David Broome - The Little Fella

First published by Pitch Publishing, 2021

Pitch Publishing

A2 Yeoman Gate

Yeoman Way

Durrington

BN13 3QZ

www.pitchpublishing.co.uk

David Broome, 2021

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A CIP catalogue record is available for this book from the British Library

Print ISBN 9781785317675

eBook ISBN 9781785319174

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Dedication

To Jo, for your unwavering support.

FIRSTLY, THANKS to the former players who kindly contributed to this book: Robbie Mustoe, Craig Hignett, Jan ge Fjrtoft, Andy Campbell, Neil Cox and Phil Stamp. Also to Harry Pearson, Tom Sanderson and Simon Clifford for taking the time to share your insight. And a big thank you to Robert Nichols, editor of the fine Boro fanzine Fly Me To The Moon, whose help has been invaluable. And to all the Boro fans who lent their memories of the Little Fella to this book.

Keep me flying.

EXTERIOR. DAY. Our story opens, not in sunny So Paulo, birthplace of our hero, nor on Teesside, where his club exploits took place, nor in Yokohama, the arena of his greatest triumph.

Instead, our stratospheric camera hangs in the late winter air above Westgate Street, Cardiff. As it zooms down through the clouds, heavy with pre-precipitary rain, we hear the roar from the Millennium Stadium below before we see the home of English football (20012007).

Some 72,634 fans are squeezed into or, more accurately, comfortably seated in its 121m surroundings. Around 30,000 blanched in the white of Bolton Wanderers, another 30,000 drenched in the blood-red of Middlesbrough; all told, 60,000 northern souls (plus 12,634 mild-mannered corporate invitees, quaffing pheasant juice and looking on with amused bemusement or bemused amusement at what they had assumed was to be a rugger match).

It is 2004, a leap year. More than that, it is 29 February, a leap day. This is only relevant because it allows me to make this lets not call it a joke yet, that might prove premature and inaccurate observation.

But one of these clubs is about to take a huge leap from perennial afterthought in English footballs top two divisions to the best club in the land. If you mark such a distinction by the champions of the League Cup, which many dont.

To this point, Bolton have arguably the longer roll of honour, and although it is unlikely that anyone in South Wales that day remembered their roaring 1920s (when they romped to three FA Cup wins in six years), some may have seen Nat Lofthouse fire them to victory over noisy neighbours Manchester United some 46 years before.

That may sound on paper like a greater achievement, but remember that was a United just three months into mourning the Munich air disaster, and Boltons second goal would not have counted today, given that Mr Lofthouse bundled goalkeeper Harry Gregg over the line. Indeed, it was this incident that led to keepers being bestowed with the extra protection they now enjoy.

Im just saying, beating Middlesbrough would have been the real pinnacle of the Trotters history.

And what of those boys in red (with a white cummerbund)? Well, their trophy cabinet was fair bursting, with their 55 North Riding Senior Cup triumphs, which trounces Scarboroughs pathetic 19 titles; their 1980 Kirin Cup title (a crown last awarded to Bosnia-Herzegovina); and inaugural Anglo-Scottish Cup champions (most recently won by Chesterfield).

So, yeah, we had game.

But taking the common parlance, victory here would bring our first major trophy, if you must discount all those previous precious baubles.

You have the year and date, what of the time? Well, as our camera (whose zoom facilities really must be praised) enters the stadium, we see the match clock reads 93:39. We are three minutes and 39 seconds into the four that were recently electronically displayed by the fourth official.

We pan past that timestamp to focus on a pair of black boots. Nice. Traditional. Tracking up, we see two stockinged (and rather stocky) legs, bedecked in red with the letters MFC stamped at the ankle. After a teasing glimpse of bare leg, the figure 10 appears as we drift across our heros shorts and focus on his solitary ball.

Well, that was an unfortunate place to end a paragraph. I was, of course, referring to the match ball that he has just guided to his feet from his chest. Rewind a few seconds and you will see Ivan Campos long throw nutted away by future England manager Gareth Southgate. And now our hero is off, taking the ball in his stride just outside his own penalty area and striding forward, flicking the ball over Jay-Jay Okocha with the outside of his boot and brushing off JJOs attempt at GBH, to leave just Bruno NGotty and Jussi Jskelinen between him and glory.

And if this were a real film, rather than the fevered memories of your author, this would be the point at which the screen would freeze, and we might hear a record scratch followed by a soft, Brazilian voice narrating, Yep, thats me. Youre probably wondering how I ended up in this situation.

But, probably only if that had been the defining moment of a match delicately poised at 1-1 heading into injury time, with our hero about to score the winning goal. What actually happened, which as this isnt a film I can tell you, rather than making you sit through 90 minutes of back story, is that NGotty got a foot in and the attack petered out. Also, Boro were already winning 2-1.

It would have made a great dnouement though.

Instead we have to wait another full seven seconds for Mike Riley to toot his whistle for the final time.

And just like that, its over.

I see Steve Gibson smile.

The North Stand explodes, Franck Queudrue collapses to the turf, and in the middle of the pitch, a 5ft 6in Brazilian claps his hands enthusiastically, a huge smile beaming across his lovely little face.

Four years previously he was champion of Brazil. Two years after that, he was champion of the world. And now, he is champion of the Boro.

Juninho. Osvaldo Giroldo Jnior to those who like to state Brazilian players full names. Juninho Paulista to those who need to differentiate between him and his compatriot Juninho Pernambucano. And to a small, indomitable town in the north-east of England, The Little Fella.