​My first visit to Roker Park came on Saturday, 3 March 1973, tucked between a thrilling FA Cup fifth-round replay win over Manchester City and the double-header with Luton Town, the latter clinching a place in the FA Cup quarters. I begged my Dad to let me go to the home game against Oxford United. It was a routine Second Division fixture, but Sunderland was on the rise, and I could feel something in the air.
I was thirteen, and by today’s standards quite fearless, traveling on my own with the other lads from the villages. My dad offered simple, trusting wisdom: “Stick with the lads, son. They’ll see you right.” I didn’t fully grasp what he meant, but I followed his advice and it paid off.
We rode a Roberts coach that wove through the villages of southeast County Durham, collecting Sunderland supporters as it went. Each stop brought another crew of “the big lads”—some I recognized, others I didn’t. By the time we reached Sunderland, the bus wasn’t just full; it had transformed into a traveling branch of supporters.
We knew we needed to get in early so the lads could fuel up. First stop: The Victory Club. Would there ever be a day when I’d set foot in that mysterious pre-match pleasure palace?
We parked well away from Roker Park, and I made my way to the ground, arriving around one o’clock. Kick-off was two hours away, but I refused to miss a single second of my first pilgrimage. Through the turnstile I went, and there it was—the Fulwell End.
My God. “Massive” didn’t begin to cover it. To a thirteen-year-old, it wasn’t a football terrace; it was a red-and-white cliff face. Thousands of supporters swayed together like wheat in a coastal wind, with chants rolling from one end of the stand to the other and crashing back again. It breathed. It roared. It was alive.
The colors were brighter than any television could suggest. The grass looked greener, the shirts redder, and the smells stronger, too. Some scents were wonderful; others not so much. Lots of fans were buying a programme, so I followed suit and stretched my pocket money just enough. It turned out to be essential—a kind of Google of the day. I read every page, devoured the information, hungry for context. I also bought a Bovril. Lots of people were doing it, so I joined in, and as Barry White would croon a year later, “It was my first, my last….”
I’m pretty sure it was a bright, sunny afternoon, though I’ve tried to confirm it through research and haven’t succeeded. Let nostalgia lead the way: the match blurs at the edges, but the feeling remains vivid, even after more than half a century. The crowd swelled and swelled until there was scarcely room for anyone else. The noise grew louder and louder, and every player seemed to have his own entrance call—“Hey Dick Malone,” and the like—while the sea of red-and-white surged as one.
In those days, the Fulwell End felt like more than a stand; it felt like a living organism, breathing with the heartbeat of every Sunderland supporter who pressed in behind the team. And for a thirteen-year-old, standing amid that swell, the game wasn’t just a match; it was an initiation, a rite of passage into the shared life of the club.