This is a shout out to all fellow Newcastle United fans in their mid to late 50s – Finally | OneFootball

I am unashamedly going to direct this at those in my age group of mid to late fifties, because having dreamed and hoped for over fifty years of seeing Newcastle United lift a cup in our lifetime, I’m now struggling to unravel this myriad of feeling that has so wonderfully set about me.

All I can say is that where I expected tears, manic celebration and ecstasy, I found an initial shock, a total inability to believe what I was seeing, as Dan Burn stated, a fear that you might wake up and it all disappears.

Slowly, as Wembley recedes, the emotion has begun as I pore over every article, photo, video and interview again and again, like many I’d booked the week off work after Wembley just in case!

This strange new feeling has uncovered fifty years of trauma which had created a programming for disappointment and crushed hope. All our lives following this team have followed patterns of high hopes with deflation, interspersed with moments of excitement entwined with the dramas of our own personal lives, both intricately defining the other in a complex emotional dance that would baffle any psychologist.

For context, our childhood trauma began with the 1974 FA Cup. Relatives still alive that gave eyewitness accounts to the fifties cup heroes. Even though we never saw them play we knew all about Bobby Mitchell the wing wizard, Joe Harvey and the mighty Frank Brennan, Vic Keeble who would head a penalty if he could, little Ernie Taylor, Charlie Crowe, Bob Stokoe and of course the legendary Wor Jackie.

Even before them my Grandad, who was landlord at the Travellers Rest in Burnopfield, Jack Allen’s old pub, would sing a song in honoor of Jack and the rest of the 1932 cup winning side. Boyd, Richardson, McMenemy and the like.

Then 1976 came and surely couldn’t be so bad. My father was in the Army and stationed in Germany, he travelled to Wembley with a Manchester City fan, at ten year old I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t take me. He missed Tueart’s goal early in the second half. Even though it was better than 1974, a flu ridden United ran out of energy to find an equaliser.

Visiting relatives in the North East, I finally got into St James’ Park for my first game in 1977, a 0-0 draw with Leicester. My cousin had to point out it was ‘ oh when the Mags…’ rather than’ oh when the blacks…’ that I was singing.

Despite my Dad bumping into his old mate Davey Elliott, he was unable to get us tickets for the derby at Sunderland a few days before, a 2-2 draw. I still feel cheated I didn’t get to see Tommy Craig’s equalising free kick. We qualified for Europe!

Then it all started to go wrong.

As many army kids are. I was shipped off to Boarding School as far away from Newcastle as could be. Newcastle began their descent in the same way my life shifted.

Blyth were on their cup run, which distracted from the turmoil at St James’ Park, but all I wanted was for one of my weekend leaves to fall on a date Newcastle United played in London. Late in the season it happened and my grandmother took me to Upton Park to see an awful relegation battle that was won by a scrappy Derek Hales winner. But for me, nothing could take away the sight of those black and white Bukta shirts and the excitement of seeing my heroes, despite their predicament. Irving Nattrass ploughing forward from midfield to try and galvanise a defeated side to somehow find an equaliser, has always stayed with me.

What followed as we grew into impressionable teenagers was arguably the lowest point in Newcastle’s history bar a couple of seasons in the thirties. Yet relegation wasn’t initially the disaster it felt. Peter Withe was a class act, Terry Hibbitt was back, Suggett, Connolly and Pearson looked good buys. Cassidy was still there and youngsters like Kelly, Blackhall and Dick Barton looked like they had promise. Jim Pearson, my first Newcastle goal against Luton on Peter Withe’s debut. My Dad assuring me Withe was the real deal.

As I slinked back to Boarding School, so did Newcastle slink down the table. I got to Watford and Charlton, both defeats, as the wheels came off our promotion drive in 1979/80. We went skiing for New Year 1980 but the real joy was listening to the world service and catching Tommy Cassidy’s belter against the Mackems. Then Ian Rush arrived with Chester and it all went badly wrong alongside Mick Martin’s injury.

Perhaps that distance I had from St James’ Park made things more intense, the worse they got the more I clung to them.

Half-term breaks in Morpeth with relatives, trying to convince my cousin of the merits of Bobby Shinton, 14,000 in St James’ Park to see Peter Johnson’s debut and a goal from Wor Bobby. The late Terry Hibbitt scoring a second with a deflected free kick to beat Watford 2-1.

Prior to the mass media of today, news on Newcastle United was scant from anywhere below the Ironopolis. My font of knowledge came from the programme, an essential read and as I requested most of the home programmes from the hut across from the main stand I realised my self-consciousness at the lack of a Geordie accent, I envied my cousins and relatives as myself and my sister stuck out with our lack of accent. Perhaps it made me more passionate about my team to prove I was part of the tribe.

Even Alan Shoulder’s missed penalty in a woeful 1-0 home defeat against Wrexham didn’t dampen my enthusiasm, not with my pile of programmes that I’d bravely acquired despite the seller’s mickey taking.

I was rewarded at the end of the season, another trip from the south via cheap train tickets acquired from Persil packets to an empty St James’ Park. But my first three goal haul. A brilliant John Brownlie cross that Mick Harford converted with a great header to conclude a 3-1 win against Orient. My Dad humiliating me by ridiculing my assertion that Nigel Walker, scorer of the first goal, had all the skills of Glenn Hoddle.

For some reason the 1981/82 season was my most emotional season. Despite the lack of quality, Arthur Cox had somehow built a workmanlike side around the pacy Imre Varadi. David Mills and Alan Brown were good loan deals that complemented the hard working Kenny Wharton and experience of John Brownlie. We even had a cup run until the disaster and embarrassment of Exeter. One of Alan Shoulder’s last goals for us seemed to have got us in to an unlikely quarter-final with Spurs until late disaster. The replay is best not mentioned.

Despite this, Cox got us on the shoulders of the promotion pack and we were beginning to see the potential of a superstar in the making as an ungainly, slim, hunched shouldered left winger appeared from non-league. Chris Waddle had something and it shone amongst the journeymen around him.

Easter holidays listening to the radio, Newcastle went 2-0 up against Luton at Kenilworth road, title favourites. Promotion was on big time. Then the collapse as Luton and the ref conspired against us to end up 3-2. One of the rare occasions in my life I cried like a baby and just couldn’t take in the devastation, my Dad had little sympathy. The season petered out but I got to see Waddle’s last minute winner at Selhurst Park in the last game of the season. My first away win and we celebrated like we’d won the cup!

Then 1982 was our ‘Kennedy’ moment.

We were on holiday in Spain and the rumours came true in the form of a superstar in black and white on the back page of The Sun. The moment was like winning a trophy.

It took a while to take in that Kevin Keegan would be wearing that striped Umbro kit with the blue star prominent on the front alongside our journeymen players.

It took him a season but by 1983/84 with the addition of McDermott, Beardsley, McCreery and Roeder, we witnessed football we’d never seen in our lifetime. Exciting, possession based football brought out the best in Waddle and Beardsley.

Great goals and huge crowds. I was getting to more games now I was older. The Derby and Brighton games at the end of the season were the best games I’d ever seen from a Newcastle United side, fast, exciting, brilliant goals and in Beardsley and Waddle we had two superstars.

My grandad with his brewery links got me in the players lounge after the Derby game, where I got Stan Seymour to sign my programme. A few weeks later he and his board managed to lose Arthur Cox and undo the good feel of promotion.

Despite the talents of Beardsley and Waddle, Newcastle United faded with the dour Jack Charlton totally unsuited to Newcastle. Waddle went. Reilly and Cunningham arrived. Ambition died.

Iam McFaul was a player or two short of a good side as he merged the talents of the boy wonder Gascoigne with Beardsley, both ultimately left as we sunk once again to relegation. I was now living in the North East following Newcastle home and away and campaigned against the board as vociferously as anything Ashley endured.

A broken marriage, moving south again and Newcastle heading for Division three. I saw a desperate game at Brighton’s old Goldstone Ground, a 2-2 draw with Ossie’s youngsters gamely working hard around the bright sparks of Peacock and Kelly. It needed a miracle and it arrived with King Kev’s return.

John Hall and Kevin Keegan revolutionised the birth of the modern Newcastle United. With the unambitious McKeags, Rutherfords and Stan Seymour junior gone, suddenly this sleeping giant was finally awakened.

As we grew into adulthood leaving our teenage days behind, we entered another planet. Keegan’s teams played football from another world.

Beardsley was back, Andy Cole, Rob Lee, John Beresford, Barry Venison became the Entertainers. Ferdinand and Ginola arrived and we went for the title. Books and thesis have been written on why the twelve point dwindled to hand Man Utd the title but for supporters like us we saw the signs early on. Deep in our psyche we knew it would go wrong despite the brilliant first half of the season. Teams found us out in the second half of the season, King Kev couldn’t change his attacking style.

Arsenal kicked us out of the league cup, Beresford argued with Keegan, Beardsley accommodated in midfield began to show his age. Rob Lee needed support, Lee Clark was replaced by Batty to add that steel but came too late in the season, the change unsettled the team, Asprilla a wild card suddenly alongside Sir Les who had been a lone striker. The Liverpool game encapsulated Newcastle United, brilliant, unique attacking skills with a soft underbelly and a good keeper not a great one.

The wheels came off at Blackburn in the final ten minutes when Fenton, a Geordie. killed our title dreams. We hung in till the last game against Spurs still with a chance. But a flat St James’ Park was as flat as the 1-1 draw as we knew the biggest chance we’ll ever have in our lifetime to win the title had gone.

I don’t think as supporters we’ve ever got over that title miss. Despite mass enthusiasm and excitement for the first cup finals in our adulthood, we knew the semi finals were our celebration. The finals went just as we expected as had the Charity Shield under Keegan. Nothing sums up the frustration more than fans singing ‘Attack, Attack, attack’ at the Arsenal final. Shearer hit a post but that was it. The inevitability of the first goal arriving via Arsenal and Man Utd signalling the end of the contest in both games.

Bobby Robson got closest to a winning mentality, the semi final against Chelsea the best performance by far at the venue of legends since 1955. But his side lacked a devil in midfield as had Keegan’s sides. He needed a Dixon to kick Poyet out of the game as he had done to Ginola, or a Vieira or a Keane to kill games by using the dark arts. When Jenas slammed one into the top corner to make us believe a title charge was on, Man Utd came straight back and hit six.

Bobby’s teams made us proud, culminating in Bellamy’s goal in Feyenoord, but as good as they looked, the midfield lacked that steel, Bowyer wasn’t the answer.

Robson never recovered from that awful penalty shoot out against Partizan. The European adventures had been something we all dreamed about, visiting Monaco, Budapest, Serajevo, Barcelona, Bilbao, Milan and the like without really believing we’d win it.

We came closest against Marseille but inevitably Woodgate and Bellamy’s absence handed the tie to Drogba and his team. It just wasn’t written that we’d win anything.

Souness’s semi final in Cardiff the first time I left before the end and missed Shola’s goal. I just couldn’t stomach more devastation alongside my own life struggling with a failing business. Sporting Lisbon rubbed salt in to the wounds.

Probably the less said about the Ashley era the better. But like a lot I gave my season ticket up. I couldn’t bear another relegation. His treatment of Keegan the last straw for me.

My yoyo existence continued as I once again moved away from the area and watched from afar the disintegration of a great club. I was beginning to realise as I headed through my forties and into my fifties that I couldn’t manage the mental anguish of disappointment anymore, though seeing Andy Carroll sold brought back all the old Beardsley, Waddle, Gascoigne anguish.

Jonas scoring against West Ham had me as close to tears as Luton all those years ago and I managed to get to Cardiff to see Rafa’s side just about wrapping up promotion.

Everything changed in October 2021.

My second marriage had ended, single again in my fifties and recovered from an operation to remove cancer, but I was bouncing back.

It was the Keegan moment magnified times ten.

Ashley was gone.

At the time we thought it was our turn to take over from Chelsea and Man City. We deserved it far more than they did but true to form the universe conspired against us to limit our spending.

But despite that setback something very unlike Newcastle United happened. We got a brilliant young manager, we bought good players and broke our transfer record.

We got to the Champions League and to a League Cup final.

We did our usual hard luck story in the Champions League that left us with the PSG memory to go alongside Tino’s Barcelona one. The League Cup final proved once again we lacked a winner and lacked that steel to believe we could win.

Despite this, I was loving being back at St James Park albeit when the lottery of the ballot system gave me a ticket. Away games I sat with the home fans when tickets were available.

Early 2025 and I somehow get a ticket for the second leg of the semi final against Arsenal.  It’s the greatest game I’d seen to since the Howay 5-0 against Man U and the Barcelona game.

I didn’t get a ticket for PSG. But I know deep down, ‘that’s it, that’s our celebration.’

I’d been to both the 4-3s against Liverpool, we’ll never beat them. History, trauma, disappointment, inevitability was stacked on our side, further enhanced with Gordon’s sending off and Hall’s injury. Liverpool will tear us apart down the left.

I sat in West Ham’s soulless stadium and saw us grind out a 1-0 win but saw nothing that would beat Liverpool.

I toyed with venturing to London or Newcastle to watch the Final but settled on watching it with my parents. My Dad now suffering with dementia but my mam still as sharp as when she came with me to the 99 final.

We braced ourselves for the inevitable defeat, holding back any excitement and trying not to take notice of a strange sense that things felt different.

They were different.

Joelinton swatted at Szoboszlai’s face in the first minute, Tino ran beyond Salah on a darting run forward, Trippier calmed the defence with balls back to Pope away from danger. Bruno and Sandro strangled the midfield, Barnes was attacking the full back.

Ten minutes in, this was not how it’s ever been.

This is the game of underdogs in cups of the past which we watched, wishing one day Newcastle would be there. This was a Southampton, an Ipswich, a Coventry, a Wimbledon or a Wigan, that turned up at cup finals ready to fight as the underdog.

It felt surreal and then we scored!

This was the ghost of Wor Jackie reborn in Blyth, powering a header into the net. Half time came before a Poyet type response which meant we could actually enjoy a lead at Wembley for the first time in our lifetime.

This was 1974 over again with the roles switched.

Surely Liverpool couldn’t be as bad in the second half! They were and we scored a second.

Absolute disbelief and I can only imagine what it must have been like to be there!

The final whistle and fifty one years of support appeared in front of my eyes.

We found the steel and winning mentality in two Brazilians and an Italian from countries that know how to win, to inspire the rest of the side to raise their game and in doing so exorcised the trauma and programming of defeat and unfulfilled dreams.

From Nattrass to Cassidy to Brownlie’s cross and Waddle’s emergence, alongside Shinton and Varadi and a crumbling ground, to missed opportunities, Keegan’s second coming, Beardsley and the Entertainers dismantled by Dalglish, one-sided finals, European nights and Drogba, Bobby to Souness and Allardyce, relegation again, Ashley and no ambition, all wrapped up in my own ups and downs.

The tears failed to come, even as my Dad, lost in his dementia, caught a lucid moment as the commentators referenced Jimmy Scoular.

So much to endure to get to this moment.

It will take till the 29th for me to process this monumental event, but when I watch that parade (hopefully!)  with the cup held high on an open top bus, I’m going to cry like a baby and be proud of it.