Edgar Street, 5th February 1972
Hereford v Newcastle
AT 4.02 p.m. on Saturday, February 5th, 1972 Hereford United were knocked out of the F.A. Cup after the greatest run in their history. It wasn't fair because on the day we were the better side. It wasn't fair because no team should ever give their last scrap of guts, energy and skill and still lose. It wasn't fair because even if MacDonald could jump two feet higher than our defence he must have had supernatural assistance to stay suspended so long before nodding the ball home. Fair or not it had happened and we were out of the cup. The record books in years to come wouldn't remember the courage and quality of the little Southern League Side, or the unjustice of it all, or the dreams of what might have been. You could have called it a sad moment.
Three hours earlier Edgar Street had started to fill, and half an hour before kick off we really had a crowd in. You could taste the anticipation, and for the more nervous it was some kind of subbstitute for lunch. The minutes dragged by like waiting for the dentist. Even the parachutists took for ever to appear. "Each one to drop in the centre circle's a goal for Hereford. Each one that misses is Newcastle" said someone, and we groaned as the first man scored for the Magpies. The next two drops were perfect though and Hereford had won 2-1. Someone else invited the clairvoyant to leave now he knew the result. He thought he'd stay, he said, just to check, and anyway he didn't like the singing from the Blackfriars end. "Hereford, ha ha ha, Hereford, ha ha ha". Obviously someone should tell them about the parachute result. There weren't any volunteers.
The first half was agony. We were superb, and there wasn't any difference in class, but just the anticipation of slaughter, the statistical probability of heavy defeat, made the pattern of play itself of little reassurance. We survived, and we survived well. There were no heroes, the team were magnificent as a team, but the half time talk lingered on Fred Potter, dominating his box like a green blanket and spreading calm over the defence by his icy example. Fred Potter's an excitable footballer. If you put a bomb down next to him he'd probably break into a walk.
There was something else rather nice about the first half. Super Mac met the Meadow End and suffered an ignominious defeat. "MacDonald is a fairy, MacDonald is a fairy", they chanted, over and over again. It wasn't kind, it wasn't just and it wasn't true. But it was lovely. After 45 minutes the great man left the field with a certain amount of bruising to his pride. And oh yes ... Bobby Moncur met Bill Meadows, and it wasn't so much his pride that Moncur got bruised. The chivalry between those two on the park was an entertainment in itself. You could almost hear the connversation between them every time a 50-50 ball came up. "After you, William", "No, no, Robert, after you". Well, you could almost hear it.
Someone must have put some Real Madrid Pills in our lad's tea at half time. We thought we'd been cheering full stretch in the first half but it had only been a dress rehearsal. Dudley started to carve them up, we roared every time he got the ball. Brian Owen began to get space while Ron Radford and the tireless Addison needled their defence again and again. Alan Jones and Mick McLaughlin looked as though they could cope with Tudor, Busby and McDonald with their hands tied behind their backs. We roared and cheered and clapped ourselves stupid. Ken Mallender popped one over the top just as we were remembering the West Brommwich glory and were desperate for an action replay. Almost before the gasp stilled he was at it again and only the Woodwork saved Newcastle.
We didn't score and gradually the full timers came back in.
Ten Goal Tessie blasted wide when he had to score and "What a load of rubbish" nearly got a hold again. It made a superb stable mate for the fairy song but it was tempting providence. Only the most fantastic save by flying Fred kept us alive. The tide was turning against us.
And then, at 4.02 p.m Newcastle United, ten times finalists and six times winners of the F.A. Cup knocked us out of the commpetition. Southern League Clubs don't fall behind First Division Sides eight minutes from time and still survive. Southern League Sides don't break down First Division blanket defences in eight minutes. Southern League Sides don't rise again and again and again from the grave.
We're not Southern League Sides. We're Hereford United.
We rose from the grave, and that's an understatement. We soared out of it as Ron Radford's incredible, inspired effort soared from a full 35 yards into McFaul's net. The Meadow End deserved to have it scored up there. They erupted. We all erupted. We didn't believe it, not for a single solitary moment did we believe it but we were on tiptoe, straining arms to the sky, shouting ourselves hoarse in the exquisite glory of it all. Kids were all over the pitch, and those of us too far away, too old or simply too posh to join in went for a mental gallop right along with them. It was the most fanntatastic, incredible experience. We're not just a Southern League Side. We're Hereford United.
Extra time and the ground is alive, a solid living body of sound, lifting the team from peak to peak as a miracle begins to make coy glances at us. Most of us can't bear to admit even the possibility of a miracle. The pressure in the air is indescribable, the tension enormous. Only eleven people on the entire ground are immune to it all, and they're in Black and White, creating poetry on the park.
Thirteen minutes into extra time and there was enough joy at Edgar Street to launch a dozen religious revival meetings. Tricky Ricky slipped it home with the most amazing cool and we were racing for home with the sweet smell of victory almost choking us. Ricky George! A name to conjure with. A name to tell your granddchildren about. We wouldn't have swapped Ricky for Pele at 4.30 on Saturday afternoon. We wouldn't have swapped him for a dozen Peles. We wouldn't have swapped him at all.
We held out. We took everything they had to offer, digested and rejected it like the class side we are. And those of us priviledged to watch it just wallowed in the pride of it all. Not just in winning, but in deserving to win. The cheering seemed endless.
And on top of it all, the final mouth watering treat, the whole superb experience dominating Match of the Day, and then the sheer pleasure of buying every Sunday Paper printed to revel in the reports. After the match someone said Roger Griffiths had played for 73 minutes with a broken leg. You can't buy spirit like that, he said, Roger wouldn't have changed places with anyone, leg or no leg. "I wouldn't be Geoff Hurst on Wednesday" said another elated supporter, roaring with mirth. "Old Griffo will tackle bloody hard with his leg in plaster".
This report first appeared in the Hereford Country Life magazine.
Text at top (next game etc)
Next Game: Home Against Chorley In The League On Saturday 14th December At 3.00pm