Posted July 15, 200915 yr Chelsea History (1967-1970) Written by Dorset in June 2007 The 1967-68 season was Tommy Docherty’s last and he went in typically controversial circumstances after an FA ban for racially abusing somebody. The team, his team and forever my ’team’, became the work in progress of Dave Sexton, who was astute enough to keep it together in the main and graft on defenders like David Webb and John Dempsey to provide a stronger platform for the flair players. He gave Alan Hudson his debut, recognising the need to build on the subtlety Docherty had added with Charlie Cooke and Tommy Baldwin. All this was much to my Dad’s liking and, albeit somewhat grudgingly at first, I had to admit Sexton proved to be knowledgeable in areas in which the Doc was no more than intuitive. Ian Hutchinson appeared to complete the picture, offering muscle to assist Ossie and a long throw that regularly reached the far post. We finished in the top six in each of the three seasons before the 1970 Cup Final, testament to our steady improvement, and even though Leeds were strong favourites there was a feeling that this Chelsea team would be better able to cope with the pressures compared to three years earlier, not least because of the fact that Leeds had also been in contention for the League Championship and the European Cup and gone down at the death in both. Losing to us would mean losing the lot, so, if we were feeling the pressure, you can imagine how they felt! Meanwhile, once again strange things were happening on the Cup Final ticket front and one mysteriously appeared in our possession, this time for a seat (funny that), thereby fulfilling previously agreed ground rules for the attendee. Back in the late Fifties there was what had become known as the ‘Wembley Hoodoo’ - a series of serious injuries to players in the FA Cup Final - which had thankfully eased off by 1970, but which had now decided to attach itself to my family. To cut a long and painful story short, my father slipped a disc what seemed like only hours before the kick-off and his ticket had nowhere else to go but into my back pocket. Later on I was to console him with the assurance that it was not a game he would have enjoyed. In short, it was to be one of the most one sided and savage you could ever wish to see and, looking back on it, our survival to take part in a replay was nothing short of a miracle. Just why we suffered so against Leeds that afternoon is anybodies guess, but my contention is that it had everything to do with the pitch and nothing much at all to do with football. Wembley turf was supposedly hallowed turf, yet the FA, in their infinite wisdom, allowed the Horse of the Year Show to take place days before the showpiece Cup Final and ruined the game for every player except Eddie Gray who revelled in the beach like conditions and tormented David Webb for ninety minutes. Ask Monty Python if the pitch was dead and the answer would have come back that it had ceased to be after tons of horseflesh had ploughed through it. The first goal summed it up with defenders boots swinging at thin air as the ball refused to bounce normally and trickled over the goal line instead. Unsung hero Peter Houseman got us back in the game late in the half with a speculative shot that Gary Sprake should have saved and, unbelievably, we went in at the interval all square after having taken a right pounding. I remember wondering why Gray should look so good and Cooke so ineffective, although without the despondency and with hindsight it was obvious - the conditions allowed the Leeds player to do what he did best, beating his man from a standing start, whereas Charlie simply couldn’t rely on the surface for his dribbling skills and spent all his time dragging the ball through the sand. The second half became a war of attrition and players like Chopper and Eddie Mac unleashed some diabolical tackles for the cause. I could do no more than blame the pitch from my vantage position in the Stand, level with wave after wave of attacks that ended with Mick Jones eventually scoring after Clarke had hit an upright and Dempsey failed to clear. If ever a goal looked like coming that was it and there were only a few minutes left to hope and pray. Another 2-1 Cup Final defeat? Not this time, as those prayers were answered and Ian Hutchinson beat Charlton to a Hollins cross to head home. Extra time was the football equivalent of two punch drunk fighters waiting for the bell and when time was called we were happy to live to fight another day. In complete contrast, Leeds looked totally dejected and in those moments when their players drifted disconsolately down the tunnel you knew that thoughts of an empty trophy cabinet loomed large well before the Manchester replay. And so to that historic midweek evening in front of the telly, as there wasn’t the slightest possibility that my father, still laid up, could conjure up a third ticket for Old Trafford and, in any event, seeing a Cup Final together was well overdue. Flat on your back with head raised slightly above the horizontal is no way to watch a game of football, but this match was to live in our memories for many reasons, not least for the pain endured for the pleasure of victory. Make no mistake about it, the pain on the park continued as well in another bruising battle, except that this was a terrific match with heroic Chelsea performances everywhere you looked. Once again the first goal was conceded, but, even though we didn’t equalise until well into the second half, this time the whole game felt different. We competed everywhere and repeatedly gave as good as we got from the likes of Billy Bremner and Norman ‘bite yer legs’ Hunter, who were noted for their vicious tackles and who, along with the perpetually gloomy Jack Charlton and permanently tetchy twins Johnny Giles and Allan Clarke, did much to foster the ‘Dirty’ Leeds image of the day. You could almost describe large chunks of the play as end to end hacking under the gaze of one of the most lenient referees you could ever wish to appoint, which only added to the excitement, especially when it contrasted so to the beauty of our equaliser. With around ten minutes of normal time to go the Bonnie Prince delivered a deliciously chipped through ball to the King of Stamford Bridge and he, in imperious turn, guided a diving header into the net. Time that had been rushing past suddenly stood still and my father and I seemingly had plenty of it to sing the first of many praises for that Charlie Cooke pass. The umpteenth description of its quality was briefly interrupted by the full time whistle and the realisation that there was a game to be won in extra time manifested itself in, of all things, nervous laughter. Why we found it funny I’ll never know, but we did, it seemed to help, and it turned to a mixture of frenzy and agony as Ian Hutchinson unfurled one of his long throws deep into the penalty area, Charlton could only help it on, and David Webb piled in at the far post to bundle the ball into the net. My running around the room shouting hysterically “Webby’s done it†failed to take my father’s mind off the shooting pain that follows when someone with a slipped disc punches the air instinctively, but unadvisedly. Fifteen minutes of prayers and repositioning later the Cup was won and off I dashed to get a bottle of champagne bought that morning and hidden, more in hope than expectation. Tears and gibberish flowed, the most comprehensible comments going along the lines of - “David Webb, after that performance at Wembley! Gotta hand it to him! And Hutch, that throw!†- My father, ever the pragmatist, cut through the claptrap with a phrase remembered as if it was yesterday, “Just open the bottle, son, then get me a glass and a straw.†The FA Cup games against Leeds were to be pivotal for Chelsea, not least for the whole new generation of supporters drawn to the club by virtue of that team’s heroic performances. Leeds weren’t liked by the so called ’neutral’ fans and their showboat passing when in front against the lesser teams bordered on the patronising. The fact that they had lost the Championship to the flamboyance of Mercer and Allison’s Man City and followed that by being outfought by the King’s Road Set must have really hurt, even more so when increased television coverage throughout the Sixties put performances like ours in every home in the country and worldwide. However, on a personal level, the downside of our success at this time was that you could easily pinpoint it as being the moment when I began going to fewer games and my father hardly went at all. Moving out of London and pressures of work didn’t help him and my visits became intermittent cameos, accompanied by a girlfriend who later became the wife. These games are but fleeting memories, some good, some bad, like the trip to Highbury to see us well beaten by their double winning side. Another was a marvelous match years later against Brighton at their old Goldstone Ground in the 2nd Division when I took my eldest daughter on the off chance that Kerry Dixon would show us just how good he was. He did, and the Chels rattled in four from memory - all done in the best possible taste, despite those hooped shirts! Others will come along with a far better recollections of these decades than I could ever provide and the Nineties will be an even broader canvass of kaleidoscopic play. My father didn’t live long enough to see Ruud, Luca or Franco in Chelsea’s colours, but he would have loved their football and who is to say that he’s not been looking down on it all this time. Why, only a few years ago I swear I saw my grandfather giving it large to the home crowd from the back of a Highbury Stand, just as Bridgey fell into the waiting arms of the Chelsea fans at the front of it. JT picking up the Premiership trophy was another family gathering too and the second time he did it I celebrated with my grandson, who is registered as one of the youngest shareholders amongst the Chelsea Pitch Owners and also likes a tackle. No CFC history? We’ve got generations of the stuff! A Note From Loz My thanks to Dorset for the time and effort he put in writing this history of the club through the eyes of three generations of his family. I'm sure it will bring back many memories for some of us, depending on how long we have been leaving muddy footprints on this soiled earth, and for others it will act as a highly enjoyable and interesting history lesson.
