Patrick Bedell

Why Blue?

The first time I graced the stands of Maine Road was at the tender age of six, I was in the company of my dad and his dad, three generations of avid City fans. My grandfather had seen City win trophies and championships before WW2 and my father had seen them triumph in the fifties and the sixties, so I imagine it was down to me to see them conquer the world in the eighties and beyond. We were playing Stoke, it was November and bloody cold and grandad was merrily sipping from his hipflask. We were sat in the Main Stand; grandad had three season tickets for his company on Swan Street and his idea of corporate hospitality was to mix pleasure with business (a man ahead of his times?). I was enthralled, cold and constantly badgering my dad to tell me what was going on and who was who. The whole experience was just too much fun and I was hooked, my genetic programming had kicked in. We didn’t get to many games as we lived in Blackpool, and because dad’s a doctor he was always on duty at weekends. I kept an eye on City and admired from afar. As I got older I became more aware of football and noticed how Blackpool seemed to be full of kids who supported all the glory teams, which at the time included City! I stood by my guns and refused to be anyone other than Peter Barnes or Asa Hartford during school yard kick abouts. When I joined a local youth football club which had divisons for the various age groups I played for the Romans. I chose the Romans because they wore City’s colours, as it turned out the coach and all the other kids were City fans also. Ironically, just like City we were rather mediocre, myself especially.

Into the 80s dad started taking me to more games just after grandad died; I think he was chasing fond memories of days that were gone and as if out of respect City decided to turn on the best season I have seen them have, all the way to Wembley. Dad and I saw Norwich fall 6-0, Palace 4-0 and then the famous Villa Park semi. I can still remember Power’s strike now. Dad had pulled a blinder by getting two front row seats in the main stand right on the halfway line. The game had gone back and forth, crossbars had been rattled, all around the ground finger tips were bleeding as we went into injury time. City had rightly been given the Holte End, and although Ipswich were chasing a potential treble, City still commanded an average home gate of 37,000. The whistle blew, City had the free kick. Power strolled upto the ball and everything seemed to fall into slow motion. Ipswich had packed the wall for the kick, which was left of centre as I looked at it. Power began his approach and as the ball lifted, the wall vainly leapt, then the ball disappeared out of view. I never saw it go in but the Holte End did- the eruption was amazing, every Blue in the ground went berzerk, one bloke danced from the back of the Holte End to the front of the stand on the shoulders of the City faithful. A black girl sat one row down from us raced on to the pitch, gave several stewards a Martin Offiah like body swerve and got within hugging distance of Power only to be nailed by a copper. The relief was too much, Dad and I wept with joy and then buried our heads in our hands praying for the final whistle. Wembley was our next destination.

It was typical of Swales and of City that despite the years of devoted support my grandad had given to City, not to mention the huge amount of money he had invested in the club through the 40 club and sponsorship, we were unable to get tickets for the final, even though dad still held Grandad’s season tickets. Dad had to enlist the aid of John Smith, then chairman of Liverpool F.C. and an old friend of grandad. He gave us two excellent tickets and offered me an autographed photo of Liverpool’s 1980-81 squad. He was lost for words when dad conveyed my message of “thank you, but no”, followed by a request for an autographed picture of the City squad!!!!!! Three weeks before the cup final approached I sustained a really nasty injury playing football; dad kept on tut-tutting and saying I would not be fit to go to London. I remember hobbling about saying I was fine and then locking myself in the toilet to cry the pain away. Dad knew I was having him on but I also think he knew that the way City was going this could well be my last chance to see them play in a Wembley final. I recall hobbling around London wearing the scarf that dad bought for me at Villa Park and carrying the flag he bought for me on Wembley Way. I still have the scarf and flag. Everyone knows what happened that day; all I can remember was sobbing my heart out after Hutchinson equalised. Dad asked if I was alright and I tried to be the most manly that an eleven year old can be and said it was because my leg hurt. The journey home was miserable, the mood on the train was very sombre. I think everyone knew that City’s luck had just run out, and it seems that was to last for the next decade.

I could go on for ever but that would just bore you all; these three matches are why I am Blue and always will be. I was born to be blue and will die blue. On my wedding day in the car coming away from the church my wife knew what she had married when I ask the driver what the half-time score was, City were away To Sheff. Wed., 17th September 1994; we drew one all, Walshie scored. Now I sit at the game with my best man, my dad and my younger brother. This season my sister and her fiance will be joining us on the upper tier of the Kippax. Life can be sweet but only if you can really say you have seen the Blues.

First printed in: MCIVTA Newsletter #106 on