Time to ‘fess up. I’ve been living a lie since 1977, since when I have, with my best poker-face on, told anyone who cared to listen how May ‘77 was my first ever visit to the Baseball Ground. The fixture, Kevin Hector’s Testimonial v Forest, May 9th 1977. A Monday. And whilst it’s true that I did go to that, there were previous visits. Supporting the Rams. There, it’s out and I feel all the better for it.
First, that testimonial. Someone, at the height of the violent times, with Forest newly promoted to Division One, decided that this would be a sensible fixture to celebrate the career of a mighty-fine forward, whose trademark forward roll goal celebration become the lasting fashion on school yards for many a year. Quite painful on concrete. Less so on the BBG swamp. Considering the two rivals hadn’t played a meaningful match against one another for years - we’d been in the old Division Two, they’d been busy winning the League twice and playing in Europe - this one always had the potential to be a bit feisty.
Someone else, with just as much insight, social responsibility and highly developed child-protection skills, namely my Mum, decided that this would also be a sensible match to let 13 year old me travel to by train with my mates. She’d clearly decided that lightening couldn’t strike twice and I’d be fine having been (wrongly, and admitted by BR Transport Police in the weeks after) arrested on Derby station after seeing The Damned at the Ajanta earlier that year. That had been quite the night, now I think about it. Chased by Teds both ways, to and from the station. The irony of the arrest really being that I was probably about the only person in our party who hadn’t hit anyone. A local fifteen year old hard-man and Chelsea fan, who had best remain nameless, had been particularly ‘naughty’ that night. The Damned were, and still are, fabulous though.
Anyway, train it was. At the time, Forest would usually run Forestrail charters to away matches. I don’t remember if this was one of those or a service train. I do recall being sat in one of those side compartments with slidey-doors, prickly blue fabric seats and a fug of fag smoke. In an era when BR trains were perhaps a tad less than charming to travel on, they did seem to save the worst of the worst for the Forestrail, which was logical given that the interior was generally highly likely to be vandalised by the clientele and the exterior bricked-to-death by home fans.
Predictably, this was a night with a shockingly menacing atmosphere. The attacks started as you made your way to the pokey little corner that the away fans entered by. Stood under the dingy overhang of the old Ley Stand (you could never see the ball when it went over head height), the fencing was only about waist high, so attempts to take the other side were regular, in both directions. Another thought, how remarkably threatening a football ground must have been to women at the time. Any woman, of any age, taking her seat, walking round the pitch, would be greeted with “Two, two, two pound ten.” I did it myself. I remember little of the match. It was all about afterwards and getting to the station. Writing this, I thought I recalled the away escort attacking the terraced houses around the BBG on the way out and this was confirmed in this news report from the time that popped up in Google. It was indeed a grim old night, though I’m convinced Forest won and Ian Bowyer scored, but maybe that’s just what I want to have happened and inspired the “When Ian Bowyer scores a goal, you can shove your Hector up your hole,” line in the classic When Derby Go Down Again song.
Above - KH takes to the pitch/mudbat.
However, contrary to what I would tell everyone, that was not my first visit to the Baseball Ground. I had stood on the other side of that Pop Side dividing fence on more than one occasion, actually willing Derby to win.
The first time had been back in the ‘72-73 European Cup 2nd round v Benfica. I know why we were there for this one. No way was my Dad going to miss a match against the club of his hero Eusebio. Benfica to my Dad were proper European royalty, The Eagles of Lisbon. Only Ajax in their pomp had ever kept a clean sheet against them over two legs in European football, and when were we ever going to see Forest play the likes?
This was a night of proper Clough and Taylor shithousery. FIFA President, Sir Stanley Rous, couldn’t figure out the shocking state of the pitch, given there had been no rain. Cloughie had had two fire hoses soaking it. Taylor went though the Benfica team sheet with the players: can’t play, past it, no left foot… before screwing it up and tossing it in the bin. 38,100 saw Derby destroy Benfica 3-0. Then then went on to scrap their way to a 0-0 draw in Lisbon.
My second Baseball Ground experience was perhaps the most memorable. Mostly because, as an eight year old, my feet literally never touched the ground all night. The old Shippos crate I used to stand on was redundant, lost, crushed, as the sheer weight of human bodies suspended me about 2 foot off the ground all night. Having started somewhere by the corner flag, I ended up by the half-way line, miles away from my Dad and I swear my feet never touched concrete, but don’t remember it being a worry. The opposition were Juve In the European Cup semi-final. Derby had lost the away leg 3-1, in front of 72,000 at the old Stadio Communale. This, of course, was the one that Cloughie was convinced was fixed. On the face of it, this was a good draw for Derby. They’d avoided Ajax and Real, the two previous winners. However, 30 minutes before kick off, ex Wales and Juve legend John Charles informed Clough that Juve’s (German) Helmut Haller, had been seen going into the (German) ref’s dressing room. In the tunnel at half-time, with the score 1-1, Taylor saw Haller approach the ref again. Taylor asked to join the conversation but was roughed up by Juve’s security for his trouble. If there had been some dicey decisions in the first half, the second was, by any standards, a joke. Derby players seemed to get booked just for existing. Key players Archie Gemmill and Roy McFarland both got particularly baffling bookings which put them out fo the return leg. Faced with a scrum of Italian journalists at the dressing room door, Clough uttered his legendary: “No cheating bastards will I talk to. I will not talk to any cheating bastards.” Asked by the Italians to translate and looking to Clough for the go-ahead, Brian Glanville was told, “Tell them what I said.” Cue chaos.
In the home leg, it seemed to me that Derby battered Juve, but they just couldn’t find a way through. I remember Alan Hinton, a Forest star from ‘64 to ’67, going close (pic below). Ah, Alan Hinton. White boots, perm, “Gladys’ to all and sundry.
Full match: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9-EW5boIGxc
Brief highlights: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jelir4tCtgU
Both commentaries in German - can’t find an English one, but maybe it adds a hint of the exotic
The next had been for another European Cup match v Slovan Bratislava, in October 75. Derby trailed 1-0 from the first leg in what was Czechoslovakia, but a Franny Lee double and one from (the largely overlooked or forgotten) Jeff Bourne secured a comfortable 3-0 win. I remember that Bruce Rioch had a blinder and I was him on the playground the following week. Highlights below:
Next up came the might of Real Madrid. The fabled Baseball Ground atmosphere was at its best that night with 34,839 packed in as Derby hammered Real 4-1: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Huo9Y2xE7uE . Charlie George scored a hat-trick and David Nish got the other. 120,000 at the Bernebeu saw Derby crumble to a 5-1 defeat, to go out 6-5 on aggregate. I admit, I was gutted, although I was by then an established Forest season ticket holder. I think people just wanted to see English teams beat foreign teams back then. It’s also possible that as a kid who hadn’t really experienced Forest and Derby operating in the same universe, I just didn’t get the rivalry.
And that was it. Though it pains me to say it, those were great Derby teams and the Baseball Ground was a special place. Which, of course, by comparison makes Pride Park seem even more plastic and soul-less. I’m supposed to hate Derby to be a true Forest fan, but I’m not sure that I do. In fact, I know I don’t. I don’t like the way the club is run, the ground, the continual harping on about being a real football town whereas Nottingham isn‘t (Cloughie often perpetuated that particular myth), but I don’t hate them. There’s Derby blood in the extended family - the Ilkeston connection! - and I once had a brilliant boss who was, and still is, Rams mad. I enjoy the pantomime of derby day, with its villains, and I nursed a particularly fervent dislike of Richard Keogh for quite some time. Surely that’s just normal though. Radio Nottingham has been building this up as something huge this week and, in its way it is. Cue heavy metal guitars, a movie-promo type gruff voice; “Who will leave Pride Park with their pride intact?” With the horrible mess both clubs are in, the most likely answer might be “neither.” Still… I hope we beat them and I’m glad we’ve won the European Cup twice and they never managed it!
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