Tottenham: The Glory-Glory Game

From there my memory jumps to the moment Paul Gascoigne, my boyhood hero, ran down the touchline with the ball, arm in a cast, feet seemingly moving at the speed of light, dancing this way and that like a Matador, before suddenly shifting back on to his right and swinging the ball into the box. The roar from the crowd enveloped my ears once again, but instead of fear I felt nothing but jubilation. I can only compare it to a religious zealot appearing to be touched by God for the first time. The feeling of complete and utter awe channelled to just one person, by so many. Gazza turned to our side of the stadium, and saluted with his plaster clad arm. To this day, I swear he looked at me, and me alone. Either way, I was jumping around like a disco dancer on happy pills.

I don’t really remember much of the game itself, other than feeling upset when we conceded first, then feeling more positive when we equalised, then going absolutely nuts when we scored the winner. You could almost say it was the perfect “first game”, as it was everything that is addictive about football in general and Tottenham in particular.

Triumph over adversity, a hard fought victory, patience over promise, all those cliché’s that line every red top’s headlines, week-in week-out, and I lived it for those 90-minutes, and I lived it with my Dad. I couldn’t tell you from memory who scored the goals, but a Google search reveals it was Paul Walsh. I actually also saw the Spurs 3–0 Sheffield Wednesday game that same year, but the following season. I know from memory that we won 3-0, but I don’t really remember too much specifically, except seeing my other schoolboy hero Gary Lineker scoring twice, and his iconic running off with two hands in the air celebration.

My fondest memory of Spurs is actually from later life, and something I would like to share here, even though it trespasses on very personal territory. My parents divorced around the same time as my early Tottenham memories, and so any time remembered with my Dad as a child is precious, including that first Spurs game. I only saw him every other weekend, and because of it we slowly drifted apart. I will not burden you with teen angst and drama here, but keeping to the context of this Spurs-spirited book I want to skip to April 15 2000 and my Dad’s birthday.

I arranged to take him to see two other of our childhood heroes, Chas ‘n’ Dave, at the “Pleasure Rooms” on Tottenham High Road, just a short walk from the Stadium. I had tried to get tickets for the Spurs/Aston Villa game that day, as the Chas ‘n’ Dave gig was obviously timed to ensure everyone could go to the game afterwards, but it was sold out and so I thought I’d failed to make a day of it. Standing outside a battered wooden door that was apparently the entrance to the esteemed establishment, we were approached

by Delboy from Only Fools and Horses. This fella could literally have just stepped off the set, he had the camel hair coat and trilby hat, but most importantly, was 100% a Cockney wide boy. Thankfully he stopped short of offering us the latest Chinese watches from the inside of his coat, but he may as well have. Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice Spurs Writers' Club: The Glory-Glory Game 133