After rushing and managing to get some mysterious fellow to sign my slip at the bottom - I have no idea who he is or who he plays for, I just followed the drift of the others, got carried away by the masses.
I am happy. The next pair are Robbie Keane who’s adopted pen narrowly misses imprinting itself on my ticket. We did catch Gary Breen - the kid helping me again. Between us we explained my situation and almost blagged him to pull a couple of strings on my behalf. ‘Please’ said the kid ‘It’s a genuine case, he’s gotto get to Coventry’.
‘I’m going to Dublin’ he said, before handing me my ticket back. He disappears into the carpark. A steward comes across. ‘Would anyone come and pick you up?’ he asks
‘From here?’
‘Where is Coventry?’ he asked. A man came across and gave me directions to the train station. I can go to the policestation and get a loan and more directions. ‘OK’ I say, ‘but I’m gonna try my luck hitchhiking’.
‘Hitchhiking’s dangerous’ he reply’s not knowing what I’m thinking. I get out my envelope the tickets were picked up in and scrawl on the back the word COVENTRY. I hold it up and make the internationally recognised salute.
Gordon Strachan walks out of the guarded doors into the welcome reams of autograph hunters. This is the vital few moments. My one last chance to avoid an extodrant train fare and tentative connections after a long walk, hounded by uncertainty.
Strachan makes his way along the line. ‘Is this yours?’ he says, signing frantically away and progressing towards me. Any moment now.
I waggle my poorly devised sign, my hitchhiking hand in position. I put these down thinking they’re stupid. This is a real man, a real moment and not a joke. I give him my coach ticket to sign and grab his attention. It’s like a blur in my memory, but for those vital few seconds me, and my surrounding friends plead with him. I’m stranded and any chance of a lift?
‘Where you going?’ he asked.
‘Coventry’ I say.
A couple more words are exchanged and Gordon thinks for a brief moment. Gordon signals for the stewards to let me through the barriers. I grab my bag from under my feet and am through the confinds - beyond the barrier. ‘Stand there’ he instructs me. I stand, motionless like stone. After a few more autographs he approaches me again, asks me some questions then gives me the all clear. A gateway away from this place has opened. A quater of an hour ago I was banging frantically on the railing in desperation, now I’m overshadowed with relief.
Guided by Gordon I enter the coach. ‘Sit there mister’ he instructs, pointing at a seat near the front, a suit draped over the other one. ‘Yes Mr Strachan’ I think - I’m hardly going to argue with him. I’m on board. The relief flows through me and I start to grin.
I look around. I can just about see Carlton Palmer and Mustapha Hadji. I crane my neck and can’t see any further. I’m next to some black bloke called Andy. A brief conversation about coach times before we pull away. Down the street through Middlesborough. My fear has subsided, breaking way to genuine childlike happiness and excitement. This is well cool!
me ticket
me ticket's arse