Goodbye Goldstone - An Epitaph

TWENTY FOUR hours earlier the two of us had been sitting in a small triangular park immediately west of Notre Dame co-ordinating our watches and doing the sort of thing Albion supporters do.

We agreed, having allowed for time difference, that this time tomorrow we would just about be entering the Goldstone.

And so it was.

Two Doncaster players walked the pitch with a banner saluting the Albion fans. A lovely touch, but one that made me at least feel evermore like a victim. The last post played. My father lit another cigar.

I admire football reporters' ability to remain dispassionate about the the games they watch. For me, the first half was just a blur of snatched memories. A fight, two sendings-off, a couple of appalling bananas, the worrying skills of Mr. Cramb, wearing Doncaster's number 10 shirt.

For months we had travelled towards this historic match, but now it was happening it was difficult to absorb.

At half time, the Argus man walked up and down selling his Goldstone special editions and when he sold his last one, people queued to shake his hand and he disappeared towards the West Stand. I don't suppose I shall ever see him again.

The second half rushed by and when Storer scored, we wanted, as we always do at times like this, the game to end then. But this time it was different. These were precious moments we were willing away.

Five minutes from the end, a pitch invasion started, right in front of me, born of faulty watches, misheard whistles and, I suppose, superstrong lager. It evaporated, but 200 lads remained on the touchline glaring at the distant players. Doncaster couldn't have scored anyway, but if I was them I wouldn't have wanted to.

Later we walked the grass. I watched a lady of perhaps 60, with sensible shoes and a tartan skirt, gently remove a piece of turf with a brand new trowel before striding away.

I talked to a man who wanted to stand in the exact spot where Wardie had chipped some hapless goalkeeper in '78. I looked at the little shrine on the centre spot and was grateful that in the rain my mascara would have run anyway.

And all around there were tapping noises. It sounded like a Paul Simon concert but of course it was the sound of seats and clocks being removed. Before my eyes, the Goldstone was being turned into an ex-football ground. I didn't think it was wrong but I couldn't bear to see it happening. I walked up the East Terrace and, without looking back, left.

Anna Swallow 1997