16th May 2005
Hi all,
It happened again. For the fourth time in my life as a Crystal Palace supporter we were relegated from the top flight of English football.
For me the circumstances were strange. When we were relegated in 1993 I was pacing around nervously in my bedroom at home, listening to the scores coming in. When we were relegated in 1995 I was watching Sky Sports coverage of the final day of the season with my University housemate Chris. In 1998 I was at a small hotel in Central Scotland with another Palace fan, the two of us already resigned to our fate.
This year we went into the final weekend in the bottom three, with our fate out of our own hands but with realistic hope. However our game with Charlton wasn't being televised, and partly because of that I decided to try and forget about the game altogether. Nothing I could do would change proceedings, so ignorance would be bliss (any football fan will know that last statement to be totally false).
As Lorraine and I were in the South-East for a wedding (by the way congratulations Claire and James) we decided to spend the day in Central London, letting Lorraine see all the sights she has always wanted to see on a visit down South. A sightseeing boat down the Thames, a quick bite for lunch, a look in the shops on Oxford Street. We got beautiful weather. It was all perfect.
At least it was perfect until we ventured into Niketown on Oxford Street. Browsing around the football section while pondering which tennis shirt to buy (I know, that makes no sense) I stumbled past a plasma screen. It had two pretty ugly sights on it - Chris Kamara's perm, and a scoreline that read "Charlton 1 Crystal Palace 0". Great. Now I was all too aware of what was happening.
Lorraine and I took ourselves away on the Bakerloo line and enjoyed the sunshine in the shadow of the London Eye. I knew the time and what was probably happening at football grounds around the country. I tried to talk positively about what might be happening. Most bizarrely, I tried to convince myself that hearing the "Great Escape" music in the distance was a good omen.
Small problem - come about five o'clock the pre-arranged phone call from Lorraine's Dad hadn't come. "This doesn't look good," I told Lorraine, who nodded in agreement. Come 5.30pm we decided to head out of London and freshen up prior to returning home on Monday morning. I still had an inkling of hope, until I saw a young Palace fan and his Dad on a platform along the London Docklands Railway. They weren't smiling. Still trying to stay positive I suggested to Lorraine that they might have just been tired. On this occasion she didn't nod in agreement.
At about 6pm we arrived back at our hire car. Once I figured out how to get the radio switched to medium wave I tuned into Five Live, where the news was confirmed. Palace were down after a 2-2 draw. We had been eight minutes away from safety when Charlton equalised.
I've been a Palace fan for a little over fifteen years now. I'm somewhat battle-hardened. It isn't that I don't care, I just know what to expect. It helps cushion the blow sometimes.
When I first went to Palace games I thought that the humour and atmosphere was unique to the club. Obviously in the years that followed I came to learn that was far from the case, but by then I was hooked. A third-generation Palace fan, following the route taken by my father and grandfather before him. I joked that supporting Palace was my genetic disorder.
If those of us who attend Selhurst Park on a regular (or not so regular, in my case) basis applied more common sense we would be less likely to return so often. There are constants that surround the club regardless of who is chairman, manager or who is in the playing squad. Financial instability, a revolving door into the manager's office, an inability to take a decent corner-kick and the timeless throw-in routine where the ball is kicked straight out of play instead of back to the throw-in taker (although this has been strangely absent during the Iain Dowie era). Most of all the club has an unmatched ability to shoot itself in the foot when things are going well.
With all of this in mind I felt okay early on Sunday evening, albeit I was a little bit worried about the financial implications of relegation. Due to a combination of not having a map and listening to both the radio and Lorraine's phone conversations we found ourselves trying to find somewhere to eat in Palace territory. I passed a familiar face by a zebra crossing who remarked that the day had been somewhat typical of Palace (that's the PG recollection of what was said), which I could ruefully agree with.
I joined the queue at a take away and waited to be served. As I looked out of the window from the counter I saw a sight that brought the reality home to me. Walking along the street were a father and son. The young boy could have been no more than five years old. He was proudly wearing a Palace scarf, and talking on a mobile phone. There wasn't a hint of a smile there. I'd forgotten how much the first time hurts. Give him fifteen years and it won't hurt, at least not as much.
With all that said I still wouldn't want to support anyone else. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and it makes the good days very special indeed.
Have a good week!
Tony
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