Sid Lambert takes us back 20 years to the 2004/05 season, when Alan Pardew’s Hammers secured a rollercoaster return to the Premier League...
On paper, the maths was simple. Three games left. Nine points available. We needed to gain two more than Reading to leapfrog them into the final Play-Off spot.
If we only scored one more point than them, it was less simple. The spot would be decided by goal difference. A statistic where we enjoyed a mere two-goal advantage as things stood.
Actually, nothing about this – or our whole season – was simple. For 36 matches we’d played with no consistency or cohesion. Then, when all hope was lost, we’d inexplicably put together a seven-match unbeaten run and played like the Boys of 86.
In 270 minutes of Championship football, we’d know our fate. Between now and then, anything was possible.
It took only eight minutes for us to go in front at Brighton. A sublime pass from the evergreen Teddy Sheringham set Nigel Reo-Coker through on goal and he finished with ease. We were in full control and Reo-Coker missed an almost identical chance to double the lead. But the second half showcased some familiar flaws. Brighton drifted a harmless ball into the box and our defence treated Dean Hammond like he was a piranha in the bathtub, allowing him as much room as possible to level the scores.
Within 60 seconds we were ahead again when Marlon Harewood latched onto a long hoof forward. He had a chance to seal the win when Shaun Newton’s cross found him unmarked at the back post, but he thrashed horribly and sent the ball halfway to France.
As the clock ticked towards injury time, you could smell the fear in the away end. And their worst nightmare came true. Another hopeful ball into the mixer. Another piece of dreadful marking. Another Hammond header. A draw that felt like a defeat.
At least until news came through that Reading had lost 2-0 at Cardiff meaning we had jumped above them into sixth position. Suddenly the journey home wasn’t quite as miserable as it seemed at the final whistle.
180 minutes to go.
Unfortunately, our last home game of the regular season would be against Sunderland, who needed one more win to secure the title. The visitors seemed a little nervy in a first half where we were surprisingly comfortable. Bobby Zamora and Reo-Coker went close early before Harewood swatted a ball from Matty Etherington into the net to put us in front at the interval.
But the problems that had plagued us all season resurfaced at the worst possible time.
More pedestrian defending let in Julio Arca for an equaliser. Then, with just three minutes remaining, Stephen Elliott rifled in the winner to send the travelling Wearsiders into ecstasy. They were going up to the Premier League as champions. We were headed to the tube station clinging onto sixth position on goal difference, but Reading had a game in hand.
Alan Pardew had targeted nine points from our last three games to get us that Play-Off spot. Instead, we had one from a possible six. Our ability to shoot ourselves in the foot had returned with a vengeance.
Our faltering promotion hopes rested on what would happen 24 hours later at the Madejski Stadium. Reading hosted a mid-table Wolves side who had nothing to play for. Unable to endure the horror of watching the game live, I made regular checks of Ceefax for updates from Berkshire.
The Royals went ahead after eight minutes and were cruising at half-time. My flatmate (a fellow long-suffering Hammer) and I decided to head to the pub to reflect on another season of despair and ponder what miseries lay in store for pre-season. By the time we’d had two pints, resigning ourselves to a firesale of our best players and the unlikely return of Iain Dowie as player-manager, our phones buzzed in unison. Text messages from friends and family.
- HAVE YOU SEEN THE READING SCORE??
- NO. WHAT’S HAPPENING?
- WOLVES HAVE WON 2-1!!!
Football. Just when you think you’re out, it drags you back in.
90 minutes to go.
So our season would be decided by a trip to Watford. And as final day fixtures go, fortune was smiling upon us. The Hornets were still hungover from celebrating their Championship safety, whilst Reading had the daunting task of a trip to Wigan, who needed a win to guarantee automatic promotion.
The sun shone at Vicarage Road and the home side might as well have been playing in sombreros. We belied any pre-match nerves and took a worthy half-time lead. Eliott Ward’s clip into the box found fellow defensive partner Anton Ferdinand who steered home an excellent volley. When news reached us that Reading were 2-0 down at Wigan, relief surged through the away end. Surely even we couldn’t cock this up?
45 minutes to go.
Watford showed a bit more spirit in the early exchanges of the second half, but the game looked to be sealed when Harewood won – and scored – a 70th minute penalty. Reading were still behind, we were comfortably ahead. The gap between us was now a colossal three points and four goals should goal difference enter the equation. It was party time. We were going to the play-offs.
The mood was improved further when Wigan scored a third, though Reading struck back almost immediately to suggest they hadn’t given up hope. Still it would take an enormous calamity to derail us from here.
Step forward Tommy Repka.
With the game snoozing towards the win we needed, our Czech madman decided to inject his own brand of chaos into proceedings. In the 89th minute an utterly needless bodycheck on Heidar Helguson left the referee with no choice but to award a penalty. The Icelander tucked it away and suddenly the game was back in the balance.
One minute to go.
Suddenly Watford were no longer halfway to the departure lounge at Heathrow. Instead they were a vibrant attacking force. Jimmy Walker produced a fingertip save from a free-kick to keep us ahead.
30 seconds to go.
Any hint of composure had disappeared. We were in full-on headless chicken mode. A cross into the box found an unmarked Watford head and a goal seemed certain. Somehow Walker’s reactions were enough to deflect the ball onto the crossbar and safety.
Game over.
We had the win we needed and Reading had been unable to muster further injury-time heroics at Wigan. We finished in the final Play-Off spot by the barest of margins.
We had six days to recharge our batteries before the first leg against Ipswich. Another 180 minutes of football between us and Wembley.
We go again.
*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.
