I was just 15 when I had that first lump in throat moment when on the old grainy black and white TV the news came through that Burnley had won 2-1 at Maine Road and were the English champions. Some games elevate our emotions and others dont. The 1962 Cup Final didnt do anything: I was there and Burnley lost and you might think thered be tears of dejection, but there was just a dull flatness. The players said it afterwards as well; they just werent up for it. But at Maine Road they were; Jimmy McIlroy, Jimmy Adamson et al. This was a small town that had seen off the city slickers. It was the very last game of the season on a Monday night: win and they were champions and Brian Pilkington and Trevor Meredith, the latter brought up on a farm, scored the goals. Burnley fans walked to Manchester to see the game. Somehow extra thousands squeezed in and screamed for the final whistle. And even though it was near midnight when they drove back down the hill into Burnley the crowds lined the roads. Sometime around 10 o clock I leapt and jumped round our house like a screaming dervish. Champions of England champions of bloody England
