Meeting the Messiah

Sunderland Manager Bob Stokoe. (Photo by PA Images via Getty Images) | PA Images via Getty Images

Part 1

When Bob Stokoe came to Sunderland in November 1972, no SAFC fan of sound mind could have envisaged what would happen to the club over the next five or six months. Some of us who were lucky enough to be around during this halcyon period in the club’s history still have to pinch ourselves when thinking about what happened in 1973, especially when we consider this was to be the last major trophy the club has lifted to the present day.

Like many Sunderland fans of the day, I have a small collection of memorabilia from the Cup run, including all the newspaper cuttings from the day after the win over Leeds, my rosette that I wore to Wembley, and, of course, my two most prized possessions – my Cup Final ticket and my Cup Final programme.

May 5th, 1973 is a date indelibly etched in the memory of every Mackem. For me, though, May 2nd, 1973 was to prove equally unforgettable.

Up until about 5pm, Wednesday had been a pretty ordinary day. I’d spent my 15th birthday at school before making the usual 20-mile trip from the west end of Newcastle back to Morpeth via the buses of the day, then walking the final three-quarters of a mile up to Stobhill.

When I got home, there were a few birthday cards from my family on the kitchen table, one of which was from my eldest brother, Walter. As I opened it, a small piece of brown and beige-coloured paper fell out, measuring about 4″ x 3″ – a Cup Final ticket.

My big brother had given me his ticket as my birthday present.

I looked again at the card that contained this most precious of cargo and it said: “Happy birthday Mick – make sure you bring the Cup back.”

I get goosebumps seeing those words again as I write this story.

I was in shock. He followed Sunderland all over the place with his mates from Morpeth and Pegswood, but he made the ultimate footballing sacrifice for me, and that’s something I was never, ever going to forget.

The rest of the school week couldn’t pass quickly enough. I was the envy of my schoolmates, even though most of them were Magpies.

Our Dad was also a Newcastle fan and had attended their three FA Cup Final wins in 1951, 1952 and 1955. He imparted his knowledge of what to expect and was keen to make sure I wasn’t the victim of a mugging or anything similar outside the stadium on the day, so my Mam sewed a secret pocket into the inside of my trousers where I could store the ticket safely.

Saturday eventually came around after an excited, sleepless Friday night. Dad walked me down to the bus station in Morpeth and gave me the bus ticket Mam and he had bought as part of my present.

After some final words of guidance from him, I jumped aboard my allocated bus and off we went on the long road to north London.

The bus arrived in an enormous coach park outside the Empire Stadium at around 1.30pm – 1.45pm. I immediately disembarked and went off to buy a programme, which cost me the princely sum of 15p.

From there, I weaved my way through the throngs of people, most of whom seemed to be wearing red and white scarves, and sought out Turnstile H, Entrance 55 in the west end of the ground.

With Dad’s words ringing in my ears, I waited until I was a few steps away from the turnstile, carefully removed my ticket from the secret pocket, stepped forward and handed it to the man on the turnstile.

One loud clunk, a push of the bars, and I was in!

I can vividly remember walking – well, probably running – up the steps and then the brilliant white goalposts coming into view against the lush green turf.

I found somewhere suitable to stand and watched the pre-match entertainment, which began with an athletics race around the cinder track that surrounded the pitch. I remember the two main protagonists being David Bedford, the well-known British middle-distance runner, and Emiel Puttemans, a Belgian of equal standing at the time.

The race was then followed by Frankie Vaughan leading the community singing, which included that well-known dirge, Abide with Me , before the teams emerged for an even worse one – the National Anthem.

I can distinctly recall a heavy shower just before kick-off, and the noise of the rain on the plastic canopy protruding from the edge of the roof.

The game needs no description.

I can only say that where I was standing gave me a great view of the two most critical incidents in the game. I swear that Porterfield’s shot would have come straight towards me had the net not stopped it, and similarly Lorimer’s rocket would have headed my way at an even greater pace had Monty not produced the second save of his amazing double act.

The day was everything a football-mad 15-year-old Sunderland fan could have dreamed of.

I eventually got back home to Morpeth at around 12.30am, where I was met by my Dad at the bus station. As we walked back up to Stobhill, we relived every moment together.

The Cairns family had now witnessed four FA Cup wins, but I’d witnessed the most important of all.

Sunday morning saw me buy every paper possible, read every word of them and bask in the joy of the greatest Cup Final giant-killing of all time.

I also vowed that if Sunderland ever reached another final, Walter was getting my ticket.

Part 2

In the aftermath of the magnificent FA Cup win, the precious lump of silverware that had us all in a frenzy went on a tour of the North East, each time accompanied by a few members of the team.

I recall meeting Ian Porterfield, Bobby Kerr and Vic Halom at the ex-Servicemen’s Club in Pegswood, and getting each of them to sign my Cup Final ticket in between the plethora of pints finding their way to the triumvirate.

Wind the clock forward seven or eight years and, now in my early twenties, I had married and moved away from the North East to sunny Rochdale whilst holding down a job in Manchester.

My wife had family in the nearby town of Bury, and we quickly hooked up and began socialising on a r...

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