Wembley Stadium evokes black-and-white grainy pictures of the FA Cup from your childhood, with John Motson, the famous BBC commentator, in his sheepskin jacket on commentary.
"Oh, what a goal! What a goal! Radford the scorer... and the crowd are invading the pitch."
In the here and now, Wembley Way has lost none of its magic. In the tube station, fans emptied from trains like toothpaste from a tube onto the platforms. Rival sets of fans noisily sang their anthems while we snaked through the station, tunnelling our way towards the exits, anxious to get a glimpse of the stadium itself.
When I’d spent hours of my life singing, ‘From Boothferry to Wembley, we’ll keep the Hull flag flying high’, I’d never expected that my beloved – and hopeless - football club would ever rock up at Wembley. The closest we’d come was the Football League Trophy final in 1984 when it was played at our home ground, plus the short-lived Watney Cup final in 1973, and we’d come up short in both of those. Our trophy cabinet was a dusty wasteland.
Now, here we were. On the edge of greatness, the promised land, the Premier League. The pinnacle of football. All it would take was one victory and quizzes featuring the largest city never to have played in the top flight of football would all have to be re-written.
I stopped at the top of the steps, shielding my eyes from the sun and took an enormous gulp. There it was, the famous Wembley arch - and soon my team, my boys, would be playing underneath it. Taking photos at every step, I made my way slowly down the steps, taking in deep breaths of hot-dog scented air, listening to the scarf sellers’ calls, waving my foam tiger paws. The road was busy with fans, who all looked like I felt – a mixture of anticipation and glee. It felt like the whole of Hull had been scooped up by the hand of God and deposited in this hallowed place.
Every few metres, you saw a familiar face from the KC Stadium or someone you knew. For me, it was Katie, one of my best friends from secondary school, who I hadn’t seen for 20 years. Here she was, gathering me up into a bear hug. More selfies taken, the path split. Hull City fans on one side, Bristol City fans on the other. A bronze tribute to Bobby Moore - one of England’s World Cup winning heroes - at the head of Wembley Way got a pat for luck and then it was time to go in.
Security procedures next and then in minutes, it was onto an escalator so big it felt like you were travelling to the moon. My cousin, Anthony, was waiting for me at the top. I’d spent ten hours queueing for his tickets. I must have looked like I was ready for a drink, he took me straight to the bar. A pint of lager was thrust under my nose and I took a grateful slug of my pint, the first of many that day.
Seeing the Wembley pitch took my breath away and tears pricked my eyes. It just didn’t seem right that my little team would soon be taking this big stage. I was going to be sitting with everyone who I sat with at every game home and away – Sarah, Martin and Dawn. For luck, we sat in the same order we did for home games.
Giant inflatable sausages with flags bearing each club’s badge were hoisted high above the pitch. The teams were shown on the big screen – Myhill, Ricketts, Dawson, Turner, Brown, Ashbee, Garcia, Hughes, Campbell and the home-town boys, Barmby and Windass, who would later take centre stage. The national anthem was sung with gusto, followed by the obligatory line-ups and handshakes. Phil Brown, the Hull City manager, looked as orange as if he had just stepped off a plane from Benidorm. Impressive fireworks shot into the air, like cannons, on all sides of the stadium and it was time to kick off.
The first few minutes seemed to pass quickly. I spent much of it rubbing my palms on my knees and trying to steady my breathing. A few half-chances, a nasty-looking injury to a Bristol City player, then the moment… Nick Barmby played a through ball to Fraizer Campbell, who took the ball into the penalty box, going past a Bristol City player, stumbling, looping the ball from the by-line back across to Dean Windass, who was waiting at the edge of the box. He was always meant to be there. Every time I picture it, I see it in slow motion. Dean Windass, the bleached-blond boy from Gypsyville, hit one of the sweetest volleys you will ever see and in no time, the net was bulging.
In the crowd, we had been clutching each other, breaths caught in our throats – and then unbridled joy! The deafening roar of the Hull crowd, who were at the other end, reached a crescendo. Everyone around me went crazy, jumping up and down in disbelief. I must have hugged everyone in my row including friends, total strangers and men in tiger costumes. If we squeezed each other tight, it wasn’t a dream.
Tears were streaming down my shocked face and I was gulping for air. I remember looking at my watch and thinking, ‘Jesus, there’s still so long to go.’ A full half, plus the three minutes of the first half that remained. Half-time was spent discussing that stunner of a goal and wondering if we were dreaming.
The second half was endless. Every time I looked at my watch, mere seconds had gone by. Another look, not even a minute had passed. The match was going to be played forever. In the final minutes, Bristol City had one last hopeful shot at goal, which was gathered up by goalie, Boaz Myhill. Our central defender jumped onto his back like a limpet and ruffled his hair. Good old, dependable Bo.
The whistle to end the game went and Dean Windass raced across the pitch, sunk to his knees as if he couldn’t run any further and kissed the turf. I sunk into my seat too. My legs would no longer support my weight. Head in my hands, I was crying like a baby. It had happened. Hull City were in the Premier League. In the words of perma-tanned Phil Brown, ‘this was the best trip I’d ever been on’.
SARAH BRIGGS