Scarborough have had numerous set-backs in their history, and Mark Staniforth thinks he knows why
Far too many clubs’ greatest achievements have disappeared in the mists of time. But few clubs can claim that their most memorable moments have disappeared into the smoke from No 55 Edgehill Road.
That, at least, is the utterly justifiable excuse given by Scarborough supporters when asked to explain their sensational mediocrity of the last decade. Who knows how many 30-yard free-kicks, how many last minute goalmouth mêlées against the unbeaten leaders, how many North Riding Senior Cup victories have been wiped out because one solitary household chooses to put their fire on at 3.45 on a Saturday afternoon?
When the fire at No 55 is lit, as it is religiously every Saturday afternoon and Tuesday evening between August and May, the smoke does not pour out of the chimney behind the away supporters’ end of the ground. It does not even bellow out. It engulfs the whole ground, it gushes all the way down Seamer Road, and before you know it the North Sea is alive with the sound of foghorns.
The course of hundreds of matches at the McCain Stadium has been irretrievably altered by No 55 Edgehill Road, provoking the usual round of conspiracy theories. A run of home victories suggests that the house belongs to one of the club’s directors. This would certainly explain why the home side of the directors’ box is practically empty at every home game: they are collectively shovelling flammable material onto a fireplace a few hundred yards away.
A run of home defeats inspires one to suggest that the house is being rented out to people with addresses in Hartlepool, Darlington or Hull who need to do something to stop the Red Tide sweeping forward once again (the latter possibility is slight). Unfortunately there are no scientific statistics to back up either of these claims, primarily be-cause study is impossible when you can’t see what you’re studying.
For home supporters, the chimney at No 55 has become an institution. When the first palls of smoke are emitted, they are greeted by a muffled roar as fans reach for their scarves and pull their hats down over their eyes. The Shed is possibly the only piece of terracing in the world where cigarettes are rendered obsolete, and where non-smokers can cultivate yellow-tinted hairstyles without the need for dye.
The most famous example of No 55’s immeasurable impact on the history of Scarborough Football Club is the Coca-Cola Cup Fourth Round match against Arsenal in 1993. The ridiculously low attendance for the match, 6,261, was not down to the usual reasons of supporter apathy or bad weather. Had the national media been in the living room of No 55 Edgehill Road that night, they would not have put the conditions down to a particularly violent sea fret. Rather, they would have been witness to one of the greatest examples of fan power in football history.
There were literally thousands coming and going from that living room that night. The whole town was out of firelighters. Petrol cans, cars, trees and trawlers were all being hoisted into that fireplace. Boy, that chimney smoked. And it nearly bloody worked too.
As those in-the-know Scarborough supporters tittered, cackled, hawked and retched into their scarves, Arsenal totally lost the plot. Boro, occupying their customary position just off the bottom of the entire League at the time, were running rings round the Premiership’s pace-setters. Kyle Lightbourne, apparently, nearly scored. Tommy Mooney, apparently, did score but it was ruled offside by a linesman who obviously felt it best to raise his flag once every five minutes to give the game some semblance of reality.
We were going to win. We were going to go through to the quarter-finals and to a home tie with Nottingham Forest. Basically, we were heading for Europe – were it not for Nigel Winterburn. Nigel, not known for his goalscoring exploits, could not be put off by the sight of goal because he couldn’t see it. It is said that he got the ball on the left wing, and lumped it high into the air. Somehow it landed in the net.
Our Wembley dreams and our lungs shattered, we trudged home to face rant-ings and strip searches from angry parents who thought we’d taken up smoking. The Edgehill Road fog didn’t weave its magic that night. But I’m convinced it’s worked plenty of times before now.
From WSC 132 February 1998. What was happening this month