​I didn’t grow up in Sunderland; I’m a Northumbrian through and through, born and raised in Morpeth. In the 1960s football didn’t have the same level of hype, but I was utterly obsessed with the game, even though I never truly pledged myself to any one club. Everton appealed to me a bit because I admired Alan Ball from the World Cup-winning team, but in those days nobody wore replica shirts or shouted for a single team. There were supporters of the visitors, though not many, and a few lads backed Manchester United. I tended to root for the underdog, and that tendency probably holds true for most sports I take an interest in.
My dad never cared for the city, so we rarely ventured into Newcastle, and he never cared to take me to a match. Yet a friend of his held a season ticket at St James’ Park and would occasionally take me along. One of my earliest games was a derby that finished 1–1, and I distinctly remember keeping quiet about hoping Sunderland would win.
When I reached secondary school, a few friends would chat about going to the match, and eventually my parents allowed me to go on my own. And that’s how it began. United buses—does anyone remember them?—ran match specials: 30p return to Newcastle and 35p to Sunderland. So a group of us decided to test both grounds and settled on a match at St James’ Park, where George Best was making yet another comeback. We found ourselves in the Leazes End, while the away fans were hemmed in by a ring of police in the Gallowgate. I remember feeling uneasy and noticeably scared, as the atmosphere was quite intimidating, especially when rival Newcastle gangs started fighting among themselves in the Leazes.
The following week we headed to Roker Park. It must have been my first visit to Sunderland. The bus used to park down by the harbour in Roker, which I remember as a bit of a wasteland used for general parking. In those days we would get to Roker before 2pm and simply walk up to the ground. For that first match I don’t recall who we played or what the score was (StatCat can tell you it was Forest and it finished 0–0), but what I vividly recall is the feeling it gave me. Roker Park looked absolutely stunning to me. The Main Stand with the car park in front, the rows of terraced houses you passed on the way to the Fulwell End. It felt so exciting pushing through the turnstiles and climbing the steps to the back of the Fulwell.
And then the view! The entrance to the back of the Fulwell framed the pitch perfectly. It looked so green, and the Main Stand, with its red latticework, was striking. Then there was the atmosphere—something I had never experienced at a football ground. There was humour, people were self-deprecating, and it felt genuinely friendly. And, of course, the noise was incredible. So that was it. I felt at home. This was my club (two other lads that day felt the same sense of Damascene moment), and I have continued going ever since for better or worse.