West Ham United fan, nostalgist and author Sid Lambert goes back 20 years to relive our Premier League return and push for FA Cup glory during 2005/06…
Supporting West Ham is meant to be cruel. And in a strange way, that’s what makes it so addictive. We know following this Club is going to hurt. We’re walking the same painful steps that generations of our families have walked thousands of times before. We remember the wince on their faces. The sadness behind their eyes. The slow stumble out of the ground after another hapless defeat.
We know. We endure. Because sometimes during this never-ending journey in Claret & Blue - towards a bright horizon we know we’ll never see – the clouds part. The dark skies lift. For a split second the sun shines and we feel it burning away all the sorrow of our past. And how we cherish it. We dance. We cheer. We look around and we savour every single detail. Because in our hearts we want this moment to last forever.
Of course, we know it can’t. Normal service will resume. The heartache will return. But it’s these joyful moments that keep us going, trudging towards another sponsor-laden stadium selling under-cooked food at vastly over-inflated prices. Despite what football’s spin doctors tell us we don’t do it for the love of the game. Or some modernised version of a badge. We do it for the ritual. And the common bond that ritual brings.
We can’t all be at the games. Most of us experience this Club from a distance, sometimes at even greater sacrifice than those who’ve given up their Saturdays to travel to east London to face certain doom. I can only imagine how many family gatherings have been ruined by a furtive glance to the phone alerting us we’ve conceded again at Villa Park. Wherever you are, the pain follows you.
Until it doesn’t. Until that glorious moment when the Earth is momentarily tilted off its axis. And somewhere, somehow, West Ham are a good football team.
One of those moments occurred in late September 2005. The final whistle blew at Upton Park after Alan Pardew’s newly-promoted men had matched Arsenal blow-for-blow in a full-blooded goalless draw. The nucleus of a Gunners side once dubbed ‘The Invincibles’ had been made to look mere mortals by an all-action Hammers side that now sat fourth in the Premier League table. Fourth. A year earlier we’d been spluttering to get results at Crewe. Now here we were, back in the big time, giving Arsène Wenger a bloody nose and trailing only José Mourinho’s Chelsea in the race to be the capital’s top club.
It had been a glorious month. After stuffing Aston Villa 4-0 we’d made our way along the Thames to Craven Cottage where we witnessed The Rebirth of Harewood. Prior to that Villa win, Marlon had been suffering. Not since the legendary days of Mike Small, who I’ve mentioned in this publication before, had I seen a player suffer such a sudden and acute attack of nerves. The supreme confidence of last season had disappeared. He looked lost and forlorn, like a man wandering the soft furnishings section in John Lewis. But the hat-trick against the Midlands side had transformed him overnight. He was hustling and bustling better than he ever had before.
And on a Saturday afternoon in Fulham, we saw his final form.
As Teddy Sheringham flicked a ball on there seemed little danger. Until Harewood momentarily morphed into Dennis Bergkamp. In the blink of an eye, he had dinked the ball over the central defender, spun and sprinted towards goal, before dinking the onrushing keeper. It was as extraordinary as it was unexpected. Three seconds. Two touches. One magnificent goal.
The big man scored again as we sealed a 2-1 win in west London before heading north to Sheffield Wednesday for our habitual early exit from the Carling Cup. Except the West Ham of old had been replaced by a fearless, fast attacking unit. Bobby Zamora hit two, including an outstanding dipping volley from 30 yards, Christian Dailly buried a diving header, before Man United loanee David Bellion scored a solo goal in a 4-2 win.
Then came Arsenal. On an afternoon where we’d find out if our early season dreams would fade and die. Wenger’s team – featuring the likes of Cole, Campbell, Fabregas and van Persie – purred through games. Whereas we were like yapping dogs. Jumping. Harassing. Hounding their every move. We gave them no breathing space, and they gave us no shots on target. In the end, we could have won the game, when a free Zamora header missed the target.
The mood around the ground, and in Claret and Blue homes across the world, was one of celebration. We’d endured two years of misery in the Championship trying to scrape our way back to English football’s top table. It would have been typical of us to reach the top of the mountain only to trip over our shoelaces and tumble back down.
Instead, we had reached the summit and proudly planted our flag. The sun beamed bright and when we cupped our ears to the wind, we could hear the distant whisper of ‘Champions League?’.
We knew it was nonsensical. But we also knew better than to simply let the moment pass.
This was one of those fleeting instances where the pain was worth it.
Sid has a book out: ‘Highs, Lows and Di Canios: The Fans’ Guide to West Ham United in the 90s’. Head into the official West Ham store for a rollercoaster ride through one of the most turbulent decades in Claret & Blue history.
*The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of West Ham United.
