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THE NIGHT WE SANK THE SPANIARDS
For many of you Norn Iron fans reading the fanzine tonight, memories of Northern Ireland’s epic encounter against Spain almost twenty years ago are probably only hazy childhood images or tales relived by a father or close relation. There’s no doubt that this one memorable game will remain our wee country’s greatest ever international victory, not only just for the obvious result but also for the manner in which it was gallantly achieved. For some supporters like myself the victory holds even greater significance having been honoured and very fortunate to have witnessed the heroics of our men in green (or should I say white) at first hand, along with a few hundred other Ulstermen on the 25th of June at the Estadio Luis Casanova, Valencia in 1982. These are some of my outstanding memories of that night:
The Garda from Donegal who came to watch us in Spain, proving there are some nationalists who can tolerate the Northern Ireland supporter. Sitting at a bar before the match watching some Spanish supporters carrying a 5-6 ft bread roll/baguette through the crowded streets - no we weren’t pissed - yet. Trying to take in the awesome atmosphere created at the match - the noisiest I’ve ever witnessed, anyone who was in Prague just multiply by 20 times. Standing 30 yards from “Mahola” (the famous Spanish drummer) and still managing to keep my hearing. The Northern Ireland fans chanting ‘”Irlanda del Norte” throughout the match, proving to the locals we had grasped the Spanish language. A number of Spanish fans who at half-time passed us up some wine contained in those traditional vessels where the wine ends up down yer shirt. Watching the performance of two players in the second-half; Dave McCreery who covered every blade of grass on the pitch, and Pat Jennings who stood majestically as if ice wouldn’t melt in his mouth as the temperature soared to the eighties. Experiencing a roller-coaster of emotions as the final whistle blew feeling how great it was to be an Ulsterman. Racing down to the wire fence to grab John McClelland’s hand, the only player I could congratulate as was the clamour to express our joy to the team. And finally, handing over my sweat drenched Norn Iron replica shirt to the sales assistant who we had met the previous afternoon at the department store “El Corte Ingle’s”. The guy had waited for an hour at our coach to get my shirt after the match and in return I received a brand new Real Madrid jersey from the store he worked at. I hope it’s in the not so distant future that more Norn Iron fans can also experience the great honour and thrill of seeing our wee country playing in the greatest football show on earth. Gazza, Richhill
Espana 82, it was a bit like the 60’s, If you can remember, it you weren’t there. After the lows of the early 70’s, when we couldn’t even play our matches at home and the possibility of participating in a World Cup final tournament was as likely as a peeler turning out for Crossmaglen Rangers, it was beyond our wildest dreams when we qualified for Espana 82. The draw for the venues was made in early January and I had about six or seven different package holidays lined up, depending on where we were playing. When the draw was made that Saturday evening, we were up against the host country, Spain, the best team in Europe at that time, Yugoslavia, and an unknown team from Central America, Honduras. Everyone on the Iberian Peninsula expected Spain to go on and win outright, Yugoslavia’s record meant that they would at least qualify for the quarter finals and Honduras and Northern Ireland were just there to make up the numbers. The fact that we were drawn in the North East meant that we could go on a package holiday to Salou, so first thing on the Monday morning, I was down at Hamilton’s travel agent to book eight places at £180 for the fortnight. (Organised tours from some cowboy who set up in the Europa were £500 for the fortnight!) We’d no tickets but we would get them out there. Our package would cover the first stage and we were due back the day after the Spanish match. We arrived in Salou on a Saturday afternoon and decided to establish a base. Britain was in the middle of the Falklands war, so no better place than The British Boozer, just off the main street. It was to be our base for the next fortnight. We met up with a few more Brits and got quickly stuck into Bicardi cocktails. The two Davys, Culture and McR led the way. We were warned before we left that the police wouldn’t stand any nonsense so I tried to remain at least a bit sensible. McR was the first to get totally wiped out and went on home. Two others drifted home gradually and the remaining five arrived back at about one in the morning. Both apartments were locked, the boys were out for the count, so there was nothing else for us to do but sleep in the corridor. At two o’clock, a policeman came along the corridor and asked us to go with him. Remembering the warning, I rounded up the boys and went with him. He couldn’t speak English, but hinted that we should get into a small Citroen van, driven by a second one who resembled Manuel from Fawlty Towers. We were still playing along but hadn’t a clue what was happening. We arrived at the Police station at the other side of the town and were taken down stairs. Three were put into one cell and two into another. The doors were bolted and we were told nobody could speak English. We hadn’t a clue why we were there and thoughts of us being deported in the morning were all too real. The cells were about eight feet long by six feet wide and were pitch black. We were left there until the next morning when another cop who could speak English let me speak to him. He looked a dead ringer for Rolf Harris, said that a table had been broken at the restaurant at our apartments and we would have to pay for it. I asked him how much, he wrote a figure on a scrap of paper, I calculated it at £1,000, looked at him in disbelief and he quickly scribbled a nought off the end. If we paid the £20 each, we could go, if not we would be held until deportation. I was allowed to go back to the apartments to get the money while the other four stayed in the jail. Rolf Harris smiled as he gave us our receipts for the money, saying that it will be something we would be able to show our grandchildren!! F**k knows what happened to that money and to this day we still don’t know who broke the table. The first match was against Yugoslavia and we had arranged a bus and tickets through our holiday courier. As we arrived at the ground, he stopped the bus, told us to stay on while he met his contact and then came back about 15 minutes later with our tickets. We’d paid a fiver for the bus and a fiver for the ticket. The Yugoslavs were friendly and shared our beer. The Spaniards in the stadium were all supporting us as we were the underdogs. It was my first introduction to Manola, the mad drummer, as he whipped up support for us before getting the crowd to chant ‘Espana, boom boom boom’. The highlight of the match was the debut of a 17 year old, Norman Whiteside from Manchester United. Can’t remember much about the match as the Spaniards were making me drink wine from that pig’s bladder thing. We went home happy that at least we hadn’t lost. The second match was against Honduras and we decided to hire cars and go over the mountains in a convoy. Our courier said we could buy tickets at the ground. We did, and found that they were about £1.50 each, so he had made an absolute fortune from us at the Yugoslavia game. Little wonder he didn’t need to come with us a second time. Apart from crashing the hire cars into each other to let a group of Spanish honeys cross the road, the journey was pretty uneventful. The match ended up a draw which would most likely put an end to our World Cup. Back in Salou each day, I would get up early and go fishing in the Harbour. I would bring my catch back to the British Boozer at lunchtime to meet the others who had just surfaced. We decided to catch a few nosey Germans. I sat on a seat outside the bar with the fishing line down a grating. The Germans, seeing my catch lying beside me, would crowd around to see how I caught them. When we got enough of them, I would pull up an old sock to the cheers of all the Norn Iron supporters in the bar. The Krauts went off muttering and cursing. The fortnight was a hazy memory but included football matches on the beach with Norn Iron taking on the Rest of the World, followed by beach parties. One time, when the two Davys were in the British Boozer by themselves, some English fired a rocket into the bar and hit Culture in the side. There was a hole the size of a plum in his side yet he still tried to catch the bastards. The last match was against Spain and as we were likely to go out, the boys decided to stay and get pished as we had no tickets and we were leaving the next morning for Belfast. I went by myself and joined up with one of the official tours. At the stadium it was just a matter of time before the Spanish wiped the floor with us. I put up my banner just behind the goal in the middle of the Spanish support. It stayed there until half time but must have been ripped down by them as I didn’t see it in the second half. The atmosphere was getting quite hostile and Manola was still banging that bloody drum. We defended most of the match until Billy Hamilton broke on the right, centred, Arconada made a ballicks of it and Gerry Armstrong stuck it in the back of the Spanish net. Even then, it would only be a matter of time before the Spanish scored. Mal Donaghy was sent off and there was no way ten men would hold out against one of the best teams in the world on their home ground. But hold out we did and won the group. I swapped my Naranjito Northern Ireland flag for a Catalonia flag nailed onto a two by two six foot stick! Back in Salou, as I walked home by myself, a car with four dodgy looking Diego’s cruised up beside me with the passengers’ doors open. They didn’t look too friendly so I ran off and got away. I got back to the apartment to see McR lying in the hallway battered and bruised. I told him about running from the car and he said, “Well at least I didn’t run from the bastards.” The quarter finals were watched in various bars in Belfast and because we had won our group, we only needed a draw against France to go into the Semis. I was definitely going back for them. Unfortunately a Martin O’Neill goal was wrongly disallowed for offside, otherwise I might have been on that plane. All in all, a brilliant time and I consider myself really fortunate to have been there. Jim
At the age of 11 things happen in your life, that live with you for the rest of your life. Up until that balmy evening in Valencia, 1982 had already been pretty memorable. I had completed my 11 plus and passed and new big school beckoned. My eyes had been opened by the Falklands War, memories of lying in bed listening to live reports of the war as it was taking shape. However, nothing could have prepared me for Spain 82! I was already really into football, I had murky recollections of Argentina 78 and Italy 80 only caught my attention because of Ray Clemence being caught up in a tear gas cloud whilst England's finest battled with the Italian police. But Spain 82 was different. My country was there. Billy Binghams boys! Coming after the qualifiers and that splendid night against Israel at Windsor (does anyone recall the burger battle on the Kop?) The tournament got off to a good start and I think I caught most of the games and feeling slightly sick in the stomach when that Bryan Robson scored with a header against France. Funny that queasy feeling turned to outright hate as the years progressed and I got older and wiser. Northern Ireland had an omnipotent start but I not here to recollect the whole tournament, just one night in particular... We needed to beat the whole nations to go through to the next stage..and that wasn't going to happen was it? A team whose squad included Johnny Jameson and Gerry Mullen against players who played for Real Madrid, Barca etc!!!! Who were we trying to kid. Before the game, the Norn Iron fans mixed their famous cheeky optimism, "course we'll stuff them" was my dad's prediction with "catch yourself on" my brothers reply. The night itself started with the coverage on BBC1. Jimmy Hill was in Valencia, standing with what looked to be the steepest drop behind him and Lawrie Mac was in the studio with a host of others. Still a credible pundit and people believed what he saying, oh how things changed... The game started, the Spanish looked strong and professional...we looked like Norn Iron.
Again, I'll skip through the game my memories only centre around two thinks,the goal and the dirty cheating tactics of the Spanish players... I will never forget the build-up to Gerry's goal, we all know it, but my family will never forget the sight of me jumping off the sofa when the ball smashed behind Arconada, there was pandemonium when it was confirmed. But we all thought that it wouldn’t last, so when we overcame the hacking and play acting after 90 minutes the celebrations were even greater...we had done it! Despite going out at the next stage, I continued my love with the tournament . Has there been a better final in recent years? I don't think. The quarters final where mighty and semis will always be remembered for Schumacher's save at the face of the French forward. It was and continues to be the greatest shock in World Cup history, and I will never forget it! Chris
Although I was 8 at the time I have a clear memory of watching the game on TV in Ards at my cousins house which was at the top of a hill and when we scored I could see the neighbours at the bottom of the street going barmy!! As we did when the final whistle went, can also remember asking my Dad to explain why Mal Donaghy had been sent off!! - Darren.
I was only 8 years old on that famous night. I had no interest in football at that age, and my memories of the game itself are vague but I knew something important was happening. I remember the red shirts on the telly in our house in north Belfast, but what stood out more was my mum screaming at the TV. My mum can't stand football, but at 8 years old yer ma bellowing at the telly stands out as a really strong memory. Its my earliest memory of football and one of the most memorable experiences of my childhood even though I didn't understand what was going on. You just knew it was something extraordinary was happening. - Gary. My memory of the game was huddled around a portable TV with a snowy picture in a port-a-cabin on a caravan site in Cranfield (round the corner from Kilkeel). It was a BB camp and there were about 30 of us. Me and my mate were 'smoking' sweety cigarettes and ended up at the bottom of a 'pile-on' when Armstrong scored. Needless to say, the remainder of the camp involved copious NI v Spain matches, contrived so that NI won the World Cup - J Mac BDL. I was only eight. It’s one of my clearest early memories of football apart from watching the FA Cup final with my late grandfather every year. Sitting down in front of the box with my mum, dad and brother I remember it as it is the only time we have watched a football match as a family before or since. Being allowed to stay up was a big treat. Brother and me had been packed off to bed at half time in the Honduras and Yugoslavia games as I recall. When the goal went in I just remember going totally mental. Ran out of the house and three full laps round it in sheer joy. After that, I just remember feeling very nervous for the next 40 minutes. Donaghy's sending off were the roots of my cynicism against officials which all football fans have. Jennings' saves and the Spaniards pounding our goal were all I really remember after that although I think I was hiding behind the sofa by the end. Still by far and away the best footballing experience of my life and I doubt it will ever be surpassed. - Edwin.
At Armstrong’s goal, I jumped up and banged my head on a hard light-shade in the living room, cried with pain and joy, got the wound bathed and dressed and then couldn't bear to watch it any more once Donaghy got sent off, but then ran up and down the stairs with delight once my dad shouted up that it was "OK to come down now". Even my mum watched that night. Great memories that will stay with me to the grave - along with the scar. - Gavin. The TV had a NI scarf over it and from what I remember I had a scarf round my neck, NI sweatbands on each wrist and a NI rosette on! Started as a family occasion but I ended up watching on the portable in the kitchen due to a mothers stupid questions. Remember running about the house after we scored then pacing around praying after Mal was sent off. The last 10 minutes were spent watching the game like a horror film, scarf half over eyes, hiding myself during each Spanish attack. So, so, proud at the final whistle. - Marty. I remember exactly where I was when Armstrong scored, unfortunately I had to work that night and was getting a lift home, we were stopped at Lisburn St. junction Ballynahinch when Gerry scored and I uttered those immortal words `Stop the car, f*** home I’m going to the bar '. The streets were deserted but celebrations were in mid-flow as I sprinted into bar, what a night I also remember a scuffle breaking out after the match as a mad dash to get a free urinal greeted the final whistle. - Rob. Me and the rest of my class from Deramore High School had to go on a school trip to a cottage that the school owned up near Slemish mountain. We didn't have TV and I can barely remember the cottage having any electricity. Our geography teacher Mr Loughrey was up there with us and we listened to the bits and pieces that the reception could pick up on his car radio. All very exciting on the radio what with the disbelief that a Norn Iron player could get sent off, backs to the wall and it seemed at the time that the entire last 20 minutes were played in our penalty box. And we went apeshit when we won. My Dad had the match taped on a video recorder half the size of Rathcoole and I watched it when I got in, and it was still bloody brilliant and barely believable. - Willy. www.ourweecountry.co.uk
