Sid Lambert takes us back 20 years to the 2004/05 season, when Alan Pardew’s Hammers secured a rollercoaster return to the Premier League...
The thing about love is that just when you think it’s disappeared into the darkness, it only takes a spark to reignite. After a bleak start to 2005, when all hope seemed lost, and the grim reality of another season in the Championship took hold, two wins in February had us back on the promotion trail.
That’s the eternal romance of football. One kick changes everything. Or in West Ham United’s case, two penalty kicks, an own goal and an enormous slice of good fortune in a 5-0 win over Plymouth in Valentine’s week had changed everything.
Suddenly the fixture list held possibility rather than fear. I looked at our next three games – trips to Gillingham and Leeds followed by a home game with Preston – and saw a genuine opportunity to cement our Play-Off status. If we could keep our newfound defensive solidity, then our attack was a match for any in the division.
A midweek trip to Gillingham – where the wind howled and the rain poured – was a real test of our mettle. And earlier in the season, there’s no doubt we would have failed. But the Irons of February 2005 were a far different proposition than the genteel souls of January.
We marched into Medway and set our stall out from the off. Stan Ternent’s Gills were going to be rough, tough and uncompromising. We matched them in every department. It was by no means a game for the purists. The West Ham Way could wait. Nights like these were about spit-and-sawdust football: rolling up your sleeves, getting stuck in, and occasionally kicking the ball into the direction of the opposition goal.
After Matty Etherington stole possession in the 13th minute and squared for the onrushing Marlon Harewood, we protected our lead manfully. Tomáš Řepka had one of those nights when you felt like he would head away hand grenades to protect his clean sheet. It was magnificent stuff. And Alan Pardew was very happy with his night’s work.
The trip to Elland Road would normally have felt more intimidating, but Leeds were mired in the sort of scandal that would put soap operas to shame. With the Yorkshiremen in financial chaos, an attempted cut-price takeover bid by Ken Bates had been met with opposition by the existing Board. It provided one of those rare moments when West Ham seemed a normal, functioning football club. Of course it couldn’t last.
I’d forgotten the age-old rule of clubs in crisis: If you’re on the brink, and in desperate need of a helping hand, West Ham United will come to your rescue. The first half was an understandably muted affair. The normally vibrant home faithful looked like they were still shell-shocked by the tabloid rumours and innuendo. However, when Rob Hulse put them in front, they rediscovered their voice – only to be silence by an unlikely equaliser from Gavin Williams. From that moment, we were in the ascendancy. Anxiety gripped the Elland Road stands. It felt like at any moment we would deliver another hammer blow to their feeble confidence.
Instead, we took that hammer and proceeded to obliterate our afternoon’s endeavours. Debutant Shaun Derry was generously left unmarked to head home a winner that sent the Leeds fans home happy, and us back down the motorway empty-handed.
That disappointment raised the stakes for our home game with Preston. The visitors were two points ahead of us, but we had a game in hand. Plus, we had revenge on our minds after a dreadful 2-1 defeat at Deepdale had ruined our Christmas.
Now if there was one person who was going to take his vengeance too far, it was unquestionably Tomáš Řepka. Since being sent-off on his infamous Claret & Blue debut in 2001, Tommy had seen plenty of red and yellow on Saturday afternoons. You’d think a man of his experience (40-plus caps for the Czech Republic and three seasons in Serie A with Fiorentina) would be able to exercise some degree of self-control in high-pressure situations. Unfortunately, age did not bring self-reflection and wisdom. Instead, it simply brought more sudden outbursts of violence.
We were already trailing 1-0 to Preston after a horrendous error by Stephen Bywater, when the defender clashed with Brian O’Neil. The latter had caught Tommy with what seemed an innocuous foul. Unfortunately, it’s written in The Book of Řepka that all transgressions, innocuous or otherwise, must be punished with brute force. One headbutt later – conveniently right in front of the referee – and O’Neil was left seeing stars.
The game descended into petulant farce. The visitors doubled their lead, and even though our ten men forced a late goal from Bobby Zamora, it wasn’t enough to stop us slipping to a second successive defeat.
The acrimony continued after the final whistle as the tunnel resembled a Royal Rumble. The police were forced to intervene whilst Řepka sat chain-smoking in the comfort of his own dressing room, contemplating another day when he was able to clock off early.
The loss saw us drop out of the Play-Off spots again. The optimism had gone, to be replaced by that familiar sense of dread.
Would this Hell ever end?
