ALRIGHT I’ll say it. Royal Oak Rovers were 2-1 down in a top of the table clash with only minutes to go. A poor back pass got stuck on the waterlogged surface and I nipped in, rounding the keeper before blasting the ball into an open goal.
The net bulged, dripping water like a shaking dog. It had been pouring it down for days and it was a complete surprise to all concerned when the match went ahead.
It was so bad, in fact, if the sub had come on, it would likely have been a Royal Navy Astute Class Hunter Killer, conspicuous by a raised periscope, preparing to launch a torpedo attack on the opposition dugout.
As the teams lined up for the restart, I stood hands on hips, puffing out my chest in pride, mouthing make-believe commentary while I waited, mimicking the indefatigable Mr Sugden in Kes.
“And Ronnie Glavin has equalised for Barnsley. And the score is two goals each…”
Little did I know, but what was about to happen next was perhaps the most surreal, hilarious moment I or anyone else on the pitch had ever encountered, before or since.
The match was taking place at Wombwell Main, an expansive, municipal ground where football and cricket pitches interlinked, standing back-to-back.
At the far side was a set of double gates, leading to a busy Hough Lane and the Main Club opposite. The gates were open and a car suddenly appeared, an orange Ford Capri with a black roof.
As it skirted the changing rooms, it picked up speed, 10, 20 then 30mph, traversing the boundary edge, long-on and mid-off, carving up the strip, before heading down towards fine-leg.
There was a sizeable crowd, fifty, sixty or more and every single one had eyes upon the developing situation. So did managers on both sides, for our part Wombwell’s answer to Brian Clough and Peter Taylor, my bestie, Steve Hardy, and big Cliff Ward. All the players were entranced, too, as were the referee and linesmen.
Next thing, the Capri was negotiating the grass banking, separating football and cricket pitches, flying through the air like the Dukes of Hazzard car, General Lee. Even the colour was right, pumpkin orange, mottled by rainwater, landing in the mud with a resounding thud. Notice the unintended rhyme?
Looks like I’m a poet and don’t know it. Hardly Ian McMillan I know, but hey, don’t knock it – it’s at least as good as the hole in my pocket.
Players parted like a guard of honour, permitting the hurtling vehicle unimpeded access. It was a good job. The Capri wasn’t stopping for anything, ploughing a determined furrow to the half way line, where it immediately performed repeated 360° turns, rear wheels ripping up mud and grass, pebble dashing anyone unlucky enough to be in firing range.
Then it happened: the car did a handbrake stop amidst a tyre track strewn centre circle. The passenger door flew open and who should appear but Wombwell’s congenial clown prince, Alan Beck, aka Becky, a man so naturally comical he could recite a shopping list and make it sound funny.
Three sheets to the wind after an extended sesh at the club, he clambered out, balancing on the sills so he didn’t get his shoes muddy, commencing a raucous, misspelled chant:
“O-A-C-K, Oak! O-A-C-K, Oak!”
Not to be outdone, the referee attempted to wrestle back control, approaching the encroachment with menace, clearly intent upon resolving the situation.
“Off!” he yelled, giving the car its marching orders. “It’s an early bath for you, Fordy!”
With Becky back inside, the Capri unashamedly accepted its punishment, speeding off the way it had come, heading back towards the club and an appointment with a few more pints of Barnsley Bitter.
Left behind was a hundred or so thigh slapping folk, players, management and supporters alike, doubled up and pouring tears of laughter. Only in Barnsley could a car get sent off – Pythonesque seriously didn’t come into it.
As for the match, it finished 2-2. It was always going to do after that, wasn’t it? No-one could take it seriously anymore. Altogether now: O-A-C-K, Oak! O-A-C-K, Oak!
