May 2nd and another of those end-of-season games with a huge significance: again it was a matter of lose and Burnley were relegated, but even more importantly, it was also a case of win and it was Plymouth that would be relegated. Games dont come any bigger. It was a Saturday when I was up in the north-east trying to tune in on an old transistor radio whilst wandering round one of the old Roman forts on Hadrians Wall. Chris Waddle was manager and at Christmas that season Burnley were marooned at the foot of the table several points adrift, but he signed Andy Payton, put Glen Little back in the side and Burnley dragged themselves away from the bottom so that salvation was theirs if only they could win the very last game. They did. Other folk wandering round that Roman fort must have looked over at me in astonishment as they saw this madman jumping and shouting weve done it, weve done it. Back at Turf Moor the second half had been one of hanging on to the 2-1 lead: just like in the Orient game, nail-biting does not describe things adequately. With a fragile lead like that, a final whistle brings pure ecstasy.
