Fishing for fun in Peterhead
Erik Geddes
2006
My mum always laughs and tells us we are daft following a football team like Partick Thistle. 'Shower of haddies' she calls them.
My girlfriend finds it ridiculous too. In fact everyone I know finds it funny except Craig, my big brother, and our pals that travel with us to Scotland's far-flung beauty spots like Airdrie, Stranraer and Forfar. I think most ordinary folk have difficulty understanding what it is we look forward to so much about our precious time and money following 'The Jags'.
On Sunday May 14th 2006 we met up at 8am. We boarded on one the fleet of busses transporting over 2000 supporters north and east to Peterhead, for Scottish Football League's second leg play-off final.
Despite our rather dismal season's points haul being 14 short of the normal promotion spot a bizarre ruling by the 'blazers' in charge of the league system, combined with other factors allowed a chance to sneak back into division 1 via the backdoor.
However there were some problems. Having lost the home leg at Firhill ('stadium of dreams') 1-2 our team now had an uphill struggle against a community club which was to play in front of its own town against a rather bedraggled and shoddy Thistle team.
Not for the first time, we travelled in hope more than expectation.
The trip to away games usually allows a little time to catch up with pals and blether not only about upcoming game itself but other issues of the day: useless trivia, life, music, the parentage of our favourite referees and everything else in between. However on this particular day I was more than a wee bit tense, nervous and even subdued. Too much was at stake for early morning joviality.
There was, and still is a feeling in the fan base that our club was better than this; we should be back in with Rangers, Celtic and the big clubs in the SPL. Footballing minnows like Peterhead were a side that shouldn't be bothering us. Tough luck for us, fact was they were, and we had a huge match ahead of us.
Around midday the entire convoy of coaches carrying Thistle fans descended on the quaint little town Ellen, just north of Aberdeen. I have it on good authority that more pints were sold in the 90 minutes or so we were stopped in Ellen than at any other 90 minute period in history of the pleasant wee place.
It was also a chance to grab a bite to eat, chat with other groups of friends and acquaintances. I played pool and won twice in a row, things were looking up. Would our manager Dick Campbell - a man who, to put it kindly, had a few critics in the Thistle support - and his team come good?
Back on the bus and in the last hour of the journey the atmosphere comes to life a little; songs about glorious victories and chants of heroes past and present fill the air.
3pm the game kicks off: five minutes later Peterhead score, which makes it 1-0, but really 3-1 to them. Feelings of dread and horror overcame me as I sat with strangers (for some reason I was in the seating section while my pals are below in the standing area) worrying that my beloved team will sink like a stone. Packed in like sardines there are other Jags fans around, but at this moment and time I feel very alone.
Before half time Mark Roberts, one of the few success stories of our season picks up on a loose ball in the home penalty box and fires it past the keeper to make it 1-1, but still we are down 3-2 on aggregate. Of the second half I remember nothing except the final kick of the ball. Four minutes into injury time Thistle win a free kick and Billy Gibson manages to plonk the ball into the net via the backside of an unfortunate Peterhead defender.
Simultaneously local celebrations and baiting of the 'weedgies' are cut shot as delirious leaping, dancing and hugging ensues amongst the travelling army of red and yellow foot soldiers. We are now winning 1-2. In reality it's 3-3 and extra time is needed to decide who will win.
I leave my seat, yelling and punching the air and make my way down through the party-packed isle of long-suffering and joyous souls to join Craig and the lads.
In classic Thistle-style our professional players make heavy work against opposition we should be beating, the game goes to penalties, but the tide had turned and Thistle went on to win football's version of Russian roulette.
The party pours out of the packed tiny terraces, and subbeteo stand, flowing onto the pitch. Players are embraced by fans and the manager Dick Campbell hails the supporters as the true victors in a tearful victory speech.
Although not considered one of the greatest days in our clubs sparse and chequered history, it was one of the most rewarding and certainly most memorable for me. A full range of emotions were endured and in the end we came out winners.
After singing our way back down the windy roads along the grey coast I crashed out about Dundee and next thing I knew we were back in Glasgow.
A few rapid pints followed by a carry-out on the way home and it's over. This time Partick Thistle is not synonymous with the depths of despair.
