In a new column for the new season, 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…
“I felt there was a chuckle from the Newcastle fans because they couldn’t quite believe he had been sent-off.”
Paul Konchesky’s red card at St James’ Park was certainly no laughing matter for boss Alan Pardew. And with good reason. It was a disgrace. A robbery. An affront to the rules of association football.
With 55 minutes gone the Irons were bossing the game. The home crowd were silent. Expecting an easy win against a newly-promoted side, they had been taken aback by the visitors’ effort and energy. Nigel Reo-Coker was relentless in midfield. Teddy Sheringham, playing like he was 20 years younger, was peerless in attack. The Geordies, so used to seeing a West Ham team roll over and die on weekends in the North East, looked utterly lifeless for once. Pards’ gameplan had worked perfectly. Even the great Alan Shearer was ineffective, reduced to watching the game from inside Danny Gabbidon’s deep pockets.
Then came the referee.
Jermaine Jenas burst from midfield looking to latch onto a through ball. What he hadn’t seen was the high-speed train of Paul Konchesky surging in his direction. It took him by surprise, as did the most perfectly-timed slide tackle – presumably an homage to the great Bobby Moore – which then swept the ball to safety. It was a masterclass. The sort of challenge that all good coaches should be showing children to this day. A textbook example of last-ditch defending.
Unless you were Dermot Gallagher. Hearing the half-hearted appeals from the Toon faithful, one of this country’s most distinguished officials answered their prayers and showed a red card. It was an abomination. The sort of decision that made you wonder if it was time for video assistant referees to intervene in the Premier League. Paolo Di Canio once said that you needed to be riddled with bullets from a machine gun to win a penalty at Old Trafford (an occurrence so rare for West Ham that you had more chance of hitching a ride on Halley’s Comet) and this was the sort of decision to make the Italian irate.
The home fans could barely contain their glee. Their team had been given the most generous of gifts. Thirty-five minutes of playing with an extra man against a side two games into their return to the top-flight. They licked their lips in anticipation.
But what they didn’t know was that West Ham would grit their teeth, roll up their sleeves and channel their fury into a heroic backs-to-the-wall effort. Ball after the ball into the box was belted to safety. Bodies were sacrificed. A human fortress in Claret and Blue appeared in front of the goalmouth. And should a shot pierce the protective armour, Roy Carroll was there to divert its path.
A goalless draw felt like a win, especially for the travelling masses who saluted the Hammers' efforts from the upper echelons of St James’ Park. Justice was done, as it was when the FA overturned Gallagher’s ghastly decision two days later.
Looking back now, it’s almost impossible to know whether VAR would have made any difference. They would have probably taken the same 48 hours to make an on-pitch decision.
Anyway, those are the sort of results that away teams love. A point dripping in perspiration. It gives fans and players belief. For Pardew’s Irons, it gave us a surge of confidence that we did belong at this level.
We bowled into the next game against Bolton with a pep in our step. We were young (Teddy Sheringham aside). We were reckless. We were loving life in the Premier League.
Until we met Sam Allardyce.
Big Sam had made Wanderers a top-flight mainstay. They’d started by being proudly hard to beat, hitting the ball hard and high, nicking goals from set pieces. Then something bizarre happened. Bolton became the unlikely retirement home for some of football’s biggest names. Suddenly Big Kevin Davies was sharing a pitch with Jay-Jay Okocha and Iván Campo. It was the equivalent of walking into your local chippy and having your battered cod drizzled with goat’s cheese.
Whether it made sense or not, it was certainly effective. And on a sunny September afternoon in 2005, we learnt a harsh lesson. We played some beautiful football. Cutting through the opposition defence at will. Yossi Benayoun went close, Gabbidon even closer. And then Marlon Harewood, in the midst of a crisis of confidence, blazed two gilt-edged chances wide. Meanwhile the away side made about as much forward progress as a snail trying to swim the Channel.
What we didn’t know, in our blissful ignorance, was that such near misses were all part of the Big Sam masterplan. A goalmouth scramble fell to Kevin Nolan, occupying what would become a very familiar position in the six-yard box, who nudged Wanderers in front. Then, as we flooded forward in search of an equaliser, we were caught on the break. An Okocha through ball. A Campo finish. A hammer blow.
To our credit, we kept going. Sheringham – who had been magnificent again – slotted in a penalty to set up a frantic finale. Yet it wasn’t to be. Three games into our season, we were exposed to one of football’s most painful truths: Allardyce-ball is inevitable.
*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.
