AFTER half a century of watching live sport, the list of personal pinch-me moments would dwarf Peter Crouch.
Being at Old Trafford for THAT iconic George Best goal when Ron Harris tried to cut him in half; a stunning 3-0 Cup-Winners’ Cup second leg win over Diego Maradona’s Barcelona.
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The party against Blackburn to end the 26-year title drought, Norman Whiteside’s curled FA Cup winner in 1985…plenty to warm the cockles from Manchester United alone.
A World Cup with Brazil in Qatar, Liverpool’s night to remember in Istanbul – an unhappy memory that one – Great Britain stuffing Australia in Melbourne on the 1992 RL Ashes tour.
Loads of horse racing headline makers, too… Rachael Blackmore’s Grand National glory, Dawn Run’s Gold Cup, Frankie Dettori’s win on his final ride in England.
Yet the most dramatic, rub-your-eyes incident of all wasn’t a global headline maker seen by millions. Little over 10,000 in fact, at Naughton Park, Widnes, without a TV camera in sight.
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It was also a game my team – Warrington – actually lost, and one which needed a quick Google hunt to confirm the exact margin.
There are probably few fans of either side who would instantly recall the scoreline of that Premiership semi-final – on Sunday, May 8, 1988 – either. For the record, it was 20-10 to Widnes.
Nothing remarkable in that, as the champions beat the sixth-placed team. And, as ever between two six-mile-apart rivals who hated each other, always bloody brutal.
There had been flare-ups galore in this one, too. But midway through the second half it was absolute chaos…right in front of us as well. Literally – it couldn’t have been closer.
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I seem to recall Widnes centre Darren Wright’s high tackle started it, but this wasn’t about the spark. It was about the explosion.
Suddenly all 26 players seemed to be at it, throwing punches at anyone and everyone…and heading, at speed and out-of-control, towards us.
With a perimeter wall that was only knee height, the scrapping players tumbled into the crowd, and in a flash fans from either side were swinging blows too.
Now although we were daft, my mate and I weren’t stupid, and got out of the way sharpish. And after a couple of minutes of chaos, the players were on the pitch again, dusting themselves down.
Back to business, we thought. How wrong could you be? Because before referee John McDonald blew for a restart – amazingly with no red cards – the balloon REALLY went up.
Suddenly a Widnes fan had leapt the wall and was heading for Des Drummond, jabbing a finger and shouting abuse. You sensed players on both sides thinking, “don’t do it mate”.
Maybe that supporter thought the Wire winger, at 5ft 7ins and little over 11st, was a soft target. It was the biggest mistake of his life.
For Dessie was also a black belt, the hardest man in rugby league, whose lead-with-his-head running style KO’d many opponents who tried to tackle him over the years.
He went down quicker than a quicker than a Fred Dibnah chimney, and the man who put him there was looking on, unruffled.
He was also landlord of the infamous Pepperhill pub in Manchester’s Moss Side, at the height of the drug wars.
The notorious Pepperhill gang, whose battles with their Cheetham Hill enemies were bloody and vicious, drank there.
Yet under Dessie’s watch, trouble rarely went off in the pub itself. That’s the respect he commanded. That’s the heap of trouble the Widnes fan walked into.
One blink-and-you-miss-it right hook and he was out cold. And with fans now back in their original slots on the terraces, we were no more than six feet away when Dessie flopped him.
He went down quicker than a Fred Dibnah chimney – Google him, kids – and the man who put him there was looking on, unruffled.
Certainly a lot calmer than when the police stormed into the Wire dressing room after the game and arrested him. His only punishment, though, was being hauled off Great Britain’s tour Down Under.
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That night, Dessie made headlines on the national news. For a man who was arguably the most publicity shy player I ever knew, the irony was immense.
And with little sympathy from the media, despite being provoked by a racial attack, his distrust and disgust for them grew even more.
Although as long-term pals with quite a few of the Warrington team back then, he accepted me as one of the gang.
If Dessie was part of a night out, you knew no-one would be mad enough to try it on, either. Doubtless that Widnes fan wishes he’d thought the same.
He may have got his 15 minutes of fame, but I wouldn’t think he remembers much about it.
As for me? It was unforgettable…I just wish Warrington had won as well!
