WanderersStar
12 Jun 2003, 10:48 AM
A little message posted by myself on the Wolves official forum (www.wolves.co.uk). It sums up the passion.......
WE ARE WOLVES! WE ARE WOLVES! WE ARE WOLVES!
It’s been a long and winding, tortuous road. It spanned 19 'colourful' years. It’s been a mixture of unfulfilled, sky-high aspirations mixed with incessant, almost unbearable pain and tragedy. You just couldn’t have written the script, could you? It would have been dismissed as a work of fiction.
Yet, here we are at last…A PREMIERSHIP CLUB.
How can mere words do justice to the sense of pride we’re all feeling? How do you accurately describe the sheer elation felt by the entire City of Wolverhampton? I don’t think I can, for I’ve never known such an outpouring of unbridled passion as I witnessed at the Millennium Stadium. It truly was a sight to behold! It was as if the chains holding us back had been severed at long last and the Barmy Army were finally free of their immense burden. How PRIVILEGED I felt to be at Millennium Stadium on the 26th of May! How very right is Sir Jack in his assertion that Wolves fans are “ the best in Britain”.... but he only said that which I’ve always KNOWN in my heart -and which Monday PROVED beyond doubt.
For me, if there were a single, defining moment that encapsulates the emotion of the Final, it arrived immediately after Kenny Miller’s goal -Wolves third. It spoke volumes for us all. Why? Because a shell-shocked fellah about my age turned to me and shouted, “WHAT am I supposed to do? I just don’t know what to do, mate!” He must’ve bawled it two or three times, in all honesty. He was deeply shocked and genuinely didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; whether to celebrate or show restraint for fear of tempting fate’s cruel hand....such has been his lot as a Wolf for the past 20 years. He, like me, must’ve seen it all, I guess. He, like me, would have had his hopes shattered a thousand times only to bounce back in the ‘sure’ knowledge that next season WOULD be different. He, like me, lived the eternal dream of seeing our beloved babbies back in the ‘Big Time’ where they belonged....and now he, like me, was witnessing the seemingly impossible unfold before our very eyes: Yes, a Wanderers team that lived up to all our expectations -and a whole lot more besides!
You simply can’t put a price on the happiness etched into those gold-painted faces. You just can’t buy the glorious sight of Millennium Stadium turned into an ocean of golden, flag-waving fans. You just wouldn’t believe the noise generated by thousands of devoted, proud Wulfrunians unless you were there to wallow in it. It was ear splitting to the point where I felt honestly felt my head would burst. If you missed out, I pity you, for such was the flood of emotion that I swear you really could have cut it with a knife. Maybe I hadn’t seen it all in my 30+ years as a fan, despite my thoughts to the contrary, for this was something else, my friends....this was different class. This was the day that Wolverhampton showed the world that we Yam-Yams rightly deserve to be respected as a SPECIAL BREED of fan. The Barmy Army were simply AWESOME, AWESOME, AWESOME, make no mistake. It was sheer gold & black Valhalla; there’s just no other way of describing it.
For those older Wolfs amongst us, now is the time to celebrate the rebirth of our great Club, no question at all. But, and at the same time, maybe we’re a bit too long in the tooth to be swept away by all the hysteria. For us, the images of a decaying Molineux are permanently etched into the mind. We haven’t forgotten how such a great institute as Wolverhampton Wanderers FC was brought to its knees and nearly out of existence. We haven’t forgotten the fall from grace that saw a Club at the very pinnacle of English football very nearly bite the dust in spectacular fashion. Even now I just cannot believe the near-demise of an English legend.... but how very, very close it came. I’ll never forget taking my small son to his first game, Wolves v Torquay, League Division Four. There was I stood on the old South bank with my nipper perched on my shoulders, half the ground closed down with the North Bank seemingly a ghostly reminder of days long gone. I wanted to say “This is the home of our Gods, son”, but I couldn’t. Instead I remember thinking, “My God, what the hell has this Club come to?” I’ve never felt so dejected in my life. You just cannot bottle the utter disbelief fans of that era felt.
But, a little while later, the Messiah himself was about to make his entrance. Those of us seeing Bully pull on the Gold Shirt for the first time were impressed with his work-rate and enthusiasm, if not his skill. Mind you, as we later were to find out, Albi*n had sold us a rough-cut diamond that changed the face of the Club forever. Here was a guy that symbolised everything we Wolfs craved: desire, commitment, pride and an absolute REFUSAL to accept defeat. No cause was ever lost on our Bully. The guy became Wolverhampton personified; our very own icon of Black Country GRIT. To say that Steve became a God in our eyes is to do the lad a disservice; he became greater than that. Much greater.
And so the bandwagon drove on. Wolves were suddenly on the crest of a wave at last as successive promotions testified. Molineux itself was bulldozed and rebuilt into the Golden Palace we now adore. Sir Jack’s buy-out had been his personal dream come true, God Bless him. With Sir Jack came the hopes and prayers of thousands of Wolfs world-wide, but none more so than here in Wolverhampton itself. However, we all know what came next: a succession of Managers, a succession of highly-priced signings that couldn’t cut the mustard....and a succession of bitter, bitter disappointments.
Players on perceived ‘easy street’ made a mockery of the DEMANDS made by Club and fan alike. Maybe it was there and then that Dave Jones ‘Wolfism’ was born? For the wrath of our fans knew no bounds; no longer were we prepared to sit back and watch our cosseted ‘stars’ bleed Sir Jack dry like the leeches they appeared to be. By now, Wolves had become the retirement home for ‘last payday’ has-beens. We witnessed fighting in the North Bank seats as ‘pro’ and ‘anti’ Graham Taylor factions vented their feelings. What on earth had it come to when fellow Wolves fans were literally at each others throats? Managers had made panic buys in a vain attempt to save their skins, none more so than Mr. McGee. Yet, no matter which way we turned, the magic formula escaped us. I often wondered, “WHAT is missing?”, but like everyone else, I wasn’t sure what it was....BUT NOW I DO, as I’ll reveal later.
Yes, we had our moments of relatively modest triumph. Besides the Fourth and Third Division Titles we claimed the Sherpa van Trophy at Wembley in 1988. That day showed the amazing fan-base that Wolves enjoy as 50,000+ Wulfrunians descended upon Wembley. Like Cardiff this week, it too, was an ocean of Gold pride. But these ‘triumphs’ have been but temporary respite from the painful cravings of reclaiming our birthright. That event, realised only this week, lay years into the future.
And so, on we proceed to the Dave Jones era. Colin Lee’s time had come to hand over the reigns to a man that had a point to prove, whether Dave admitted it or not…and Mr. Jones, as we all know, has kept his inner-thoughts well and truly to himself. Not for this man the understandable outpouring of anger and resentment that lesser mortals like you and I would concede to. No, Dave has risen above it all, head held high in the manner befitting a remarkable man, for remarkable he is. His welcome to Wolverhampton was greeted with great expectation, for here was a man on a mission. This was the guy that had shown himself a shrewd judge of player quality at Southampton. This was the man who had turned the Saints from a struggling Premiership outfit into a decent, flowing team that could live with the best. It seemed his career was on the up....until their Chairman wielded the axe, despite assurances otherwise. The football world silently mourned for a decent, innocent man who had now been punished not once, but twice. It was a tragedy and travesty of the highest order. Perhaps at Wolves, he could begin afresh and reclaim his Premiership loss?
Little wonder, then, that we greeted him with open arms. We folks know injustice when we see it. Could Dave get us going at long last, we wondered? We both shared a common grief, it seemed: Dave had been robbed of his Premiership status, whilst Wolves were smarting from repetitive failure. It seemed a potent, winning mix. Or at least we HOPED it would be.
And so, enter the season to end all seasons: Wolves seemingly destined to be promoted in either of the two top spots. A collapse of unbelievable proportions went hand in hand with a run of Albi*n form that defied belief. Pipped at the post, only the Play-offs to aim for. I’ll never forget the agonies I suffered at Carrow Road as a 1-0 lead evaporated into a 3-1 loss. That 3rd and final goal pushed me to the brink, so late in the game it came. There and then I KNEW it was time up for my beloved Wolves. I, like you, was stunned into abject depression. How much pain can one set of supporters be expected to go through? Unless you’re a true Wolf at heart, you’ll never understand the devastating heartache we felt. It truly felt like a nuclear bomb had dropped. We wondered if it were possible for Club, let alone fans, to recover from the disaster. Yes, it was THAT powerful.
Sometimes, however, you just have to hold up your hands and admit you were wrong. As we fans spat blood -such was our fury- our Boss maintained quiet dignity. Maybe we were far too raw and wounded to listen to Dave’s insistence that Wolves had made progress, despite the season’s outcome. All WE saw was ruination. Dave saw it otherwise: he saw ‘The Greater Picture’. And that, my friends is what separates us fans from the abilities of a talented Manager: he saw even in spectacular defeat that which we were oblivious to: PROGRESS. He had quietly chartered a course that would yield equally spectacular results just 12 months later....
As this season began, we didn’t know what to expect. By the halfway mark, we were floundering badly. It seemed the depression and hangover had caught up with the boys. It seemed that nothing and no one was capable of arresting the suicidal, in-built destruct button that Wolves had become. We were wrong again. In an AMAZING show of strength, determination, guts and yes, even FLAIR, Wolves turned the corner. Teams were simply blown away with previously unimaginable ease and verve. Ask Ipswich Town, Millwall, Norwich and Gillingham what it was like to be on the sharp end of scintillating Wanderers performances. The show against Gills in our 6-0 victory was simply awe-inspiring stuff.
Our lads appeared determined to right last year’s wrongs, that much was clear. Whether they could cope with a two-legged Semi Final Play-off against a very good Reading side posed further questions, however. History now shows that they WERE up to the job, and the Royals were despatched albeit with a few well-bitten nails along the way. Anyone at The Madjeski will never forget the scenes of euphoria that greeted game’s end. Terrific stuff!
So to the Final. The big day finally arrived. There’s not much to be said that aint been said already, that’s for sure. That day, a dream was turned into reality and a certain Black Country City was thrown into raptures, the like of which we’ve never witnessed before. Yes, the players and Sir Jack are RIGHTLY our heroes and Gods. They’ve earned it, by Christ! But when I think of OUR Sir Jack, I’ll always think of Churchill’s immortal words:
‘NEVER IN THE FIELD OF HUMAN CONFLICT HAS SO MUCH BEEN OWED BY SO MANY TO SO FEW’.
A bit dramatic, you think? Perhaps so.... but Hell, I don’t care! Why? Because this City owes more to ONE MAN than any amount of money could EVER buy. Has there EVER been a Club that has suffered more greatly than Wolverhampton Wanderers or its fans? I doubt it! Let's remember too, that ‘conflict’ has been our unwanted friend for so very, very long. How we’ve suffered, by God! How very appropriate, then, that this immortal line be inscribed as an epitaph when Sir Jack’s time comes…..NOTHING could be more fitting, methinks.
And this brings me to my final point, fellow Wolfs: David Jones. This man has won the affection and respect of thousands. He has shown simply AMAZING motivational skills and man-management. But, most of all he brought the SINGLE missing ingredient to Molineux. You may recall that, earlier in this post, I said I’d reveal it. At first, I thought it was the usual stuff: pride, commitment, determination etc. Yes, those qualities are needed, no question at all….in fact, they’re essential. Skill alone, as we know, is not enough. BUT, the one thing Wolves needed more than ANYTHING was this:
A Manager whose PERSONAL HEARTACHE matched, nay, SURPASSED our own. Only a man who has suffered as he has truly understands the need to ‘get even’. Only a man of the greatest character, courage and integrity could tame the mighty beast that is WOLVES. It’s true to say that he understands our pain far better than we can ever hope to understand HIS….and that’s a certainty.
THANKYOU, Sir Jack. THANKYOU, my Babbies. THANKYOU, Jonesy. We’re VERY, VERY PROUD OF YOU! WE LOVE YOU TO BITS! Together, you’ve brought IMMEASURABLE joy to the people of Wolverhampton in a way we can never hope to express.
……In fact, we’re so happy, we're just ‘Dancing in the City’!
WE ARE WOLVES! WE ARE WOLVES! WE ARE WOLVES!
It’s been a long and winding, tortuous road. It spanned 19 'colourful' years. It’s been a mixture of unfulfilled, sky-high aspirations mixed with incessant, almost unbearable pain and tragedy. You just couldn’t have written the script, could you? It would have been dismissed as a work of fiction.
Yet, here we are at last…A PREMIERSHIP CLUB.
How can mere words do justice to the sense of pride we’re all feeling? How do you accurately describe the sheer elation felt by the entire City of Wolverhampton? I don’t think I can, for I’ve never known such an outpouring of unbridled passion as I witnessed at the Millennium Stadium. It truly was a sight to behold! It was as if the chains holding us back had been severed at long last and the Barmy Army were finally free of their immense burden. How PRIVILEGED I felt to be at Millennium Stadium on the 26th of May! How very right is Sir Jack in his assertion that Wolves fans are “ the best in Britain”.... but he only said that which I’ve always KNOWN in my heart -and which Monday PROVED beyond doubt.
For me, if there were a single, defining moment that encapsulates the emotion of the Final, it arrived immediately after Kenny Miller’s goal -Wolves third. It spoke volumes for us all. Why? Because a shell-shocked fellah about my age turned to me and shouted, “WHAT am I supposed to do? I just don’t know what to do, mate!” He must’ve bawled it two or three times, in all honesty. He was deeply shocked and genuinely didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; whether to celebrate or show restraint for fear of tempting fate’s cruel hand....such has been his lot as a Wolf for the past 20 years. He, like me, must’ve seen it all, I guess. He, like me, would have had his hopes shattered a thousand times only to bounce back in the ‘sure’ knowledge that next season WOULD be different. He, like me, lived the eternal dream of seeing our beloved babbies back in the ‘Big Time’ where they belonged....and now he, like me, was witnessing the seemingly impossible unfold before our very eyes: Yes, a Wanderers team that lived up to all our expectations -and a whole lot more besides!
You simply can’t put a price on the happiness etched into those gold-painted faces. You just can’t buy the glorious sight of Millennium Stadium turned into an ocean of golden, flag-waving fans. You just wouldn’t believe the noise generated by thousands of devoted, proud Wulfrunians unless you were there to wallow in it. It was ear splitting to the point where I felt honestly felt my head would burst. If you missed out, I pity you, for such was the flood of emotion that I swear you really could have cut it with a knife. Maybe I hadn’t seen it all in my 30+ years as a fan, despite my thoughts to the contrary, for this was something else, my friends....this was different class. This was the day that Wolverhampton showed the world that we Yam-Yams rightly deserve to be respected as a SPECIAL BREED of fan. The Barmy Army were simply AWESOME, AWESOME, AWESOME, make no mistake. It was sheer gold & black Valhalla; there’s just no other way of describing it.
For those older Wolfs amongst us, now is the time to celebrate the rebirth of our great Club, no question at all. But, and at the same time, maybe we’re a bit too long in the tooth to be swept away by all the hysteria. For us, the images of a decaying Molineux are permanently etched into the mind. We haven’t forgotten how such a great institute as Wolverhampton Wanderers FC was brought to its knees and nearly out of existence. We haven’t forgotten the fall from grace that saw a Club at the very pinnacle of English football very nearly bite the dust in spectacular fashion. Even now I just cannot believe the near-demise of an English legend.... but how very, very close it came. I’ll never forget taking my small son to his first game, Wolves v Torquay, League Division Four. There was I stood on the old South bank with my nipper perched on my shoulders, half the ground closed down with the North Bank seemingly a ghostly reminder of days long gone. I wanted to say “This is the home of our Gods, son”, but I couldn’t. Instead I remember thinking, “My God, what the hell has this Club come to?” I’ve never felt so dejected in my life. You just cannot bottle the utter disbelief fans of that era felt.
But, a little while later, the Messiah himself was about to make his entrance. Those of us seeing Bully pull on the Gold Shirt for the first time were impressed with his work-rate and enthusiasm, if not his skill. Mind you, as we later were to find out, Albi*n had sold us a rough-cut diamond that changed the face of the Club forever. Here was a guy that symbolised everything we Wolfs craved: desire, commitment, pride and an absolute REFUSAL to accept defeat. No cause was ever lost on our Bully. The guy became Wolverhampton personified; our very own icon of Black Country GRIT. To say that Steve became a God in our eyes is to do the lad a disservice; he became greater than that. Much greater.
And so the bandwagon drove on. Wolves were suddenly on the crest of a wave at last as successive promotions testified. Molineux itself was bulldozed and rebuilt into the Golden Palace we now adore. Sir Jack’s buy-out had been his personal dream come true, God Bless him. With Sir Jack came the hopes and prayers of thousands of Wolfs world-wide, but none more so than here in Wolverhampton itself. However, we all know what came next: a succession of Managers, a succession of highly-priced signings that couldn’t cut the mustard....and a succession of bitter, bitter disappointments.
Players on perceived ‘easy street’ made a mockery of the DEMANDS made by Club and fan alike. Maybe it was there and then that Dave Jones ‘Wolfism’ was born? For the wrath of our fans knew no bounds; no longer were we prepared to sit back and watch our cosseted ‘stars’ bleed Sir Jack dry like the leeches they appeared to be. By now, Wolves had become the retirement home for ‘last payday’ has-beens. We witnessed fighting in the North Bank seats as ‘pro’ and ‘anti’ Graham Taylor factions vented their feelings. What on earth had it come to when fellow Wolves fans were literally at each others throats? Managers had made panic buys in a vain attempt to save their skins, none more so than Mr. McGee. Yet, no matter which way we turned, the magic formula escaped us. I often wondered, “WHAT is missing?”, but like everyone else, I wasn’t sure what it was....BUT NOW I DO, as I’ll reveal later.
Yes, we had our moments of relatively modest triumph. Besides the Fourth and Third Division Titles we claimed the Sherpa van Trophy at Wembley in 1988. That day showed the amazing fan-base that Wolves enjoy as 50,000+ Wulfrunians descended upon Wembley. Like Cardiff this week, it too, was an ocean of Gold pride. But these ‘triumphs’ have been but temporary respite from the painful cravings of reclaiming our birthright. That event, realised only this week, lay years into the future.
And so, on we proceed to the Dave Jones era. Colin Lee’s time had come to hand over the reigns to a man that had a point to prove, whether Dave admitted it or not…and Mr. Jones, as we all know, has kept his inner-thoughts well and truly to himself. Not for this man the understandable outpouring of anger and resentment that lesser mortals like you and I would concede to. No, Dave has risen above it all, head held high in the manner befitting a remarkable man, for remarkable he is. His welcome to Wolverhampton was greeted with great expectation, for here was a man on a mission. This was the guy that had shown himself a shrewd judge of player quality at Southampton. This was the man who had turned the Saints from a struggling Premiership outfit into a decent, flowing team that could live with the best. It seemed his career was on the up....until their Chairman wielded the axe, despite assurances otherwise. The football world silently mourned for a decent, innocent man who had now been punished not once, but twice. It was a tragedy and travesty of the highest order. Perhaps at Wolves, he could begin afresh and reclaim his Premiership loss?
Little wonder, then, that we greeted him with open arms. We folks know injustice when we see it. Could Dave get us going at long last, we wondered? We both shared a common grief, it seemed: Dave had been robbed of his Premiership status, whilst Wolves were smarting from repetitive failure. It seemed a potent, winning mix. Or at least we HOPED it would be.
And so, enter the season to end all seasons: Wolves seemingly destined to be promoted in either of the two top spots. A collapse of unbelievable proportions went hand in hand with a run of Albi*n form that defied belief. Pipped at the post, only the Play-offs to aim for. I’ll never forget the agonies I suffered at Carrow Road as a 1-0 lead evaporated into a 3-1 loss. That 3rd and final goal pushed me to the brink, so late in the game it came. There and then I KNEW it was time up for my beloved Wolves. I, like you, was stunned into abject depression. How much pain can one set of supporters be expected to go through? Unless you’re a true Wolf at heart, you’ll never understand the devastating heartache we felt. It truly felt like a nuclear bomb had dropped. We wondered if it were possible for Club, let alone fans, to recover from the disaster. Yes, it was THAT powerful.
Sometimes, however, you just have to hold up your hands and admit you were wrong. As we fans spat blood -such was our fury- our Boss maintained quiet dignity. Maybe we were far too raw and wounded to listen to Dave’s insistence that Wolves had made progress, despite the season’s outcome. All WE saw was ruination. Dave saw it otherwise: he saw ‘The Greater Picture’. And that, my friends is what separates us fans from the abilities of a talented Manager: he saw even in spectacular defeat that which we were oblivious to: PROGRESS. He had quietly chartered a course that would yield equally spectacular results just 12 months later....
As this season began, we didn’t know what to expect. By the halfway mark, we were floundering badly. It seemed the depression and hangover had caught up with the boys. It seemed that nothing and no one was capable of arresting the suicidal, in-built destruct button that Wolves had become. We were wrong again. In an AMAZING show of strength, determination, guts and yes, even FLAIR, Wolves turned the corner. Teams were simply blown away with previously unimaginable ease and verve. Ask Ipswich Town, Millwall, Norwich and Gillingham what it was like to be on the sharp end of scintillating Wanderers performances. The show against Gills in our 6-0 victory was simply awe-inspiring stuff.
Our lads appeared determined to right last year’s wrongs, that much was clear. Whether they could cope with a two-legged Semi Final Play-off against a very good Reading side posed further questions, however. History now shows that they WERE up to the job, and the Royals were despatched albeit with a few well-bitten nails along the way. Anyone at The Madjeski will never forget the scenes of euphoria that greeted game’s end. Terrific stuff!
So to the Final. The big day finally arrived. There’s not much to be said that aint been said already, that’s for sure. That day, a dream was turned into reality and a certain Black Country City was thrown into raptures, the like of which we’ve never witnessed before. Yes, the players and Sir Jack are RIGHTLY our heroes and Gods. They’ve earned it, by Christ! But when I think of OUR Sir Jack, I’ll always think of Churchill’s immortal words:
‘NEVER IN THE FIELD OF HUMAN CONFLICT HAS SO MUCH BEEN OWED BY SO MANY TO SO FEW’.
A bit dramatic, you think? Perhaps so.... but Hell, I don’t care! Why? Because this City owes more to ONE MAN than any amount of money could EVER buy. Has there EVER been a Club that has suffered more greatly than Wolverhampton Wanderers or its fans? I doubt it! Let's remember too, that ‘conflict’ has been our unwanted friend for so very, very long. How we’ve suffered, by God! How very appropriate, then, that this immortal line be inscribed as an epitaph when Sir Jack’s time comes…..NOTHING could be more fitting, methinks.
And this brings me to my final point, fellow Wolfs: David Jones. This man has won the affection and respect of thousands. He has shown simply AMAZING motivational skills and man-management. But, most of all he brought the SINGLE missing ingredient to Molineux. You may recall that, earlier in this post, I said I’d reveal it. At first, I thought it was the usual stuff: pride, commitment, determination etc. Yes, those qualities are needed, no question at all….in fact, they’re essential. Skill alone, as we know, is not enough. BUT, the one thing Wolves needed more than ANYTHING was this:
A Manager whose PERSONAL HEARTACHE matched, nay, SURPASSED our own. Only a man who has suffered as he has truly understands the need to ‘get even’. Only a man of the greatest character, courage and integrity could tame the mighty beast that is WOLVES. It’s true to say that he understands our pain far better than we can ever hope to understand HIS….and that’s a certainty.
THANKYOU, Sir Jack. THANKYOU, my Babbies. THANKYOU, Jonesy. We’re VERY, VERY PROUD OF YOU! WE LOVE YOU TO BITS! Together, you’ve brought IMMEASURABLE joy to the people of Wolverhampton in a way we can never hope to express.
……In fact, we’re so happy, we're just ‘Dancing in the City’!