Anniversary shirt


#21

Ah yes, you’re right - who could forget the Boli strip at Old Trafford?

Me, obviously. :upside_down_face:


#22

…and the goal he scored


#23

Poor quality and the badge is only printed - rubbish!


#24

It was printed originally and not an embroided badge if I remember correctly? So wouldn’t expect it not to be printed this time…


#25

Pretty sure the badge was printed on the original.


#26

Lots of pretty sure and if I’m remembering it correctly :face_with_raised_eyebrow:

I’m sure it’s rubbish and I’m correct.


#27

https://www.google.co.uk/search?q=walsall+fc+1998&client=ms-android-tmobile-gb&prmd=insv&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiO6ouj6-3eAhXnJ8AKHeQEDB4Q_AUIEigB&biw=412&bih=766&dpr=2.63#imgrc=5zjOaelPoV9gQM

Original was printed. More nostalgia for some - retro shirts are big at the moment. Not everyone will want it. If not, don’t buy it. I’ll be getting one - crap quality or not.


#28

Cheers.


#29

Matter of opinion mate, it’s a lot better than the other merchandise we have available. We’ve got one of the worst range of merchandise I’ve ever seen at the moment…


#30

Best be quick mate, I was in the shop yesterday and they’ve nearly all gone.
Lady said they only ordered a small amount (she actually told me how many but I can’t remember the number - it’s my age)


#31

What memories this “anniversary shirt” brings back for me!

The fixture against Manchester City that season, on 23rd January 1999, was the first game to which I was accompanied by my wife. She had wondered for many years what it was, exactly, which drew me away from our cosy home on a Saturday afternoon for several hours every fortnight. Her curiosity was particularly pronounced on the occasions that I would return cold & disheartened following a disappointing result, for such an act appeared at those times to be self-destructive.

What she hadn’t considered, however, was the fact that the result would have happened regardless of my attendance, and thus my mood would be similarly affected by reading about the bad news in the Sporting Pink later that evening (or, if my newsagent refused to serve me, receiving the blow from Bob Warman).

Far from an act of self-destruction, my attendance at the afternoon match happily coincided with a weekly home visit from my sister-in-law and her husband. Indifference reigns when I consider my wife’s sister, but her husband is a galactic moron, and the solace of avoiding his comapny was keenly received. This applied even on those occasions where the result and, indeed, performance, may not have met the level of my desire.

On 23rd January 1999, however, my sister-in-law’s husband had taken his wife to the Grenadines to see his family, so with nothing else to persuade my wife to remain at home on this particular day, she decided that the circumstances would be fit to quell her curiosity. Before leaving our home, she had ascertained that, it being winter, the temperature would be likely to be uncomfortable without the warming effect of a scarf, gloves, and woolly hat. Following some discussion, I agreed, and in tandem the aforementioned accessories were adorned about our person. To her credit, it became apparent immediately after setting foot beyond our front door that the temperature would indeed be uncomfortable without the warming effect of a scarf, gloves, and woolly hat.

The decision to make this last minute change, however, was not without unfortunate consequence, for during our unplanned exchanges we had missed the bus we intended to use to get to the stadium. The next available bus would be the last one that we could use in order to reach the stadium for kick-off, which I usually prefer not to rely on, for use of the penultimate bus before this deadline offers peace of mind that I should be able to take my seat (or, in this case, our seats) promptly for the beginning of the event. The circumstances dictated that today, the luxury of choice would be unavailable.

Disembarking the bus outside the stadium, we joined the steady stream of people making their way to the match. I could see that we were not alone in our readiness of the environmental chill, for many others appeared to have had similar discussions at home and had arrived bedecked in scarves, gloves, and woolly hats. To this day, I remain convinced that the greater passenger numbers seen that afternoon were the product of this uncertainty.

My wife and I took our seats and I looked around. A moment’s consideration resulted in the conclusion that the match had not yet begun, so despite “cutting it fine” with the bus, we would be able to observe proceedings in their entirity. Indeed, it seemed that fate had gifted us some insurance that afternoon, for kick-off was delayed for around 5 minutes, related no doubt to the temperature-based congestion previously mentioned.

A tense, scrappy first half had left my wife frustrated. To her, as a newcomer to the sport, placing the football into the net being defended by the opposing team using anything except the hands & arms was extraordinarily simple in theory, but proving to be complicated in practice. During half-time I read the cover article of the programme to her, which sang the praises of Mick Halsall and his work in coaching young people with a view to them eventually playing for the first team. The reassurance that our future was in good hands, and a nice cup of Bovril, had managed to calm her down.

I believe that her now soothing presence had a pacifying effect on those around us, and subsequently that collective aura had transferred onto the pitch for the second half, releasing our players from the mental shackles which had inhibited their creativity in the restrictive first half. It took just over 20 minutes for this change to bear fruit, as Andy Watson fired home and gave us a 1-0 advantage.

During the hearty celebrations, my wife reverted again to agitation, but this time the source of her anxiety was that we now had a lead to protect. Manchester City, the opposing team, would now have nothing to lose and would double their efforts in trying to score. Her emotions ripplied through the rest of the block, again, sadly manifesting themselves into the legs of our players. My wife’s horror was complete when, just over 10 minutes after our goal, Jamie Pollock scored for Manchester City, sending her careering off the cliff edge of despair and into a chasm of black hopelessness.

What a day - well done Walsall FC.


#32

12 :rofl: