Forest v Cardiff coming up on Sunday and I can‘t think of a less appetising fixture. It might be my paranoia and fevered imagination, but all I can ever think about Cardiff is of a bunch of super-tall blokes bullying Forest, however good or otherwise we are at the time, into a 1-0 defeat, usually achieved by going one up against the run of play and then ruining the game with niggly fouls and time wasting. Or was that just under Neil Warnock? That aside, nothing to say about them, other than thank goodness they did away with that crazy conversion to a red kit. Bluebirds in red? Problem solved - they dropped the bluebird, at least relegated it, for a dragon. Some madness about the rebrand appealing more to fans in Malaysia. As ever, absolutely nothing against Cardiff or their fans, just don’t really enjoying watching them. Mind you, I don’t really enjoy watching Forest any more, so…
One person who truly did dislike Cardiff was my Swansea supporting mate Carl, back in the day. The day being the mid 80s to 90s. I’ve not seen him in years, but I doubt his feelings have mellowed. Thinking of Carl, brings me to thinking about a trip to Italy, onto the magnificence of Des Walker and then, more generally, an affection for Sampdoria and their unfailingly magnificent kits. Here goes…
Desmond Sinclair Walker, a legend. 274 appearances for Forest, 1 goal. Make that 1 goal at the right end. I refuse to discuss the ‘other one’ here. If everyone who claims to have been there that day against Luton, there’d have been about 300,000 there rather than the 23,809 who really were. In truth, the 23,809 looks now surprisingly intact. Surprising anyone had stayed, given a thoroughly dismal match in which Luton had taken the lead through Mark Pembridge after 33 seconds. There followed 89 minutes of pure dross. 89 minutes of pure dross followed by a few moments of pure ’I was there’ magic, to remember forever.
Psycho had whacked it down the left wing, Teddy Sheringham prodded it hopefully Bridgford-Endwards, where he had presumably caught sight of someone in red making a charge. What no one, Sheringham included surely, could even have predicted was that the man in red would be Des Walker, famously a man who needed a map to cross the halfway-line. But it was. Left foot touch. Step, step. left foot blast. Near post, roof of the net. Carnage. Both arms aloft, headed for the Trent End. Gary Crosby couldn’t stop him. Hodge couldn’t stop him. Psycho finally did. Des spins round, pure joy, beaming.
Watch it here. Again and again! Forest v Luton from about 5:10 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F930cgNCRgo
Limited goalscoring prowess aside, Des was magnificent. 59 England caps. He had the ability to appear from nowhere, timing tackles perfectly, “You’ll never beat Des Walker,” did have a ring of truth about it.
Des left us after the Euro ‘92 finals, headed for Sampdoria for £1.5 million. Samp had been European Cup runners-up the season before and were coached by a certain Sven Goran Erikisson, who went on to find fame and fortune at Notts County and have himself a nice penthouse by the Colwick Industrial Estate.
Samp’s first home game that season was a tasty looking match-up v AC Milan: Maldini, van Basten, Rijkaard, Gullit and Baresi. I’d got a bit of holiday left to take, so it would’ve been churlish not to. No one else was available to join me, other than Swansea Carl, who fancied a bit of sun (ha!) and merrily joined me on the epic train journey to Genoa.
All good… we arrived 20 or so hours after leaving London to glorious sunshine and set about exploring Genoa - great place. This is all pre social media, pre mobile phones even, so postcards were duly sent, mocking those stuck at work and building up the weather and implausible glamour. We’d even headed to the Samp ticket office, literally bumped into the club president and were offered VIP tickets. “The mad Englishmen have come by train to see Des Walker!” We overlooked Carl’s welshness and took the tickets. This was all too good to be true...
Match day, a Sunday. Glorious. We head for the square from where we knew busses departed to the Luigi Ferraris Stadium, one of the most iconic from the 1990 World Cup (to which Carl and I had also travelled by train, mostly following Columbia). Nice and early, we settled into a bar for a beer. Several beers. “It’s raining,” observed Carl, a man of few words, unless he was onto Cardiff City. Then he had loads. A few more beers. “It’s still raining.” A couple more. “I can see our bus Pete.”
“I’ll nip to the loo and we’ll go then, shall we.”
”No rush. When I say I can see our bus, I mean I can see our bus upside down. Floating, Pete”
And it was true. Our bus. Lots of busses. And cars. And people. All floating or swimming by. “Match’ll be off, I suspect, Pete.”
Nothing for it but to neck a few more beers and then head back to the grubby dock land hotel we’d found. Nearing the hotel, a veritable tidal wave swept us down an alleyway and Carl, who was something of a short-arse compared to my magnificent 6 foot 4, disappeared in it. Selflessly, I dropped the carrier bag of crisps and beers we’d bought by way of provisions and swam for him. Carl continued the remainder of the walk to the hotel literally on my shoulders.
No power, no food, no shops. No trains out of Genoa. No money. No phones, mobile or otherwise. No trains. The bridges and tunnels out of Genoa were tI badly damaged. We were stuck there for a week. Family had no idea. Work had no idea. This was not good, but we survived to have a funny story to tell. Tragically, many didn’t. The floods took multiple lives, wrecked businesses and property. 17 inches of rain fell in the Bisagno river basin that day.
We never got to see Des play for Sampdoria and his season never really took off, mostly played out of position. He returned to Sheffield Wednesday for £2.7 million in ‘93, staying there for 8 years and over 300 appearances. I’ve still never made it to see Sampdoria, though I have been to the stadium to watch arch-rivals Genoa, having been dragged there by some totally insane Genoa ultras I once met at a Northern Soul weekend in Cleethorpes. As you do. The affection for Samp lives on in a love for the kit, complete with its wacky pipe smoking sailor badge and unique arrangement of hoops. I’ve collected a fair few versions and am always looking out for more. I’m planning to get there before too long now.
Nowadays, Des is involved in coaching, still living locally. In fact, Des cropped up in a lovely way in my life only last year. I was recounting the story above to some lads I was training at work, who were intrigued as to why I had such a thing for wearing Sampdoria shirts to training, “What, you mean like MY Des?” asked one.
”Your Des?”
”Yes, Des Walker. He brings me to school lots of days.”
And so it was. Des was, hopefully still is, in a relationship with a Mum at our place. It gets better. I’m on gate duty the very next day. Same lad approaches, grinning. “Des thought your story was well funny. We talked about it at home all last night. Sent you this,” pulling out a signed, match-worn sky blue England away shirt, signed to me by Des. Better again, Des himself came for a chat the next day. Asked to hear the story again, remembered the floods and having to play the match on the 23rd of December, the only date available for Milan as they were involved in Europe. This meant he didn’t get home for Christmas to see his kids, including one Tyler Walker, who would have been 4.
And that was that. The shirt, as yet unworn, has pride of place at home. I’m left with happy memories of an incredible player and a very, very nice feller. “You’ll never beat Des Walker.”
Comments