Everton 3-2 Wimbledon. 7th May 1994
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“A ball that looked like it was flying into row Z curled and dipped beautifully into the top corner to send us wild. And this is not a normal wild. It’s bedlam. It is a sea of arms and legs and you end up nowhere near where you started, men hugging men they’ve never met, pouring out emotion they wouldn’t show to their own children.” - Ped McPartland, www.followtonians.com
Really? Did he really score that goal? The goal that pulled us level with Wimbledon, and put us on the path to improbably safety on the last day of the season?
Somehow, Barry Horne did just that.
Our mangy dog of war channelled Tony Yeboah and Marco van Basten as he lashed the ball in. He was a mongrel painting the Sistine Chapel. A lowly private given his 15 minutes of fame in the War Room.
The match itself was madness, as bizarre as Terry Gilliam having tea with Hieronymus Bosch. Additonally, with construction on the Park End ongoing, it was witnessed by a three sided Goodison.
It didn’t take long for Everton to be an own-goal and a penalty down to glass chewing, route one Wimbledon. This was the homeless west Londoners at their peak; they finished in 6th place – a mere 6 points off Arsenal in 4th, and they had teams like Everton for breakfast.
That afternoon, Dean Holdsworth, a cold blooded goalscorer going through a very very hot streak, repeatedly ran his hands through his greased hair in frustration. To come back from two goals down against Wimbledon, with Mike Walker – the sheep in spiv’s clothing – as our cut man in the corner was nothing short of miraculous.
Hope came through a penalty earned by a Limpar dive, and parity through a Barry Horne goal that had been gestating inside the Welshman for his whole career. With nine minute left, salvation arrived through the feet of everyman Graham Stuart. His goal was the antithesis of Horne’s – a side footed shot that Hans Segers could – and should – have saved in his sleep. Goodison wept in relief, fans filled the pitch. We had come back from 2-0 down and won. None of our relegation rivals managed to win. We survived, unbelievably.
It was the first time I had tasted Champagne, but we were celebrating an awful season. There is a dash of Dunkirk about all relegation escapes, they are glorious failures, and this was a wonderful end to a woeful season.
Unbelievably nightmarish and dystopian, it was just like watching Brazil. The film not the team.
