It is fair to say that in the Spring of 2003, I was personally on my arse, writes Roy Thomson.
On the surface, life appeared normal and happy. I had a decent, well-paid job with a lovely company car and a nice plump bank balance every month. However, in truth, my life was a mess. I might have appeared a happy go lucky soul without a care in the world, but in all honesty, I was miserable. I was hanging on to my well-paid job by my fingernails. My ex-partner was legally trying to prevent me from seeing our young son. My living arrangements were at best unconventional and, worse, downright squalid.
My issue was I couldn’t leave the booze alone. I’d always drank a lot, I’d been brought up in a culture of work hard play hard, but by 2003, what had been for so long an enjoyable social pastime had become a massive problem. I eventually got honest with myself and confronted the reason behind the trail of chaos I was forever leaving in my wake. There was only one answer; alcohol. This uncomfortable realisation prompted yet another massive bender. This, in turn, led to a trip to the doctors to get my regular sick note excusing my prolonged absence from work. This time the good doctor called me out on my repeated bullshit and insisted on carrying out some tests. Upon receiving the results, he called me in. He told me if I continued my current drinking habits, the damage to my liver would have severe consequences. He confidently predicted I’d be dead before I was forty. I was thirty-four, and I could tell from his expression that he wasn’t joking.
After much soul-searching, on March 21st 2003, I sat alone in my lonely, damp, stinking little room in Cambridge. I promised myself I’d get drunk one last time, and in the morning, I would go looking for some help. I’d had enough, I was putting the booze down for good, and this time I meant it.
The reason I’m sharing such personal stuff is to try and establish some context for why my memories of the 2003 play-offs are personally so important. In some ways, mere words cannot accurately describe the state I was in at this time. The following day I did wake up, and I did find some help. Those early days were so tough, but somehow I started to accumulate the sober days. By the time of the play-off semi-final with Scunthorpe, I was still sober.
I started going to watch Lincoln City in 1983. I was inspired to visit Sincil Bank by the great Murphy side of Cockerill, Peake, Thompson and Hobson. For some reason, and I have never adequately explained why, from that first match, I became a lifelong Lincoln City supporter. The club quickly became a significant part of my life and identity. Despite moving to Cambridge in 1991, I stuck with the club through thick and thin and still got to games whenever I could, both home and away. I often dragged along random mates from Cambridge to games all over the country, so I had company at the match and in the pub. However, from around 2000 onwards, like everything else in my life, football began to take a back seat as the boozing took over, and my attendance got rarer and rarer. In fact, by 2003, I had so much going on and was so self-absorbed, it didn’t really register we were in the play-offs. I also had no real sense at that time of the scale of the achievement of Keith and the team. So when I sat down that afternoon in my lovely new digs with a cup of tea and a biscuit and turned on Sky Sports News, it was a pleasant surprise when they started to report from the game and show the goals. Watching it all unfold reinvigorated lost emotions and a sense of feeling good about something which I hadn’t felt in months. In the excitement of the famous 5-3 victory, I started to think about possibly going to the final. This was a scary thought that turned to terror when I got a call from home after Yeo had done the business in the away leg asking me if I wanted to go to Cardiff.
I was terrified because I hadn’t been anywhere or done anything since March 21st that might tempt me to pick up a drink. But I was Lincoln through and through. My mind was racing. How could I miss such a massive and historic game? At the same time, for me, beer and football were like Ant and Dec; they were joined at the hip. I also knew it would be challenging to explain why I wasn’t my usual self and what was going on. I was slightly embarrassed about the truth. It felt like I was admitting defeat; How could I cope with the questions and the knowing looks and raised eyebrows? Was I strong enough to get through such an emotional adrenaline-filled day without a drink? In the end, I thought, you know what, what’s the point of getting sober if I’m going to lock myself away for the rest of my life. I decided to go.
The actual memories of the day are limited and pretty hazy. I safely drove up to mums in Nettleham from Cambridge the night before the game. This in itself was quite an achievement because alcohol withdrawals meant I was still prone to hallucinations and was regularly having panic attacks. The next day I caught the coach someone had organised from the village with my younger brothers, and we were off. Fortunately, it quickly became apparent my fellow passengers were quite a reserved bunch, so my fears of a nightmare booze-filled journey proved unfounded. I admit I had a couple of shaky moments soaking up the pre-match atmosphere in the pubs around Cardiff. However, by kick-off time, I was safely in the ground and still sober. I was actually slowly starting to enjoy the day.
Whilst I recall being extremely relieved to get in the stadium and finally concentrate on the football, I remember very little about the actual game. What I do vividly remember is that the Lincoln City support was incredible. We never stopped singing for ninety minutes. I was immensely proud when the vast majority stayed behind for a long time after the final whistle to show their appreciation to the team. I also remember the solitary Mazza, sitting down in silent thought on the pitch for what seemed like a lifetime at the end of the game. I felt his pain and joined him in some contemplation of my own. Being in the middle of all that emotion, I realised how much I’d missed Lincoln City. The supporters’ defiance and resilience in the face of a defeat had a massive effect on me. It made me appreciate I had lost a sense of who I was and where I belonged. It was inspirational. I also realised that just because I’d stopped drinking, my life wasn’t over; I could still do and enjoy the things I loved without a drink. This was such a massive revelation at that time.
And so it proved because, on March 21st 2021, I’m pleased to say I celebrated eighteen years sober. I not only made it beyond forty but I’m now past fifty. I have changed from the sort of bloke who would nip out for some fags only to return several days later to someone whose main excitement during the day is walking the dog, and I love it. Sobriety has not all been a bed of roses; like City, I have had my ups and downs since 2003, but like City, I’m now in the best place I have ever been. It would be too dramatic to say that the Final was the sole reason I managed to stay sober. However, when I look back on going to the Millennium Stadium, I know it had a massive influence on my future.
Being a Lincoln City fan gave me something positive to hang onto at a low point, and it gave me a sense of purpose going forward. My memories of going to Cardiff, a frightened, anxious and damaged man and coming through to the other side will always be something I look back on with pride and happiness.
But life stands still for no one, and the historic emotional charged events of the last week have made more new memories for all Lincoln City supporters. Like many, I reflected on my years of support and concluded that Lincoln City meant more to me than I thought. It inspired me to share my story with you of 2003, not to make myself look good or get a pat on the back but just to offer my own sense of what the club means to me. The last few days have illustrated everyone has their own story, each one equally as valid and emotional as the next fan. This is just part of mine.
We go to Wembley with hope and confidence. Obviously, Covid has made it a day that is not the same as we all hoped. Through no fault of the club, the ticket situation is a massive ball ache, which will result in too many loyal fans missing out. Wherever you are next Sunday, my genuine hope is you feel the same joy I felt during that long, challenging but ultimately extremely rewarding day in 2003.
Up The Imps
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