Playing Russian Roulette

 

Playing Russian Roulette

Nottingham 1983

The very last terraced houses on both sides of Colwick Road stood within touching distance of the walls of the ramshackle old stadium. The narrow street formed a tight channel which was already jammed with thousands of Celtic fans, as a freezing mist hung in the November air. The Policemen near the few turnstiles which served this throng of supporters struggled to cope with the sheer volume of fans who had made the trip to Nottingham for the UEFA Cup tie. Tony Foley looked at his sixteen-year-old son, Barry, and shook his head, ‘this looks really poorly organised, son We need to be careful tonight. If we get separated, I’ll get you back at the bus.’ Barry nodded, ‘they don’t have enough turnstiles. Twenty minutes to kick off and thousands are still out here.’ As they neared the turnstiles, they could hear a policeman shouting, ‘get fucking back!’ His words were as effective as King Canute ordering the tide to stop.

Tony had seen a lot of crushes in his years following Celtic and had a few narrow escapes in his time but on this particular freezing night, alarm bells were ringing in his head. It was clear the Nottingham Police hadn’t expected so many Celtic fans to travel south. It was equally clear that many had done so without tickets. As kick off approached, the crowd seemed even more densely packed around the few turnstiles. Tony could see guys sticking a fiver to the operator who clicked them through. This was all looking dangerous and he turned to speak to his son but he was nowhere to be seen. He looked around the sea of faces, ‘Barry!’ he called but the crowd just kept pressing him towards the turnstile. He handed his ticket to the operator who asked, ‘are there many more out there?’ Tony nodded, ‘aye, thousands, pal.’ 

As he clicked into the modest little stadium, he glanced to his left where four policemen were unbolting the big exit gates. The crush outside was serious but allowing hundreds, if not thousands to pour in was just as bad. Tony watched a torrent of fans  pour into the stadium and rush up the stairs. He hoped it would be the same as a similar crush he’d seen at Highbury a few years earlier. The crush outside was dissipated by the big open terraces of the clock end. When he climbed the stairs and saw the situation behind the goal, his heart sank. The terrace was divided into pens by tall steel fences. Into these already packed pens poured hundreds more fans who had been allowed in by the police opening the gates. He was now worried about Barry and scanned the packed terrace looking for him. He knew his son liked to find a spot near the corner flag and pushed his way through the crowd towards the front of the terrace. People were in genuine distress and packed in like sardines. As the teams came out, Tony fought the panic he felt rising within him, he had to find his boy.

At last, he reached the front of the terrace and grabbing the metal fence, hoisted himself up to look for Barry. More and more people were pushing onto the terrace and those at the front were being compressed against the fence. An older man beside him appeared to have passed out and was being held up by his friend. Some fans scaled the floodlight in the corner and looked down at the heaving mass of humanity below them. Tony looked at a young policeman on the other side of the fence, ‘this is heading for disaster, son, you’d best be opening that fucking gate!’ The young cop looked at him nervously, ‘can’t mate, Need orders for that.’ Tony felt the press of bodies tighten around him and shouted, ‘orders, fuck all. People are getting hurt here, open the fucking gate!’ Another worried looking policeman approached the younger officer and they became engaged in an animated conversation. The older man stomped off as the young cop looked at Tony and spread his arms out in a gesture which said, out of my control. Tony Foley looked to his right where a child was in tears before focusing on the young policeman again. ‘Son, I’m telling you, this’ll end badly if you don’t open that fucking gate!’

The young cop’s face was a mess of emotion and uncertainty. At last, he moved purposefully towards the metal gate and with some effort pulled back the big slip bolt. The gate flew open and people literally popped through it onto the track. Tony Foley was among them and he thanked the young officer before looking back at the packed terrace, hoping to see Barry. As more people sought refuge on the track and the corner of pitch, the referee stopped the game. People were lying on the track and turf, some unconscious and some holding friends who were injured in some way. More policemen arrived and seemed to realise that overcrowding was the problem and not any hooliganism. Tony looked at a senior looking cop with silver braid around his cap. ‘Your men opened the outside gates, that’s what’s causing this.’ He didn’t respond to Tony but merely pushed past him to speak to his officers.

As Tony Foley scanned the crowd for his son, a figure appeared beside him. ‘What’s happened here, pal?’ the voice said. Tony turned to see David Hay, the Celtic Manager beside him. ‘Too many people crammed in, Davie. It’s a fucking shambles.’ The worried looking Celtic boss then approached the senior police officer to converse with him. The Celtic doctor and physio, Brian Scott, were there helping the injured too. At that point the Celtic fans began to sing ’You’ll never walk alone.’ Tony Foley was becoming really worried about his son as the minutes passed and the police tried to clear the pitch.

Just as he was being ushered into the stand beside the packed terrace of the Colwick Road end, he heard a voice through the din. ‘Da! I’m here!’ Tony looked around, trying to locate where the voice was coming from. He heard it again and looked up at the fans who had scaled the floodlight. There was young Barry waving at him. A surge of relief passed through him as he gestured for Barry to stay where he was until the game was over. His son nodded and gave him the thumbs up sign. As he watched from the stairway of the stand, the police cleared the pitch and the game restarted.

It had been a close call for the Celtic fans and Tony realised that the shambolic organisation and antiquated stadiums were part of the problem. The footballing authorities and police were playing Russian roulette with peoples’ lives and they wouldn’t get away with it forever.

He loved his club, but he loved his son too and nothing was worth the risks he had witnessed people being subjected to on a cold and frosty, November night in Nottingham.