Ken Foster

Why Blue?

To set the scene a little:

1966 is the year and I have just watched us win the World Cup. I’m six years old at the time and hooked on footy. My dad has two season tickets for Maine Road but my elder brother is the one who gets to go to the matches.

At that age biding my time was the only option but I did get taken to the odd game. One of my first recollections must have been the 66/67 season when I was taken to a match while my brother was off playing for his school or something. The only thing I remember about the day was hoping I would grow up to play for City and be as good as Johnny Crossan. I also remember my dad pointing out Albert Alexander on the way to our seats because he gave me a wink. The only other thing I remember was thinking that Dave Bacuzzi was a strange name. Oh! and I think we won as well (then again we always did in those days).

I used to relish the prospect of going to see us play. Dad would load the car up with several mates and for the whole hour’s journey to Maine Road the talk would be of football and our chances in the impending game. Several views were put forward and I agreed with them all, even if they were totally at loggerheads with one another (too young to form an opinion at that age you see).

We used to park in Albemarle St. about 10 minutes walk from the ground in the days when there was no chance of having your windows put through, and the ‘Mind your car sir’ boys really did wait by your car until the end of the match for their half crown.

I remember a bloke who used to sit behind us in the Main Stand. Every time the other team hoofed a clearance upfield (à la Wimbledon) he would shout “Windeeey” at the top of his voice. This caused acute mayhem and jollity all around but left me none the wiser as to what exactly it meant. Undeterred I waited for my chance and a couple of matches later I duly let rip with my (albeit higher pitched) version of this same insult? joke?. I was similarly rewarded by contagious mirth all around. Chuffed with my new found stardom I tried it out in the school playground but was met with contorted expressions of silent disbelief. Anyway, maybe someone will one day explain to me the intricacies of this Meteorological type expression and its relevance to football.

The smell of pipe tobacco and sight of the ‘god squad sandwich board’ man as we turned into Maine Road was probably the best thing about the day because you knew you were about to watch City win. Actually I still get the same feeling now and nothing ever dampens my (puddled?) optimism about our chances.

As far as individual matches go, too many to go on about here but a few notable ones included the Tottenham (snow) match (Colin Bell being the only player who could stand up properly) and a quarter final match against Coventry (I think?) when I got to wag off school to go. Power cuts due to the Miners’ strike meant that midweek games had to be played in the afternoons. My dad and brother went to the Newcastle championship clinching game at the end of the 67/8 season but to make up for the fact that I was too young to go we got the 8mm Cine film version of the game which is still viewed regularly now (albeit transferred to video).

As someone else said in a Why Blue? my favourite match of all was the semi-final victory against Everton at Villa Park in ’69. Big Mal came and shook hands with us before the match (we were there very early and the teams were only just inspecting the pitch). It wasn’t a classic by any means but the sheer exhilaration I felt when Tommy (Mr. Reliable) Booth’s goal went in was a high I had not experienced before or since. We had 2 Final tickets guaranteed because of the season tickets but my place was dependant on programme vouchers. We were 1 short with only 1 reserve match to go before the application deadline. Needless to say we went to the Central League game but so did about 15,000 others (can anybody corroborate this?). The programme sellers were swamped and after a frantic 5 minutes worthy of Frank Bruno my dad emerged with a scraggy piece of A5 paper with my treasured voucher delightfully intact. The rest is history. Wembley was all Rattles and Rosettes (not Beer and Belching) in those days and I feel privileged to have witnessed it all. Seeing us send the Rags down to Div.2 was ecstacy and every time I see Colin Bell trying to slap a smile out of Denis’ face after he scored it makes me laugh. We didn’t waste too much time evacuating Old Trafford after the fans invaded though.

Player wise, Doyle and Oakes were the unsung heroes and who can forget Sloppy George’s Charltonesque haircut. Tony Coleman with his mazy dribbles wasn’t the weak link so many thought. Finally, he came…, he shot hard…, he left… Barney Daniels where are you now?

First printed in: MCIVTA Newsletter #125 on