![]() I used to feel that way about Malcolm McDonald in 1973/74 when for six months I lived in Newcastle and stood in the corner Paddock of St James’ Park.Īs a reporting supporter I tried to get inside the story of the club’s financial collapse in the summer of 1983. I was especially pleased when Bernie barged his way through to batter in a scoring shot. George went the way of all managers as did most of the players he brought in.Īs a supporting reporter, watching a club yoyo from Division Four to Division Three and back again, I found myself becoming attached to City’s struggles embodied by dependable regular first-teamers such as John Middleton, Peter Downsborough, Hughie Martinez, Ces Podd, big Joe Cooke and an inside forward, Bernie Wright, whom I nicknamed The Stoker because he seemed to be as tough and indefatigable as an old ship’s boiler – a human template for Bobby Campbell, who was to come. To rephrase an old saying: Laugh and the world laughs with you: cause a stir and you stand alone. It wasn’t long before I got a less-than-delighted telephone call from City’s then-manager, George Mulhall. Prior to City’s 1979 FA cup match away to Durham amateurs Brandon United I wrote a less-than-flattering piece about the team’s style of play. My brief was to say the unsayable on behalf of the public, within the laws of libel and decency. In those days I had a weekly column called Fifth Column. ![]() My personal transition from a supporting reporter to a reporting supporter took place in the early 1980s. If Geoffrey Richmond believed that his club could in its own way be as big of Alex Ferguson’s Lancashire outfit, I wasn’t inclined to make him grumpy by comparing and contrasting the two clubs’ trophy-winning traditions. “Why can’t Bradford City be like Manchester United?” came the Nero-like reply. “Of course, City will never be as big as Manchester United,” I said airly, or words to that effect. It occurred either after City’s successful play-off match against Notts County at the old Wembley or after City’s promotion to the Premier League. Several lifetimes later, or so it seems now looking back, I was having a conversation with Geoffrey Richmond, Bradford City’s chairman, about how successful clubs are built and sustained. Were the Koppites out to air their literary knowledge by paraphrasing the Charge of the Light Brigade poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson, putting rival fans in fear of a verbal bombardment? Or was there scarcely concealed irony in the fact that City fans often chanted it when their team was on the receiving end of a hiding? The valley of death, for them in those days, often turned out to be the death of the hope of victory. ![]() Standing in the covered cowshed that was the Midland Road standing area in 1977 – the year I first ventured down the hill from Bradford College’s halls of residence to watch Bradford City – I wondered about the purpose of this chant. ![]() ![]() LONG before the 1985 Valley Parade death blaze, visiting supporters in the end facing the steep open-air terracing of the Kop would be assailed with the chant: “This is the valley, the valley of death!” If nothing else the fire proved how closely triumph and tragedy are allied. ![]()
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