377: Kingsley Black, Nottingham Forest, Merlin’s Premier League 95 Sticker Collection

Today Richard Allinson highlights the merits of supporting your local or family team no matter what and the joys that the occasional cup run can bring when you follow someone outside of ‘The Big Six’. When discussing Rich’s devotion to Grimsby Town with me Mrs Allinson excused my similar fanaticism for Crystal Palace by saying “at least they’re a proper team in the Premiership”. I felt obliged to point out that this was a team that had a game delayed by an hour back in 2004 because a light breeze nearly blew the roof off of our Main Stand. Moreover, as today’s post proves, the Mariners were always destined to win the/a cup someday. Over to Rich.

“Supporting Grimsby Town isn’t easy, but it is character building. Basically, they’re a good life lesson in disappointment. They essentially never win anything but on those rare occasions when they do, it is worth more than winning all the time. Do you know what I mean?” This was the rationale I led with when explaining to my wife the reason why any future son or daughter of ours would have to support the Mariners, whether they wanted to or not. Anyone who follows a bigger club and thinks that there may be flaws to this thought process might be right. However, if you’d tried explaining the pitfalls of my reasoning to me on 19th April 1998, I’d have waved my black and white polyester flag and screamed “MAAARINEEERS!” in your face because on that day we’d just beaten Bournemouth in the Auto Windscreen Shield final at the old Wembley, and it felt bloody fantastic. Just for context, when I mention “rare occasions” above, I really do mean rare. This was the first time Grimsby had been to Wembley in their 120 year history. If you’re wondering why I’m illustrating this point with a sticker of Kingsley Black in a Nottingham Forest kit, it is because he appeared as a second half substitute for the Mariners that day. Basically, I have used him as an excuse to go on a nostalgia trip through the excitable eyes of a 15 year old me. 

The Auto Windscreen Shield/Johnstone’s Paint Pot Trophy/Papa John’s Trophy is a weird competition, and not because of its increasingly bizarre sponsorship. No one really gives a toss about the early rounds, but then all of a sudden you’re in the semi-final second leg at Burnley’s Turf Moor and Kevin Donovan has just battered a volley into the back of the net in front of the away fans and you’re on your way to Wembley. As much as these memories of the semi-final are still vivid 23 years on, the anticipation, build up and visit to Wembley for the final will probably stay with me forever. Not living in North East Lincolnshire, I missed out on a lot of the excitement locally, but on joining the southbound A1 on match day you really got to see what it meant to the town. Every car seemed to have a black and white scarf hanging out the window or a Harry Haddock on the parcel shelf (we went with two scarves, just for good measure) and every person in every service station definitely knew that we only sang when we were fishing. The individual that had hung the “last one out of town, switch the lights off” banner on the road out of Grimsby must have got it just about right because it felt like every bugger was on the road heading to the Twin Towers.

I had been to Wembley before (as had Kingsley Black - thought it was about time I mentioned him again) but this time around it was with my team. Normally I was used to seeing TV footage of Dashing Des Lynam describing the scene as thousands of Mancunians and Scousers made their annual pilgrimage to the national stadium, but here we were walking up Wembley Way in their place. Alright so it wasn’t the FA Cup final, but to me it might as well have been. I’m glad the club embraced the occasion too, Harry Haddock (an inflatable fish for the uninitiated) had been put back into production, and the club went with the tradition of buying a cup final suit, and as this was basically the closest we were going to get to a Wembley showpiece occasion, who can blame them? Really though, they still should have re-recorded ‘Up The Mariners’ as a cup final song. Missed a trick there, lads. The game attracted 62,000 fans, including three generations of my own family, which was an incredible amount for two lower league teams from coastal towns and once in the ground, it felt and sounded packed. It obviously wasn’t, but the noise that greeted the two sides as they emerged from the tunnel seemed deafening. I’d seen Brian Clough, Terry Venables, and George Graham all lead teams out of the underbelly of Wembley in the past, but here was our very own Alan Buckley getting the chance to do it for the club he had been such an excellent servant to over the years. It was wonderful stuff. 

Close observers of this blog will note that whenever I get the chance, I do the new Wembley down in favour of the old one. There is nothing wrong with the new ground per se, but in the same way there is nothing wrong with non-alcoholic beer. What ticks me off about it is that Wembley completely lost its individuality when it was rebuilt. The old stadium was unique and instantly recognisable around the world with its massive gaps behind the goals; the long walk out to the middle; the proper Royal box; the green stanchions in the goals; and the twin towers presiding over the whole thing. It was genuinely iconic. It might be rose tinted glasses that led me to this conclusion, but the modern version just isn’t as good. It was seemingly designed by someone who had no knowledge of (or care for) the history of English football and who had basically got the template for Generic Ground A out of a box and bent a big pipe cleaner over the top. Whoever it was clearly hadn’t ever experienced the joy of buying a knock off commemorative scarf from a man in a flat hat and leather jacket on Wembley Way before. 

Anyway, rant over and back to more about Grimsby Town v AFC Bournemouth feat. Kingsley Black. I remember snippets of the game but I far from recollect the whole thing. For example, I remember thinking that Bournemouth’s young floppy haired centre half was quite good, he turned out to be Eddie Howe off of management. I remember every shot that sailed ten yards over was greeted with agonising sighs as if it’d just clipped the bar and I remember the “oh bloody hell...” feeling of going 1-0 down and the “oh bloody hell!!!” feeling of coming back to 1-1. I also remember quite a lot of “so what exactly is a golden goal anyway?” at full time. 22 long minutes later we certainly knew, as Wayne Burnett flicked in a volley to claim victory for the Mariners. Maybe I wouldn’t be looking back on this all so fondly if Town had lost that day, but we didn’t so I don’t have to worry myself with that. 

The weird thing about supporting a small team is that the majority of people aren’t even aware of your success most of the time, whereas if it was Arsenal winning the FA Cup yet again everyone would be discussing it for days on end. Even so, returning to school on the Monday morning I still half expected everyone to be eulogising about Kevin Jobling’s impact as a second half sub. However, as I lived in Yorkshire a place that is home to neither Grimsby or Bournemouth, no one basically gave a shit. At least there was randomly one Bournemouth fan in my class that I could irritate for weeks afterwards though. Poor lad. 

If you were interested, Kingsley Black had a fantastic career. In addition to the pinnacle I have described above, he also played in three League Cup finals winning one and losing two; he won 30 international caps for Northern Ireland; and he got to play under the great Brian Clough. In retirement he apparently has a holiday home in sunny Majorca where he co-owns a charcuterie which sells local cured meats and sausages. If this shop doesn’t sell black pudding called the Kingsley Black Pudding then he really needs to have a word with himself.

Supporting a small club is fantastic. The countless 2-0 defeats to Port Vale can be washed away with a trip to Wembley in a tournament that most people don’t care about. And that, any future child of mine, will be your first bedtime story. Up the Mariners.