My first time walking into the floodlit St James’ Park left a huge impression, I could hardly breathe | OneFootball

Growing up in Northern Ireland in the early eighties, we had the upheaval of the troubles in the background, but we as kids just went on with life and accepted it as ‘normal’, when looking back, it was anything but.

Football, as ever, was our escape.

I remember the austere and sombre voice of the balding Brian Moore, who to my delight, occasionally introduced the not so mighty Mags on a few occasions.

Boy oh boy did he sound like he was bored?

Every morning I would run to school, throwing my satchel in the tennis courts and the match would begin, only to be physically cajoled into lessons by the teachers.

DM boots were the fashion outside of school, Adidas Kick were the trainers everyone had on them, as well as the obligatory DIY haircut.

I had to watch Aberdeen win in Europe, Willie Miller and Strachan et al, Liverpool won everything else, and to cap it all, they stuffed us four nil in the FA Cup. I had to listen to all the glory hunters but this just made me all the more determined to remain loyal to our Newcastle United tribe.

Kevin Keegan was playing and after Mark Lawrenson, (who wouldn’t lace his boots, by the way) outran him, he allegedly thought it was time to retire.

Barry McGuigan the boxer, from just over the border in the Republic, deserves enormous credit for bringing all of us together when he was in the ring, and I still remember, (and always will) his father, Pat singing Danny Boy before the fight against Pedro, (not our maestro), in Vegas on a warm summer’s night.

Everyone, regardless of their affiliation, creed, or class cheered Barry on, I had the pleasure of meeting him a few years back and he is someone I will always admire.

I stood at Windsor Park when Chris Waddle was warming up, shouting myself hoarse with my Toon scarf on, expecting a wave or at least a nod, but no, the noise was too much and Mark Hateley stole the goal which beat us, but in 1984 we (Northern Ireland) became British Champions and remain so to this day.

I cursed in front of my dad for the first time when Jimmy Quinn rattled the crossbar with a header and I thought I’d got away with it, until after the match he said to me, “mind your language son, I don’t want to hear that again”, all these years later it still resonates with me.

Oh, and by the way, last time we played England, we won, so there!

David Healy putting Owen, Rooney et al to the sword and I remember Ian Wright sulking, which amused me, as with the Arsenal support presently, arrogance personified.

Davy Mac was from the east (Belfast), just ten minutes up the road from us, and came from a strong family of football players and continued the Northern Irish contingent over to the Toon, following Willie McFaul, David Craig, Alfie McMichael and then later, the young cubs continued with Gillespie from Bangor, Ferguson from Londonderry, and Aaron Hughes from Cookstown, amongst others who wore the stripes with aplomb and pride.

My first time walking into the floodlit St James’ Park left a huge impression on me, I could hardly breathe with exhilaration and pride.

Hairs on the back of my neck as I recall it even now.

The noise, the collective emotion was and still is unique.

Madonna was on the radio, Queen, and Ultravox, Band Aid and roller skates were all the rage.

Back home, there was a fair that came every May, it gave us somewhere to go, a bit like the Spanish City and the aroma of candy floss and fast food takes me back to my first snog…oh, my heart flutters!

Ceefax was our Google, the radio our only link to our hopes and dreams, joy or tears.

But realistically, I only cared about Varadi, Beardsley, Keegan, Waddle and most of all, my Magpies.