor has sometimes seemed like it has forgotten how intimidating it is supposed to be, it came alive. On the television, the volume did not need turning up; it happened naturally. It was evident to any neutral that this was a club with a special passion and pride in its identity, with a special bond between management players and fans, and a club which could be going somewhere special.

I have just one regret. I should have been there. It is for nights like last night that you remain loyal through the bad times and the dross, that you sit on the front row of the Bob Lord Stand or in the lower tier of the Longside when it is pouring with rain and the team are losing to Northampton or some other lower division footballing outpost. It is nights like that which make it all worthwhile, when you should be singing your heart out in the euphoria of the moment. I did sing a few times, I couldn’t help it, but I imagine I looked a bit of an idiot singing it to a TV screen.

But anyway, never mind. Those results I mentioned earlier on, those other special matches, have kickstarted something special. The Bristol Rovers match was the prelude to the run which catapulted us into Division One, albeit that Ian Wright signed in the meantime. The Fulham game ended a five match losing streak and set us on a run to the fringe of the players. Maybe it can have that effect again. Now, at least, there is a reason to believe it is possible.


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