johnnytapia
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gordondaviesmoustache said:I remember exactly where I was when we lost that Halifax game too, BP. I was (as I had been when we'd got knocked out by Shrewsbury the season before) at my dad's shop in Miles Platting, as I usually was on a Saturday, hoping my uncle would take me to Maine Road if City were at home.Blue Punter said:gordondaviesmoustache said:I must confess, looking back I feel unusually attached to that group of players, even though it marked a serious downgrade from the squad in situ a couple of years earlier.
Maybe it was my age (10) when that game was played. I reckon I'd have idolised pretty much anyone playing for City at that time.
I felt exactly the same. Probably the exuberance of youth GDM.
I would've been 8 when we got beat by Halifax in 1980. What made it worse was some "expert" in the Daily Mirror had us nailed on for the quarters and maybe further.
Listened to the first half on the Radio at my Nanas before walking home at HT. Every loose stone en-route was expertly slotted past anything that resembled a goal. Trees, bollards & parked cars. Every piece of rubble that passed through these surrogate goalposts was one for Daley, Henry and a couple for Robinson.
Got home and reality hit home. Despite my expert finishes, we weren't 4-0 up. The alternative of hanging on for a replay seemed an acceptable option. The rest as they say is history.
I really enjoyed watching those goals and I loved how enthusiastically the players celebrated them.
We weren't at home that day, obviously, but I remember the feeling of crushing disappointment, accentuated by the fact that united were FA Cup holders. I learned to hate them a little bit more that day.
City, however, were starting to acquaint me with the travails that would be associated with following the club for the next 30 or so years.
If we’re all chipping in with our Halifax memories:
I was a mere 12yr old at time of said match and was smitten with a girl from the year above at high school. Not sure if it was her witty repartee; her ability to conjugate the pluperfect in French or her enormous tits that bedazzled me, but awestruck I was. So, when offered the chance to go and watch “The Lady and the Tramp” in Bolton on a dark Saturday afternoon, what choice did I have? An afternoon of fumbling and having my neck well and truly covered in mind-bogglingly large love-bites, would, I thought, be the cake to a City victory cherry topping. Had no idea what the score was as I disembarked from the 524 at Radcliffe Bus Station. I wandered into a newsagents on Radcliffe New Rd, pulled The Pink from the counter and eyed nervously up and down looking for City’s result. Genuinely thought it was a misprint and asked the bloke what the real score was. One nil. They lost. Walked home in the pissing rain, got a royal bollocking from me folks and sat, roll-neck sweater around my neck wondering what the fuck had happened to my team. A nice coda to an otherwise grey story: I got to finger her the following week.