BOOTHAM BOW A DAMP SQUIB!
IN a fortnight, I hope to be one of the fortunate few allowed into Bootham Crescent for York City’s play-off semi-final against Altrincham or Chester.
Hopefully, it will actually happen. Six years ago, I walked from my home in the city’s South Bank to watch the Minstermen face Fleetwood in the first leg of the League Two play-offs.
It was not a pleasant stroll. Rain fell in blinding leaden sheets on that Saturday evening, as it had for much of the previous 24 hours. Clothes were soaked. Drains overwhelmed. At Ouse Bridge, the King’s Arms – a pub that floods so frequently its interior features only wood and stone – was fighting yet another losing battle with the river.
York had earlier announced their game would be unaffected by the weather, but as kick-off loomed, confidence wavered. Balls were bounced, only to stick like lead weights. Puddles formed, swelled and turned into small ponds. One abiding memory is of Sophie McGill, the York director, giving a pitchside interview to Sky TV as her cream stilettos slowly sank into the mire. When she walked away, one stayed put.
At 7.45, ref Carl Boyson finally pulled the plug and a despondent McGill was left to hold court in the club’s incongruously jaunty kids’ club. “I just hope this isn’t our chance gone,” she told us privately. Sophie’s fears proved well-founded. York were unbeaten in 17 matches when Fleetwood arrived, riding atop the crest of a wave that had carried them from 16th to seventh under the yoke of Nigel Worthington.
Mishaps
That was no less true when hostilities resumed two days later, but nervous hope had replaced the buoyant ferocity of a tanked-up Saturday night. Momentum, too, had dissipated.
York lost the rearranged clash 1-0, drew 0-0 in the second leg and within five years were playing in National League North. Looking back, it is tempting to see that sodden evening as the moment when York City hit the skids. Certainly promotion might have prevented all manner of calamities, not least the divisive appointment of Jackie McNamara and the top-three budget he blew on misfiring players.
Yet whilst York remained anchored in the concrete shoes of Bootham Crescent, what happened on the pitch was irrelevant. That stadium, and the hellish 13-year battle to escape its decrepit confines, is the primary reason for the club’s decline.
Tony Blair was still Prime Minister when York first mooted a move in 2007. Initially, the plan was to open a 6,000-seat stadium at Monk’s Cross with help from the local council. Slated to open within four years, it took until 2012 to even secure planning permission. So began eight years of arguments, planning changes and mishaps, capped by the discovery of protected newts at the construction site. During this bizarre amphibious interlude, the council – which changed leadership three times in four years – decided to embellish the development with a sprawling leisure and cinema complex.
Next and John Lewis magically sprang up in the blink of an eye. As for the stadium, not a brick was laid.
Since 2011, the failure to relocate has cost York an estimated £500,000 per season in lost revenue and sponsorship. At this level, those sums are a game-changer.
Had he anticipated such lengthy delays at the outset, McGill might have considered improvements to Bootham Crescent. He might have replaced the quaint wooden seats. He might have redesigned worthless executive boxes that infamously face the car park.
By 2014, he might even have invested in a drainage system to prevent the pitch becoming deluged.
Focus
Yet with the promise of a new stadium forever dangled like a carrot on a rod, investment was senseless. He – and the club – were cast into an intractable limbo.
Unable to move and unable to improve, York were pursued and overtaken by clubs of greater focus and finance. In September – or thereabouts – York will finally move into their new home. That means next weekend’s game – plus a possible final against Brackley, Boston or Spennymoor – will be the last hurrah for Bootham Crescent. To bow out behind closed doors, bereft of affection or celebration, is a rather sad swansong for a ground that has seen some wonderful moments and memories. Sentiment, though, should not obscure the fact that for a sixth of its existence, Bootham was a millstone that dragged York City to an all-time low.
It is a relic, a ghost of good times past that should have been consigned to unsullied history a decade ago. It’s quiet departure is, perhaps, a fitting end.