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Things were about to get much more surreal as Wednesday reared its ugly head with
apparently shocking news.
What had happened? Had the Daily Telegraph unveiled the Burnley board’s Wembley expenses?
Was North Korea pointing a very large missile in the direction of Turf Moor? Had Owen Coyle contracted Swine Flu?
No,
but apparently he was off to manage Celtic.
The speculation was mounting from North of the Border that our Master of
the Universe was being tapped up to be the Hoops new boss following the departure of Chesney from Corrie look alike Gordon
Strachan.
Apparently we were on the verge of becoming “Managerless Premier League Burnley”.
The
news was that the job at Parkhead was Coyle’s if he wanted it and according to the jock hacks he most certainly did.
The
Scottish press really did whip up a storm, for all their whimsical scribbling they may as well have said that Coyle snuck
out to meet Celtic’s Chief Executive round the back of the Wembley bike sheds while Steve Caldwell was lifting the play
off final trophy.
They had started a perfect bit of end of season sensationalism, a quiet newsroom’s wet dream.
The news of their claims filtered down on the wire to be picked up by the BBC and Sky.
That’s when people
really began to panic.
“Its on the BBC, he’s off.” said someone with a rare statement of unwavering
trust in our broadcasting corporation.
Then there was a newsflash on Sky Sport’s News;
“Sky Sports
understands Owen Coyle is interested in becoming the next Celtic manager” the info bar read.
Isn’t it funny
how that when that little bar turns yellow it can strike such fear in our hearts?
It brings such drama to the narrative.
In truth, understanding that a Scottish born manager from a Celtic background might be interested in managing the club he
supported as a boy isn’t that interesting. However if you slap a bright yellow background with the text it makes you
feel like the Coyle-mobile is already zooming its way up the motorway to join them.
The club and Coyle were quick
to quash rumours of his departure, with Chairman Barry Kilby stating a new contract was close to being inked.
The
news definitely made my heart skip a beat. Although I was confident Coyle would stay, I must admit it’s hard not to
listen when the national media tell you they’re modern day soothers claiming to know the future.
It was seeing
the manager deliver his speech at the staff dinner the evening before that made me unable to believe he’d become our
Brutus and stab us in the back. Coyle, as he always does, spoke with great enthusiasm and his statesman like demeanour gave
no impression he was towing the party line before jumping ship.
The best bit of the whole saga was Celtics former manager
Billy McNeill saying Coyle should choose Parkhead as Burnley is a “fucking hamlet” or “wee village”
depending on which newspaper you read. And he would know, he watches Celtic play against one virtually every week.
The
fact is the Coyle will be managing in the most competitive league in the world next season. He is a Premier League manager
and deserves to go up against the likes of Sir Alex Ferguson, Rafa Benitex and Arsene Wenger. At any other point in his career
Celtic would provide the perfect position for a man with the abilities of Owen Coyle, but right now, in my opinion anyway,
the job he has at Burnley is bigger than the one at Celtic.
On the other side of the coin, he may go away on holiday
and think that he might only get one chance to manage his boyhood heroes and want to cash in while his managerial stock is
at its highest.
But that’s not the Owen Coyle we’ve all come to adore and if there are to be no more twists
in the tale then it looks like he will guide us into the Premier League next season.
There is no doubt if he continues
to be successful even bigger clubs than Celtic will come knocking on our door for his services.
Maybe the “Coylegate”
incident will provide us all with a bit of media training ahead of next season. After all, this type of mass scale coverage
is something we’ll be receiving on a weekly basis when August rolls around.
The first lesson is simple;
Premier
League clubs get Premier League speculation.
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Tuesday was a day for confirming reality.
The morning was spent
reading as much media as possible, re-watching the action and comparing experiences with friends, all to make sure that what
I thought had happened had actually occurred.
Even then it was still hard to come to terms with, I was sure someone
was about to slap me round the chops and tell me it was all a dream.
Many questions were posed;
Who will we
play opening day? When will we get the games against the big four? When can we beat the bastards? Who will I pick in my fantasy
team? Can I complete Burnley in the Premier League sticker book? Am I still actually alive?
Then thoughts turned to
the coverage we'll now be receiving next season.
Gone will be the days of ten second clips of goals on Match of the
Day on FA Cup third round day. Now we can look forward to Gary Linkers badly attempted “Claret” puns, Mark Lawrenson’s
camp post match analysis and Alan Hanson dissecting any “diabolical” defending through those lovely, whisky glazed
Scottish eyes of his.
Then I thought about Sky; The Super Sunday’s, Monday Night Football, extended highlights
on Football First, the superlatives that may come from Jamie Redknapp’s handsome gob and Andy Gray demanding a Claret
and Blue goal scorer to “ take a bow”.
God I wish the season could start tomorrow. The again, even if it
did it’d still be too long to wait.
After allowing my imagination to occupy most of the day, the time came to
reward the players.
The home coming parade was something to behold. It saw crowds normally reserved for the Pope at
the Vatican surround the route from Turf Moor to the Town Hall.
For miles all you could see was Claret and Blue, the
town's population had come out to get a glimpse of their heroes. Some had pitched their spot hours before in order to get
the best view of the Town Hall balcony. After a long wait, there was an eruption of noise as the team came into view, it was
mayhem.
It was great to see the buzz football can create, the town really had come back to life. This club, this manager
and this group of players had all managed to unite age, gender and ethnicity to forge a new community spirit under a Claret
and Blue banner.
We had come a long way. The journey back to the promise land was a long, hard, thirty three year treck
up and down the Football Leagues.
In 1987 things had got so bad we were a game against Orient away from losing our
Football League status.
Not many who stood on the terraces that day could have ever imagined that twenty two years
and four promotions later we would be leaving the Football League’s jurisdiction out of the front door and entering
what was still then an unformed Premier League.
Somehow we'd managed it, we were back at English Football's top table
and ready to munch on a giant slice of Premier League pie and peas.
After a few days of reflection, our Wembley triumph is finally sinking
in. The shock is now beginning to subside and the realisation is now that we will be playing a full season amongst the top
flight of English football.
Since Monday, the temptation to attach the words “Premier League” to anything
Burnley related has been too hard to resist.
It started as I returned home in the early hours of Tuesday morning and
drove past Premier League football ground Turf Moor. Since then it’s become such an addiction that it doesn’t
even matter whether the object has any connection to the club, as I now, for example, have a Premier League toaster and do
my business in a Premier League toilet. And I don’t mean Ewood Park.
As well as the obvious excitement of playing
against Manchester United, Liverpool, Chelsea and Arsenal, we all know that the fixtures against Blackburn Rovers will be
the first we all look for when the fixtures are released in June. I can't wait.
Until that day in just under a month’s
time, each and every second will be spent reliving moments from our triumph at Wembley.
The day itself began early,
as the alarm buzzed at half past four on Monday morning there was no attempt to hit the snooze button. Up within seconds and
dressed in Claret and Blue within minutes, I was ready to make the trip of a lifetime.
As the Claret convoy of coaches
pulled away from Championship Turf Moor for the last time its incumbents fell silent as we all sat still and once again dared
to dream.
It seemed every car that flew by that morning had Claret and Blue flags and scarves hanging from their roofs
and windows, while a quick stop at the services on the M6 toll was more like visiting a Burnley Football Club refugee camp.
As
the Wembley arches came into view nerves began to jangle. I felt sick as the coach slowly drew into the car park, the giant
curves now towered over us as I suddenly began to realise how gut wrenching it’d be to head back north without promotion.
The approach to kick off was spent soaking up the atmosphere on the steps outside Wembley as we drank, sang and enjoyed
the sunshine.
Then the time came. The immense pride of seeing us line up on the Wembley turf was followed by ninety
minutes of pure joy and ecstasy. Once again the way we defended was perfect as we sailed through the entire playoffs without
conceding a single goal.
Wade Elliot’s goal was one good enough to grace any game. His instant shot into the
top-left corner from 25 yards was passed straight into the net at pace leaving Paddy Kenny with no chance.
Like Steven
Thompson and Martin Paterson’s goals in the previous game against Reading, the moment Wade's wonder strike hit the back
of the net will never be etched from the memory.
Neither will the scenes at the final whistle as the Clarets returned
to the top flight for the first time in thirty three years.
Tears rolled down my face as I hugged my family around
me. With the brief moment I then had to myself I tried to come to terms with what had just happened. I couldn’t. This
was too good to be true.
Through my now red eyes the trophy was lifted by Steven Caldwell to the chorus of thirty
six thousand Claret’s in full voice.
It was a moment never to be surpassed.
We had done it, Owen Coyle
had done the unthinkable and guided us to the promise land.
The chant as we bounced out of Wembley was “Burnley
are back”
Apologies, Premier League Burnley are back.
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