ALMOST exactly 35 years ago, just like now, Sunderland prepared to host their first home game back in the top flight of English football after a lengthy spell out of the big time.
Five long years had passed since Sunderland had played a Division One match. Len Ashurst was at the helm as the Rokerites were relegated from the top flight in 1984-5.
Of course, we know now that Division Two was not the furthest Sunderland would fall. The ignominy of a second relegation inside two years followed as not even Bob Stokoe could keep his beloved side up.
A season in the third tier followed, but with Denis Smith in charge Sunderland began their resurgence, which culminated in 1990 with the Black Cats being the only side to lose a play-off final but be promoted anyway, all thanks to Swindon Town and their financial misdemeanours.
The club’s return to the top of the football pyramid coincided with a renewed interest in football nationally owing to England’s exploits in the 1990 World Cup, reaching the semi-finals and bowing out, heroically, to West Germany, on penalties. Gazza’s tears, Lineker’s have a word, all of that.
Having opened the Barclays League Division One season with defeat at Norwich City, Sunderland would host Tottenham at Roker Park three days later.
After not really showing an interest in football at all, I had been completely captivated by the World Cup, thumbing excitedly through the massive Orbis sticker album, which, for some reason, was sold in a ring binder.
I had a double page spread from the Daily Mail on the wall featuring Peter Shilton – nope, don’t know why I kept it either – with the headline HE’S GOT THE WHOLE WORLD IN HIS HANDS.
Such interest suggested either I’d go on to be a goalkeeper, or a journalist. In fact, I became both – with vastly different levels of success.
Once I’d found out that Spurs boasted not just one, but two of England’s World Cup heroes in Gascoigne and Lineker, I badgered my dad to take me and my brother to this game, of all games.
Ask, and I received, as I took up my seat in the Main Stand, near to where the players’ wives sat. My dad’s partner worked at the ticket office at the time, and, generally, the freebies we got were in that area of the ground.
There’s much-used cliché of a kid being taken to his first match and, upon seeing the green of the pitch ahead of them, falling completely in love with the game.
Well, it’s true. Because that happened to me. With it being a midweek, the floodlights were on at Roker Park, and, this doesn’t happen at the Stadium of Light, but the green just looked, well, greener. Like, none more green. The finest green you’ve ever seen.
And I thought, yeah, this is alright. It’ll do. Time to be entertained!
We drew 0-0.
Hindsight tells me that was actually a decent result against Terry Venables’ side, featuring the likes of Erik Thorstvedt, Gary Mabbutt, Nayim, Gazza, future Black Cat Paul Stewart and, of course, Lineker. Players that would go on to be mainstays in the Premier League when that would launch two years later.
By taking me to this match and indulging my burgeoning interest in football, my dad created a monster. He’d taken me to my first home game, and a few years later, my first away game – the 2-2 FA Cup third round draw at Manchester United. He took me to the final ever match at Roker Park, of which I took loads of pictures on my new 35mm camera only to find I had a full album of images of the back of someone else’s head.
He took me to my first match at the Stadium of Light. He probably bought my brother his first Sunderland shirt – the Patrick one which this season’s home kit is based on – which he passed to me. The VAUX had peeled off, leaving fragments of glue and felt where it once proudly adorned the shirt. The chunky black, red and white collar was the scratchiest thing I’ve ever worn. Just writing that has made me instinctively rub my neck to soothe it.
I never thanked him for it, nor should I considering what we’ve had to put up with in recent years, but my dad is the main reason why I’m a Sunderland supporter now.
On July 31, just over two weeks ago, my dad died.
As we look ahead to the class of 2025’s return to the Premier League, I’ll be taking my seat at the Stadium of Light for the first time since his passing.
I’m not really bothered how we get on. The occasion will be enough for me. Everything is still a little raw for us all as a family.
I’ll be going with my daughter, for the fifth season together as season card holders. New traditions have been made, and new traditions will be maintained.
I’m not expecting her to thank me for dragging her to matches in League One, Wembley in 2019, all the times we were crap under Lee Johnson and Michael Beale, but I know I’ve lit a fire in her that my dad lit in me 35 years ago.
Even if she becomes a rocket scientist or a rock star, I’ll not be any more proud of her than I am now.
Time teaches you that football is not really about the winning and losing – although it does matter – but it’s about everything around it. Making memories. The bond between generations strengthened by shared experiences. I’d not have known any of this had my dad not shown me the way.
So for that, Dad, I thank you.
