For Barrovians old enough to recall it, the fateful day when Barrow were voted out of the Football League must rank alongside the assassinations of John F Kennedy and John Lennon, the first Moon landing and the death of Princess Diana as one of those days you always remember where you were when you heard the news. Here are a few recollections of...
The FATEFUL DAY Where were you in 1972?
The day was 2 June 1972 and at that time I was an insurance agent collecting my round on Hindpool, a stone's throw from the ground. I was in Howe Street, and it was about 4.40pm, when one of the guys I called on told me the news, which he had heard on national radio news at 4.30. He and I were stunned, we were both regular supporters, and it was the only topic of conversation on my subsequent calls. When Barrow reached the FA Trophy Final in 1990, I produced a half-hour documentary about the history of Barrow, and of course 'Black Friday' came into it. I interviewed the then president, Sam Morgan. He told me that he had gone to the meeting with life member, Dennis Rose. He said that he (Sam) had been next to Jack Charlton, who just sat with his mouth open, not believing that Barrow had been voted out. He said it was then a matter of going cap in hand to whichever League would take Barrow, and it was the Northern Premier League. As the player registrations belonged to the Football League, Barrow were not allowed to pay players, so those early non-League days were a real struggle. In the same programme I spoke to Neil McDonald, who said he literally cried into his beer in the Sandgate. Sad days indeed, so yes I do remember where I was on that fateful day. Ron Duxbury
It's almost too painful to recall. I was at University in Liverpool at the time, coming to the end of my second year. The end of year exams, which had been particularly difficult that year, had just finished, so I was on a natural high. I was in the Television Room in the Halls of Residence waiting for Top of the Pops, the highlight (!?) of the week, when the Six O'Clock News came on. Not expecting to see anything of interest, after all this was 1972, I was idly chatting to my mates when the word 'Barrow' penetrated my subconscious. It had come from the television set. "...Hereford United voted in, in their place" the newsreader intoned very, very seriously. Pardon? "They're out, mate," someone called from the other side of the room. My support for Barrow was well known. I was the only one who didn't go to Liverpool home games if Barrow were playing in South Lancashire, a fact that my friends took to be a sign of impending idiocy and early senility, given that Liverpool were at their peak and dominating the English game, with Keegan, Toshack, Tommy Smith, Ian Callaghan and Emlyn Hughes. "Your team's been thrown out of the League. They haven't been re-elected," someone else shouted at me with what seemed like an unreasonable amount of glee. I was on my feet now, though I didn't remember getting to my feet, or why I'd stood up. "What do you mean?" I yelled across the room, unable to comprehend the disaster that had just befallen my beloved team. The television was showing pictures of Holker Street, which was then surrounded by a speedway track that had caused a lot of drainage problems and had meant the turf in the corners had to be relaid for every game. On one occasion a visiting winger taking a corner, had missed the ball and a piece of turf had gone flying over the players' heads. If it had been the ball a goal would have been a certainty. But nothing was certain now. Barrow had been cast out into the non-League wilderness, an uncharted territory into which previous victims such as Accrington and Gateshead had disappeared without a trace. "They weren't even bottom," I yelled back to my accuser, "THEY WEREN'T EVEN ƒ*¢#¡>¿ BOTTOM. IT JUST ISN'T FAIR!" I was addressing the whole room now, a madman, red in the face, raving without reason. But I had every reason in the world. I felt my eyes watering. Stupid prat, pull yourself together I told myself. And I turned on my heel and walked out. My world had just fallen apart. What would happen now? I thought I'd never see Barrow AFC play again. And I hated that word 'Hereford' with a passion. I got drunk that night. Very drunk. Well, I did most nights, usually in the pursuit of the fairer sex. But that night I wasn't interested in women. Yes, that night back in '72 really hit me hard. Graham Murphy
I have to say that really it was no shock for me when the news finally came out about Barrow's application for re-election to the Football League being rejected. The papers had been full of it for a long time, saying that if Barrow finished in the bottom four, then they probably would be rejected. So it was no bombshell announcement when it did happen, just a confirmation of what was expected. I went to the last game at Exeter, which we lost 7-1, and driving back to Southampton I was certainly sadly aware that that was the last League game that I would ever see Barrow play. So I'd done my grieving before the final announcement was made. Malcolm King
I was in the sixth form at Wyndham School, Egremont. I went to almost every home game in that last season, which wasn't easy as I lived in Seascale and didn't have a car. This meant hitch-hiking most of the time and on one occasion I didn't get back home until 3am after trying to hitch back after a night match and having to walk 25 of the 50 miles. Despite this, I still went to the last home game (another night match) against Brentford which we lost 3-0 to the eventual champions. The editorial in the programme that day was headlined 'The End', but at that stage no-one knew how prophetic it would be. It was a far cry from the magical day in 1967 when Tony Field's fifteenth minute goal in the last game of the season saw us promoted to Division Three. Although the BBC had been showing that bloody Hereford goal every week since it had been scored, I never thought that Barrow would be thrown out of the League. We had really turned things around on the playing front and Jack Crompton had even won Manager of the Month in February when Barrow went through the month unbeaten. I couldn't believe it when a friend, Paul Wilson, rang me on the fateful day and said "Have you heard the news?" "No," I replied, "What news?" "Barrow have been voted out of the League..." his voice cracking. I was stunned. I couldn't believe it. I put the phone down and turned on the radio, praying it wouldn't be true. But no, there it was, the full, sad, sorry story. Barrow and Hereford drawing on votes and then unusually it went to a second vote with Hereford winning. What traitors had done this deed? Paul and I went out and got drunk. Living in West Cumbria, the only thing we could take any solace from was the fact that we had done the double over Workington before we went out. Paul and I both moved away from Cumbria and now, coincidently, have become Carlisle supporters. I'm not sure how or why. After helping the Carlisle United Supporters' Club London branch get off the ground, I met David Leitch and became a founder member of the Barrow National Supporters' Club and have retained my membership for the last twenty-four(?) years or so. I still try to see Barrow play at least once a season, but nothing (until the ridiculous goings on this season perhaps!) compares to the highs and lows of those last five seasons in the Football League. Malcolm Fawcett
On the fateful day in 1972, I was in my small bedsit in Preston, where I was working at the time. I had actually forgotten that there was a vote that day (this perhaps says something for our confidence or complacency). The radio was on and I was only half listening to the sports news: "Cup giant killers Hereford United have been admitted to the Football League..." It didn't register, at least for a second or two, until I caught the word 'Barrow' and realised we had been voted out. Gutted is an overused word these days, but that's how it felt, almost literally: a sick feeling in the pit of the stomach. Disbelief and despair turned to anger. Us? We were fourth from bottom, and Hereford had done nothing in their League, just had a bit of luck in the Cup. It just seemed like the end of the world. You wanted to do something about it, but realised there was no hope. It nearly happened again in 1999. At least this time we proved you could do something, that there is hope. Jim Whitton
I'd been for a job interview 120 miles from Barrow, was driving back, and heard the news on the radio about 4.30. I was so mortified, I had to pull in at the next service station for an hour and let it sink in. I never thought it would be us; we weren't bottom after all. I'd been to all the last few home games; we were playing well. With three or four games to go we were out of the re-election area everything looked okay. We then lost the last few games because we didn't have a goalkeeper. It was only because all the keepers on the books were injured and we weren't allowed sign anyone else as the transfer deadline had passed. We therefore had to play outfield players in goal. One win (two points in those days) would have seen us out the bottom four. We know the rest. Stockport and Crewe were below us and look where they are now! By the way - I got the job! John Dale
The name of Bobby Knox will be familiar to many. A part-time player for Barrow from the mid-sixties to the mid-seventies, he also worked in the town. In June 1972 Bob was Assistant Hospitals Secretary and had taken time off work to accompany his wife Anita, a teacher, and a group of children from Victoria Junior School, then on Oxford Street, as an additional supervisor on a visit to France. The group were staying at what was then known as the Hotel Moderne in Le Touquet and after a successful day spent doing project work in the market and exhausting the staff on the beach, the pupils were adding to their project books in bright sunshine at the tables outside, while the staff enjoyed glasses of Orangina (then an unknown drink in England) at their table. Suddenly a white-faced Bobby Knox appeared from the hotel, having phoned home, to announce the dreadful news. To paraphrase the old Abe Lincoln joke: "And apart from that, how did you enjoy your trip to France, Mr Knox?" It was particularly disappointing for Bob, who had just been offered improved terms for the coming season - the first time this had happened in several years. Peter Naylor
Where was I on the day Barrow were kicked out of the League? I was with my brother; we went into Watts shop in Suffolk Street to get a paper, and Peter Watts told us what had happened. We were devastated, it was one of those things that I never thought would happen, Barrow had always managed to get re-elected, everybody always said Vickers would never let the football club go under. Bobby Knox had started the season as the club's centre forward, then played at centre half and I think he played the last four fixtures in goal. I remember reading an article in a national newspaper which was very critical of the decision not to re-elect Barrow and described the acceptance of Hereford as simply replacing one soccer outpost with another. I can also remember Barrow being welcomed warmly and with open arms by the the then Northern Premier League, a far cry from earlier this season, though by all accounts that is changing. I have some fond memories of Barrow playing in the Football League, I remember Oxford United playing at Holker Street, I think it was their opening fixture of the season and they won 3-2. Barrow couldn't handle their centre forward Houghton who scored at least one goal. Big Ron Atkinson played at the back for Oxford. He may be flash now but he wasn't on the football field; he had a running battle with Colin Appleton, the Barrow player manager, and chased Appleton all over the field trying to kick him. Appleton was too cute for him and big Ron was obviously frustrated. Then in the middle of the field and with the most agricultural of techniques, he kneed Appleton up the backside. I don't think the ball was even in play. I had never seen anything like that. Stephen Murray
I was a first year student at Bradford University at the time, having spent many of the previous Saturdays that year hitch-hiking along the A65 and back, in order to get to Barrow home games. On the fateful day I tuned in to the radio sports report that afternoon, expecting the result of the vote to be announced. I sat with my blue and white scarf around my neck, feeling slightly anxious, but mainly optimistic - after all, hadn't we only failed to avoid the bottom four by two points - surely we would be reprieved. The moment arrived - "...and Hereford United have been voted into the Football League - and out go..." My life seemed to flash before my eyes - surely it must be Crewe, who had finished bottom, well below us? Oh please God... "...Barrow." I didn't need to hear any more. Mechanically I reached out and turned off the radio. The emotions were a mixture of disbelief, desperation, grief and the well documented feeling in the pit of the stomach described by other contributors to this forum. Something had been destroyed which could never be replaced - there was no way back from this (though this is no longer the case with automatic promotion from the Conference - we can but dream!). My initial reaction was just to go out and get smashed. But I was so choked I couldn't even swallow my beer (probably a good thing, as things would have seemed even worse the next morning with a hangover). The following day everyone knew about it in the hall of residence where I was living. The armchair football supporters made knowing comments like "It's a sad day for supporters of Barrow Football Club, heh, heh, heh". But those like myself, who actually supported their clubs by going to watch their matches, maintained a respectful silence. Reg Lucas
In June 1972, I was a police constable, and on that fateful afternoon, was patrolling a village near Barrow. I remember I was standing outside a garage, it was warm and sunny (so much for Ralph's Chaos Theory) and the garage double doors were standing open with a radio playing at the back of the workshop. I knew it was the day of the Football League meeting and Barrow's application for re-election was on the agenda, so, as the five o'clock news came on, I strained to hear any mention of the outcome. Then, over the sounds of the machinery I caught the names of Hereford and Barrow (I'm still getting goosepimples just typing this). No, it's not possible. Perhaps it was just a close call. My nerve gave out, and I dashed into the garage, jumped the inspection pit, ran across the workshop to where the transistor radio was just confirming my worst fears. Hereford United in, Barrow out on a re-vote after a tied first ballot. I stood with my nose pressed up against the radio, willing it all to be a mistake, but, no, it went on to the next item, and I just stood there, stunned. I slowly turned, to make my way back out onto the street, and saw the two mechanics watching me, open mouthed. What were they thinking? A police raid for iffy MoT certificates? A bobby taken short and didn't quite make the loo? I'll never know, I just mumbled some apology, and tottered outside on legs so weak they felt like they belonged to someone else. I resisted the temptation to vent my anger and frustration on some poor motorist committing a minor misdemeanour, after all it was Newcastle United's fault for not burying Hereford in that blasted FA Cup tie. I'll never forgive Newcastle for that. David Turnough
I remember it well. June 2, 1972. I was in Newcastle on business and I remember it coming on the radio when I got in the car. It was like a death in the family. It was just a total shock because no one expected it to be us. I think it was a political thing, really, because we'd actually finished third from bottom and Hereford United, who came up in our place, hadn't finished top of their league. It was just because they had beaten Newcastle United in the FA Cup and caught the imagination of the football world. If you look at the traditional northern outposts of football, Barrow, Southport and Workington, they've all gone, and I wonder if it's more than a coincidence. They're all a bit of a bind to get to. There are still a lot of people who go to the football from that time and they all say that we have to get back into the League, just to show them. Phil Cowing (edited from the 'Times' 17 November 2000)
My father was born and bred in Barrow and I still have a large family presence in the town. I spent most of my childhood holidays boating on Barrow park lake, with trips to the Lake District and Blackpool thrown in. I still remember Barrow losing their League status, I was on a bus going home from work and I nearly grabbed the local paper out of the hands of the person in front, as it was the lead story on the back page. I was gutted and angry, but I think a few people who voted for Hereford did not relish a trip to the NorthWest. My first interest in Barrow sport came as a young lad when my father took me to Wembley to see Barrow play rugby league against Featherstone Rovers which unfortunately we lost. However I was hooked, and though my first love is Brighton & Hove Albion, I still look out for Barrow's results and managed to take in a few games when Barrow were in the Conference and played in this end of the country. I had a nice experience a couple of years back. I managed to squeeze six football fans into my car and travelled to Dover to watch Barrow play in the FA Trophy. Parking was a bit of a problem and the only space available saw us partly cover somebody's drive. I knocked on the door and a really nice couple came out and told us not to worry as the were not using the drive in the afternoon and wished us well after travelling so far. After the match we returned to the car and decided to eat our sandwiches whilst the crowds dispersed. The next door neighbours came out and asked us all in for a cup of tea to see us on our way as we had so far to go. I didn't have the heart to tell them we only lived about an hour away, but I was surprised by the kindness of these two couples. Good luck to the team, and I'm still waiting for the day Barrow are back in the League. Terry Livesey
By 1972 the family had moved south and I was in the sixth form (yes, I am that old I'm afraid). I had watched Barrow's sad decline over the past few seasons with dismay but had gone to see them when they had played in London or at Gillingham during this period. However, I was still confident they would stay up, after all they did not come bottom! Earlier in the day I was made aware that the FA were meeting on the re-election issue and I must admit that there was talk of Hereford being given League status on the back of their Cup run but it still did not occur to me that Barrow would be made a scapegoat. However, I had other things on my mind! Being eighteen and having this new girlfriend sort of deflects a young man from the more important issues of life, namely football (particularly in the close season) and the plight of Barrow AFC. That night she invited me around to her parents' house (as they had gone out) and we were having a very romantic evening. We were actually in the front room, on the sofa with the TV on but, surprisingly not paying too much attention to it, when the decision was announced on the Nine O'Clock News. In disbelief I fell off the sofa and uttered quite a number of loud expletives. Naturally my girlfriend was more than a little bemused and somewhat annoyed that some small Northern football team should ruin our night of passion. A little later I left the house and made the long walk back home, rather disconsolate to say the least. I think my girlfriend felt the same way for different reasons. Our relationship spluttered on, rather like Barrow's non-League fortunes, for a few more months before I went to college and the girl just became a pleasant memory of my youth. However, I wonder if I've left an indelible impression on her memory so that when she thinks of football Barrow may spring to her mind. A missed opportunity is what springs to my mind! Funny how Barrow AFC has such a strange and frustrating effect over us. Andy Greenhow
Oh, for a memory like Andy Greenhow's. For 1972, however I can remember where I was sitting and even what I was eating when the fateful news came through. It was tea time and I was ploughing my way through what I intended to be the first of many jam butties. Then entered a bloke from Millom, who for some strange reason had an affinity for Preston North End. He took great delight in bringing tidings of anything but comfort and joy. That was it as far as tea was concerned, I never even finished my buttie. Dave Cahill
Originally appeared in various Holker Street Newsletters (passim through October 1999)