I remember as I got off the train that Sunday morning and walked to The Valley to get my tickets thinking how quiet it was. I had expected hoardes of people and long queues, but as I rounded the corner and walked past the mural there were very few other people around. `This is strange’ I thought, but any aspirations I might have had of walking straight up to the booth, purchasing my tickets and going on my way were dispelled when I approached the shop, looked into the car park and saw a well formed queue snaking around it, and increasing in numbers before my eyes. Feeling reassured, and strangely glad, I quickly joined it, and nearly two hours later when I was within about six people of the window I felt a tingling in my nose that only meant one thing – a nosebleed. Panicking, I rummaged around in my pocket for a handkerchief. Finding one was only a partial solution, could I access my wallet, and carry out a conversation with the ticket vendor in my current predicament. I couldn’t surrender my place in the queue, but would standing by and allowing other people to go in front of me until I recovered work, or would I be accused of pushing in by people further back in the queue who might not appreciate my situation. Fortunately, good fortune dictated that the bleeding stopped exactly as the person in front of me started to walk away, and I was able to complete the transaction without any more drama. The real drama, of course, would take place eight days later, but there was time for one more mishap before the day itself.

The day before the historic day of Monday May 25th , I took my place in the Sunday cricketing XI I represented at the time, Alresford, and we were playing away at a beautiful ground where part of the boundary line was formed by a five foot high stone wall, behind which was a church. My Charlton allegiance well known by my team mates, there were jokes aplenty about not injuring myself before the biggest day in Charlton’s recent history. There were some worried faces then, when, as I was fielding near the aforementioned wall, an opposing batsman hit a huge lofted shot in my direction. I was none too keen to catch it, but had to look like I was willing, so, keeping my eyes on the ball like Id been told by all good coaches, I started to run towards the boundary, planning a desperate but fruitless lunge in the direction of the ball, which would be greeted by sympathetic shouts applauding my efforts from my team mates. What I should have heard were the shouts of warning from worried onlookers, reminding me of the presence of the wall, but so determined was I to make it look like I was desperate to take the catch that I didn’t hear these warnings. Instead, just as it dawned that I was going to get nowhere near the ball I found the wall, or rather, my shoulder did. You’ve probably never run into a stone wall at full pelt, its not one of man’s ambitions really, but take it from me its not much fun. As your momentum crashes into it, you bounce back and hit the turf with dramatic effect. To add extra drama, and for reasons that escape me today, I felt the need to clutch my face a la Rivaldo in the 2002 World Cup, but fortunately, the world’s biggest bruise on my bicep aside, I was unscathed.

The next day, bright and early, my brother and I caught the train up to London, myself at least, decked in Charlton red. We caught the tube from Waterloo to Baker St and I remember my brother commenting that there “weren’t many other Charlton fans around were there?” “There’ll all be there already” I replied, hoping my confident exterior masked that fact that I too, had expected to see a grater turnout from SE7 than the handful I had so far witnessed. Any worries I might have had about a poor turnout were dispersed when we changed tube at Baker Street and read and white was everywhere. From both teams I should add. Despite later taunts from the north eastern crowd that we `Couldn’t sell all our tickets’, I felt we had done the club proud with our support.

I don’t feel my report on the game is warranted here, we all know what happened. Yes of course I went mental when Super Clive put us one up, yes I did feel very confident at half time knowing Sasa hadn’t conceded for about eight games, and yes I did feel despairing when Sunderland scored a couple in quick succession to put us 2-1 down. When Clive scored the second part of his historic treble I thought we would go on to win, but Quinn then scoring his second quickly dampened that optimism. I have to confess that as much as Robinson toiling on the right near the end buoyed me, I didn’t think we were going to score. This made the equaliser, scored by the greatest centre half never to be capped by England, even more joyous. With two more goals in extra time, but no decisive one, when the final whistle went, the biggest prize in domestic football was up for grabs via a penalty shoot out. I will never forget the spontaneous chorus of “We’re Proud Of You” that went up from the Charlton faithful, and I don’t think it would be dramatic to say that there was a lump in my throat. I don’t remember much about the penalties, I think I watched most of them, but I do remember being convinced that Keith Jones was going to miss, and promising to marry him when he didn’t. I also remember my brother commenting, when Michael Gray stepped up, that “It’s a left footer, there hasn’t been one of them yet”. Michael Gray will have taken much better penalties, probably before and since in his back garden, but Sasa, and Charlton, were not to be denied. The bundling from the substitutes and the suits was brilliant, the hugging of strangers in the crowd fantastic, and the feeling when Kinsella lifted the trophy, replicating what I had seen on the television so many times before sent the proverbial shivers down my spine.

The Sunderland fans were brilliant afterwards, and I was delighted when they stormed the division the following season, they deserved it. I still like to see them do well ten years later. When my brother and I arrived back in Winchester we went for a drink, but the pub was deserted, the barman looked at my shirt and briefly acknowledged that I must have had a good day, but the atmosphere was flat and after one drink we headed home. As someone once said, and as I repeated to my Portsmouth supporting friend recently who was bemoaning the price of cup final tickets, `You cant put a price on good memories, and no one can ever take them away from you’. This is certainly true, and nothing the club achieves, or fails to, will ever dampen or remove the memories from that day. I feel privileged to have been there, and still discuss the game now with complete strangers. The final word should be dedicated to the hero of that day, so Super Clive Mendonca, on behalf of all Charlton fans can I say “Thank you, thank you, thank you”.

Once inside the stadium I realised just what this game means to so many of us, the rest is just a blur of emotions, goals, singing, chewing of nails and ultimate relief. My brother, Tim, left with 10 minutes to go as he was convinced we would lose and could not bear to watch anymore. He ended on a bus and heard on the drivers radio that the game was going to penalties. He dashed off and watched the penalties in a pub not far from Euston Station that was full of Goooners, he was as you’d might imagine a figure of fun. He did not have to buy a drink as they celebrated with him and looked forward to 6 points next season.

The journey home was strange, the crowd I was with were almost stunned, subdued by what we had witnessed, The Mackems were all to a person gracious in defeat although convinced we would soon be back down again, they were right on that score replacing us a year later. Once we ended up in Woolwich, reunited with my brother who was relentlessly abused, it began to sink in just what we had been a part of. Once more far too many beers and singing, everyone was now a Charlton fan, drinking in a pub next to the train station that now no longer exists, thereafter a taxi home to Welling. My wife Mandy informed me that she watched the game with my two young kids and my mother in the Anchor in Hope pub in Welling. The pub atmosphere was amazing she informed me and asked what was the my day like, all I could answer was it was a day I shall never forget and possibly the greatest football day for a generation of Charlton fans.

I remember when we parked up and headed for the stadium that there was wall to wall Sunderland Fans . I barely saw any Charlton fans until we got into the ground.
The match was a bit of a blur. I remember the first goal and Charlton end going mad and i remember Rufus popping up to equalise to make it three all , Rufus of all people! he never scored . I remember thinking that it has to be our day. Then in extra time my world caved in. Sunderland got the Golden Goal that took them to the premiership…..But hang on Charlton players were going back to the centre spot to kick off again. The rules had been changed , i could have kissed the man who made that decision – It had to be our day!! Mendonca’s equaliser, Gray’s miss and the rest is History (Yes!!!!) .
The manic photo shoot in front of the fans with the trophy and sasa leaping like loon and the Extatic addicks singing to . Status Quos’ ” Rocking all over the world”
Tickertape and fireworks exploding like new years eve on times square.

I had just experienced not only the best game of my life but one of the best days of my life!
We set of back home to Bedfordshire and on the way back we stopped of at a pub somewhere in Hertfordshire , all dolled up in our colours and painted faces . A pub we had never been to before and as we entered a bar full of locals took one look at us and started clapping!!!
What a day.

This may sound a strange thing to say but if i could bottle any feeling it wouldn’t be the day i got married or even the days my two son’s were born , it would be the time we – ” little old Charlton” -got to premiership at Wembley and everything was good with the world.