Jambo Den
28-05-2001, 08:51:PM
Heart of Midlothian 2 - 1 Rangers
I worte this report for jambos.net on May 17th 1998
i hope this shows you how much this victory meant to me and milllions of jambos worldwide
and how it is to support a provincial team when we rarely beat the big team so read on.....
These truly are the best of times. After 36 trophyless seasons, countless valiant attempts and a fistful of heartbreaking near misses, Hearts yesterday managed the leap over their own shadows and those of their hitherto more celebrated predecessors with a fantastic, gritty, disciplined performance that set the final seal on the end of a decade of dominance by the millionaires from Govan.
The fact that this could be achieved by a squad assembled at a cost of less than a million pounds in transfer fees, containing half-a-dozen or more dyed-in-the-wool Jambos in its ranks, and managed by a Hearts supporter as fanatical as any of us who shout ourselves hoarse from the terraces every week, makes the events of this weekend more than just a trophy win. It is something in which the whole community of Hearts fans worldwide can share.
True, it was not our best performance of the season; not by a long way. But how many who were there would argue it was not the best experience of their football-watching lives? Right from the opening seconds when Mr Young's right arm signalled decisively, gloriously the award of a penalty in our favour, until the moment 111 minutes later when the same arm held aloft brought an end to all the agonies of our recent past, we watched in pride as twelve white-shirted heroes battled and harried, chased and scratched and fought with every ounce of energy they could muster to ensure that, just for a change, the front pages of all the Sunday papers would be tinged a gorgeous maroon.
In truth though, the script was rewritten not just on Saturday, but rather at the moment Jim Jefferies and Billy Brown decided that for this game, a change of approach would be needed if Hearts were to record their first victory of the season against the Ibrox side. Out went the cavalier attitude that characterised most of our season, but failed miserably to impress Celtic and Rangers, and in came a more studied approach that would invite the Rangers' players to come at Hearts and see whether they were able to find a way through.
Of course, the change in philosophy necessitated a slight change in personnel also, with Thomas Flögel, who most thought would be sacrificed to facilitate Jim Hamilton's return, surprisingly retained wide on the right of a five man midfield that also included our regular trio and the deep-lying Neil McCann on the left, leaving Stephane Adam to forage alone among the blue-shirted giants that make up the Ibrox rearguard.
The trouble with such tactics, however, is that although the team that employs them is likely to be defensively sound, it still has to find a way past the opposition to gain an advantage in the first place. But this proved little barrier to the men from Gorgie as they were gifted a first-minute lead through Colin Cameron's first touch of the ball.
Adam was the man who made the initial thrust, beating Porrini in the race for Naysmith's long pass and gathering the ball in an unpromising position near the corner flag. He looked up and managed to squeeze the ball back down the touchline to Fulton midway inside the Rangers half and the newly-peroxided midfielder set off on a run that took him past the challenges from Gattuso and Porrini to the very edge of the area, where he was dumped to the ground by Ferguson's injudicious intervention. Even before we'd had time to formulate the thought and articulate the claim, there was Mr Young, with 38 seconds on the clock, racing into the box and pointing emphatically to the penalty spot.
If you can't have Robbo then most of us would happily settle for Mickey Cameron from the spot, and he didn't disappoint, ignoring the inevitable delays, the noise and jeers from the Rangers support massed behind the goal and the distraction of Gough and Goram's whispering campaign, to step forward and send his kick high into the postage stamp corner of the Celtic Park net. By my watch, it wasn't yet three o'clock.
Only 89 minutes to go then, and as the details of the Hearts' game plan unfolded, we realised what a long, long hour-and-a-half it would be. Not that Rangers dominated proceedings by any means, with Jim Jefferies' plan to stifle the Ibrox men in midfield and deny them space coming off a treat. They did, however enjoy a large proportion of the possession, and inevitably created themselves one or two reasonable chances, with the bad-tempered Gattuso and then Laudrup both testing Rousset low to the goalkeeper's right, and Stensaas, Ferguson and Durie all blazing more or less wildly over the crossbar from various points around the crowded penalty area.
With Flögel tied up watching Stensaas and McCann unwilling to test his pace against that of his marker Bjorklund, Hearts were reduced to scrapping gamely in midfield and looking to release the pacy Adam, who nevertheless managed to present a constant threat which Gough and Amoruso could never afford to completely ignore.
Having managed to survive the first thirty-five minutes relatively comfortably, Hearts then had to endure two scares in the ten minutes prior to half-time. The first came from a free-kick fully forty yards from goal, rolled sideways by McCall for the inrushing Amoruso to send the ball arrowing unerringly towards the very top-right hand corner of the net until, just when it seemed almost too late to make any difference, a blur of yellow flew across the goalmouth and a black-clad arm snaked out to divert the effort from its terrible path. We breathed again and voiced loudly our appreciation for the giant goalkeeper from Hyeres.
Then, just three minutes from the break, Rangers went even closer when Porrini chased a lost cause towards the right-hand corner flag and delivered a good cross to Laudrup, lurking some sixteen yards from goal. A clever feint saw the Dane nutmeg Ritchie, but then a lapse in control left him stretching to apply the left-foot touch that sent the ball squirting past Rousset and onto the base of the keeper's right hand post.
Rangers emerged for the start of the second half first with many of their departing heroes looking determined to end their time in Scottish football with one last medal for their already bulging cabinets, none more so than Ally McCoist, introduced in attack at the expense of the ineffectual Stensaas as Walter Smith abandoned his side's customary 3-5-2 in favour of a more adventurous 4-3-3 formation.
Hearts looked initially unsure how best to deal with this and McCoist might have written a new chapter in his bumper book of fairy tales as he twice latched on to diagonal passes from Laudrup to sweep shots into the side netting. The Dane himself looked ready to bow out on a high, and made an equally lively start to the second period, showing off his full repertoire of skills in waltzing past McPherson and Flögel down the left before feeding Porrini for a disappointing cross.
Clearly a second goal would be required to steady the Tynecastle nerves as Rangers sought to build up a head of steam that might see them finally breach the Tynecastle side's defences, but we looked in vain for a sign of attacking inspiration from the men in white and maroon.
Until the 53rd minute that is, when Rousset speared a free-kick down the inside right channel from midway inside his own half. It was Amoruso's ball all the way, but the Italian looked still to be contemplating his next move when Adam nipped in, knocked the ball past him and then delivered a crisp, powerful and - most importantly - early shot across Goram, who managed to get hands to the ball but couldn't draw sufficient sting to prevent it bouncing over the line and sending the Jambo hordes into a state of delirium.
Now we could really start to believe, and all our agonies might have been over just a minute later when Fulton crossed to find Flögel leaping at the far post, but the Austrian's header bulleted straight at Goram from only six yards out. Then Salvatori capitalised on some slack midfield play by Rangers to motor down the right and fire in a cross which McCann, arriving late at the far post, only just failed to steer into the gaping goal.
Rangers, too, continued to have their moments, none better than when Durie's long throw from the right fell kindly for McCoist inside the six-yard area, and the veteran striker could hardly believe his eyes when Rousset somehow got a foot to deflect his stabbed effort to safety. Then it was McCall, sliding a shot under a hesitant Rousset but wide of the post, before Laudrup inexplicably dived over a ball bobbling three yards out rather than simply turn it over the unguarded line.
Not long to go and we began to breathe more easily as the Rangers' heads went down and Hearts began to look just as sprightly and dangerous as their rivals. But the Ibrox side is nothing if not determined and, girding themselves for one final push, they began to assume mastery in midfield with substitute Ian Durrant now pulling the strings as Hearts dropped deeper and deeper into their defensive shell, content to hold what they already had.
Fatal, of course, especially with someone like McCoist in opposition, and he duly punished the Edinburgh side in 81 minutes when he strode on to Gattuso's incisive pass to sweep a right foot shot clinically past Rousset from eighteen yards. None of the usual histrionics from Ally this time though, as, with time at a premium, he raced into the net to retrieve the ball and place it back on the centre-circle.
And as the volume of the encouragement from the ranks of the red, white and blue increased, so too did the tempo - if not the craft - evident in the efforts of their team. Hearts retreated back ever further, and sensing the danger the massive maroon-clad support responded magnificently belting out encouragement from the towering North Stand as cross after cross, throw after throw and shot after shot rained in and foundered on the rock-like Paul Ritchie and the magnificent David Weir at the centre of the Hearts' defence.
Then, just four minutes left, and another through ball found McCoist, squeezing between McPherson and Weir and ready to burst into a shooting position, when the former Falkirk man snaked out a leg to bring the veteran striker crashing to the turf. It looked as convincing as the award we'd celebrated in the first minute, and as Mr Young raced towards the scene with that same arm outstretched we feared the worst. But then, mercifully, the arm was raised to the heavens rather lowered towards the spot, and what had looked a certain penalty had become a free-kick right on the eighteen yard line. Brian Laudrup merely confirmed the disappointment of his team-mates as he fired the effort meekly wide.
But still the hands on that damned watch would not budge even slowly towards 4.45, as Rangers tried everything they knew to get in behind the Hearts defence. Time and again we endured the red head of Richard Gough rising highest in the area, and sighed with relief as each knockdown fell kindly for Ritchie or Weir or Naysmith, or anyone, just get the bloody thing away.
A minute of injury time passed, then two. Where was he getting all this from? We whistled, we bellowed but still he would not blow. Next time, we told ourselves, he's waiting till the ball's in the air. But again we were disappointed, and were reduced to mimicking the animated rantings of our manager as he berated the hapless fourth official John Rowbotham on the touchline.
Another Durie throw, the ball played back to Durrant and a looping cross to the far post finding - inexplicably - Sergio Porrini, surging behind McPherson and looking unlikely to miss, but for a majestic intervention from David Weir that took first the ball then the man, just as the former Juventus defender man drew back his left leg to shoot.
The noise was deafening by now, and there was absolutely no way that anyone in the stands could have heard the final whistle, but there are other ways of telling, and as David Weir's arms went up in a salute of victory, Steve Fulton sank gratefully to his knees and the Hearts' bench erupted in a frenzy of tracksuits and limbs, we knew our time had come.
Hearts had won the cup.
And now the celebrations could truly begin: the silly hats and stupid wigs, players donning an unlikely confusion of flags, scarves, jerseys and other paraphernalia which - given the temperature inside that green and white cauldron - might have made even Dickie Bird baulk at the thought. We even forgave the ludicrous beige suits and tan shoes foisted upon the squad men, who broke the shackles of the SFA's finest in the tunnel to join their exhausted team-mates for the on-field party.
And we joined in, how we joined in, hugging complete strangers, giving and receiving congratulations almost as if it had been we who had converted the vital penalty, fired home the clinching second or made the oh-so crucial last-ditch tackle. And maybe in a sense we did deserve all the self-congratulation, for there is little doubt that we all kicked every ball.
And then, after what seemed like an eternity, there it was on the podium, gleaming silver in the sun, the antique trophy that was the object of all our desires. Baggio and Lockey were the first to take delivery, wrenching the pot from Jack McGinn's hands to the acclaim of the massed maroon ranks in front of them. Thirteen times we cheered as the cup was held aloft by each of the players in turn, but we were holding back, merely rehearsing for the loudest cheer of the day as the best Hearts player of his generation, one of the best of all time, finally came forward to fulfil the dream and receive the award he has coveted for so long.
And when John Robertson finally raised the Scottish Cup with his right-hand, it seemed that the burden of disappointment and the weight of expectation we've all carried since that day at Dens 12 years ago simply fell away, to be replaced by the calm realisation that our team were winners at last.
As we congad out of the stadium for the mother of all parties back in sunny Gorgie, we knew that supporting Hearts could never be quite the same again.
Thank God for that.
Jambo Den
Pics
http://www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/colin-cameron-side.jpg
our first goal in the first min
http://www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/stephane-adam-side.jpg
our 2nd and our winner
www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/scot9-side.jpg
CHAMPIONES CHAMPIONES!!!!!!!!!
our goals
www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/1998/mg_goal1.avi (http://www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/1998/mg_goal1.avi)
www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/1998/mg_goal2.avi (http://www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/1998/mg_goal2.avi)
[ 05-28-2001: Message edited by: Jambo Den ]
I worte this report for jambos.net on May 17th 1998
i hope this shows you how much this victory meant to me and milllions of jambos worldwide
and how it is to support a provincial team when we rarely beat the big team so read on.....
These truly are the best of times. After 36 trophyless seasons, countless valiant attempts and a fistful of heartbreaking near misses, Hearts yesterday managed the leap over their own shadows and those of their hitherto more celebrated predecessors with a fantastic, gritty, disciplined performance that set the final seal on the end of a decade of dominance by the millionaires from Govan.
The fact that this could be achieved by a squad assembled at a cost of less than a million pounds in transfer fees, containing half-a-dozen or more dyed-in-the-wool Jambos in its ranks, and managed by a Hearts supporter as fanatical as any of us who shout ourselves hoarse from the terraces every week, makes the events of this weekend more than just a trophy win. It is something in which the whole community of Hearts fans worldwide can share.
True, it was not our best performance of the season; not by a long way. But how many who were there would argue it was not the best experience of their football-watching lives? Right from the opening seconds when Mr Young's right arm signalled decisively, gloriously the award of a penalty in our favour, until the moment 111 minutes later when the same arm held aloft brought an end to all the agonies of our recent past, we watched in pride as twelve white-shirted heroes battled and harried, chased and scratched and fought with every ounce of energy they could muster to ensure that, just for a change, the front pages of all the Sunday papers would be tinged a gorgeous maroon.
In truth though, the script was rewritten not just on Saturday, but rather at the moment Jim Jefferies and Billy Brown decided that for this game, a change of approach would be needed if Hearts were to record their first victory of the season against the Ibrox side. Out went the cavalier attitude that characterised most of our season, but failed miserably to impress Celtic and Rangers, and in came a more studied approach that would invite the Rangers' players to come at Hearts and see whether they were able to find a way through.
Of course, the change in philosophy necessitated a slight change in personnel also, with Thomas Flögel, who most thought would be sacrificed to facilitate Jim Hamilton's return, surprisingly retained wide on the right of a five man midfield that also included our regular trio and the deep-lying Neil McCann on the left, leaving Stephane Adam to forage alone among the blue-shirted giants that make up the Ibrox rearguard.
The trouble with such tactics, however, is that although the team that employs them is likely to be defensively sound, it still has to find a way past the opposition to gain an advantage in the first place. But this proved little barrier to the men from Gorgie as they were gifted a first-minute lead through Colin Cameron's first touch of the ball.
Adam was the man who made the initial thrust, beating Porrini in the race for Naysmith's long pass and gathering the ball in an unpromising position near the corner flag. He looked up and managed to squeeze the ball back down the touchline to Fulton midway inside the Rangers half and the newly-peroxided midfielder set off on a run that took him past the challenges from Gattuso and Porrini to the very edge of the area, where he was dumped to the ground by Ferguson's injudicious intervention. Even before we'd had time to formulate the thought and articulate the claim, there was Mr Young, with 38 seconds on the clock, racing into the box and pointing emphatically to the penalty spot.
If you can't have Robbo then most of us would happily settle for Mickey Cameron from the spot, and he didn't disappoint, ignoring the inevitable delays, the noise and jeers from the Rangers support massed behind the goal and the distraction of Gough and Goram's whispering campaign, to step forward and send his kick high into the postage stamp corner of the Celtic Park net. By my watch, it wasn't yet three o'clock.
Only 89 minutes to go then, and as the details of the Hearts' game plan unfolded, we realised what a long, long hour-and-a-half it would be. Not that Rangers dominated proceedings by any means, with Jim Jefferies' plan to stifle the Ibrox men in midfield and deny them space coming off a treat. They did, however enjoy a large proportion of the possession, and inevitably created themselves one or two reasonable chances, with the bad-tempered Gattuso and then Laudrup both testing Rousset low to the goalkeeper's right, and Stensaas, Ferguson and Durie all blazing more or less wildly over the crossbar from various points around the crowded penalty area.
With Flögel tied up watching Stensaas and McCann unwilling to test his pace against that of his marker Bjorklund, Hearts were reduced to scrapping gamely in midfield and looking to release the pacy Adam, who nevertheless managed to present a constant threat which Gough and Amoruso could never afford to completely ignore.
Having managed to survive the first thirty-five minutes relatively comfortably, Hearts then had to endure two scares in the ten minutes prior to half-time. The first came from a free-kick fully forty yards from goal, rolled sideways by McCall for the inrushing Amoruso to send the ball arrowing unerringly towards the very top-right hand corner of the net until, just when it seemed almost too late to make any difference, a blur of yellow flew across the goalmouth and a black-clad arm snaked out to divert the effort from its terrible path. We breathed again and voiced loudly our appreciation for the giant goalkeeper from Hyeres.
Then, just three minutes from the break, Rangers went even closer when Porrini chased a lost cause towards the right-hand corner flag and delivered a good cross to Laudrup, lurking some sixteen yards from goal. A clever feint saw the Dane nutmeg Ritchie, but then a lapse in control left him stretching to apply the left-foot touch that sent the ball squirting past Rousset and onto the base of the keeper's right hand post.
Rangers emerged for the start of the second half first with many of their departing heroes looking determined to end their time in Scottish football with one last medal for their already bulging cabinets, none more so than Ally McCoist, introduced in attack at the expense of the ineffectual Stensaas as Walter Smith abandoned his side's customary 3-5-2 in favour of a more adventurous 4-3-3 formation.
Hearts looked initially unsure how best to deal with this and McCoist might have written a new chapter in his bumper book of fairy tales as he twice latched on to diagonal passes from Laudrup to sweep shots into the side netting. The Dane himself looked ready to bow out on a high, and made an equally lively start to the second period, showing off his full repertoire of skills in waltzing past McPherson and Flögel down the left before feeding Porrini for a disappointing cross.
Clearly a second goal would be required to steady the Tynecastle nerves as Rangers sought to build up a head of steam that might see them finally breach the Tynecastle side's defences, but we looked in vain for a sign of attacking inspiration from the men in white and maroon.
Until the 53rd minute that is, when Rousset speared a free-kick down the inside right channel from midway inside his own half. It was Amoruso's ball all the way, but the Italian looked still to be contemplating his next move when Adam nipped in, knocked the ball past him and then delivered a crisp, powerful and - most importantly - early shot across Goram, who managed to get hands to the ball but couldn't draw sufficient sting to prevent it bouncing over the line and sending the Jambo hordes into a state of delirium.
Now we could really start to believe, and all our agonies might have been over just a minute later when Fulton crossed to find Flögel leaping at the far post, but the Austrian's header bulleted straight at Goram from only six yards out. Then Salvatori capitalised on some slack midfield play by Rangers to motor down the right and fire in a cross which McCann, arriving late at the far post, only just failed to steer into the gaping goal.
Rangers, too, continued to have their moments, none better than when Durie's long throw from the right fell kindly for McCoist inside the six-yard area, and the veteran striker could hardly believe his eyes when Rousset somehow got a foot to deflect his stabbed effort to safety. Then it was McCall, sliding a shot under a hesitant Rousset but wide of the post, before Laudrup inexplicably dived over a ball bobbling three yards out rather than simply turn it over the unguarded line.
Not long to go and we began to breathe more easily as the Rangers' heads went down and Hearts began to look just as sprightly and dangerous as their rivals. But the Ibrox side is nothing if not determined and, girding themselves for one final push, they began to assume mastery in midfield with substitute Ian Durrant now pulling the strings as Hearts dropped deeper and deeper into their defensive shell, content to hold what they already had.
Fatal, of course, especially with someone like McCoist in opposition, and he duly punished the Edinburgh side in 81 minutes when he strode on to Gattuso's incisive pass to sweep a right foot shot clinically past Rousset from eighteen yards. None of the usual histrionics from Ally this time though, as, with time at a premium, he raced into the net to retrieve the ball and place it back on the centre-circle.
And as the volume of the encouragement from the ranks of the red, white and blue increased, so too did the tempo - if not the craft - evident in the efforts of their team. Hearts retreated back ever further, and sensing the danger the massive maroon-clad support responded magnificently belting out encouragement from the towering North Stand as cross after cross, throw after throw and shot after shot rained in and foundered on the rock-like Paul Ritchie and the magnificent David Weir at the centre of the Hearts' defence.
Then, just four minutes left, and another through ball found McCoist, squeezing between McPherson and Weir and ready to burst into a shooting position, when the former Falkirk man snaked out a leg to bring the veteran striker crashing to the turf. It looked as convincing as the award we'd celebrated in the first minute, and as Mr Young raced towards the scene with that same arm outstretched we feared the worst. But then, mercifully, the arm was raised to the heavens rather lowered towards the spot, and what had looked a certain penalty had become a free-kick right on the eighteen yard line. Brian Laudrup merely confirmed the disappointment of his team-mates as he fired the effort meekly wide.
But still the hands on that damned watch would not budge even slowly towards 4.45, as Rangers tried everything they knew to get in behind the Hearts defence. Time and again we endured the red head of Richard Gough rising highest in the area, and sighed with relief as each knockdown fell kindly for Ritchie or Weir or Naysmith, or anyone, just get the bloody thing away.
A minute of injury time passed, then two. Where was he getting all this from? We whistled, we bellowed but still he would not blow. Next time, we told ourselves, he's waiting till the ball's in the air. But again we were disappointed, and were reduced to mimicking the animated rantings of our manager as he berated the hapless fourth official John Rowbotham on the touchline.
Another Durie throw, the ball played back to Durrant and a looping cross to the far post finding - inexplicably - Sergio Porrini, surging behind McPherson and looking unlikely to miss, but for a majestic intervention from David Weir that took first the ball then the man, just as the former Juventus defender man drew back his left leg to shoot.
The noise was deafening by now, and there was absolutely no way that anyone in the stands could have heard the final whistle, but there are other ways of telling, and as David Weir's arms went up in a salute of victory, Steve Fulton sank gratefully to his knees and the Hearts' bench erupted in a frenzy of tracksuits and limbs, we knew our time had come.
Hearts had won the cup.
And now the celebrations could truly begin: the silly hats and stupid wigs, players donning an unlikely confusion of flags, scarves, jerseys and other paraphernalia which - given the temperature inside that green and white cauldron - might have made even Dickie Bird baulk at the thought. We even forgave the ludicrous beige suits and tan shoes foisted upon the squad men, who broke the shackles of the SFA's finest in the tunnel to join their exhausted team-mates for the on-field party.
And we joined in, how we joined in, hugging complete strangers, giving and receiving congratulations almost as if it had been we who had converted the vital penalty, fired home the clinching second or made the oh-so crucial last-ditch tackle. And maybe in a sense we did deserve all the self-congratulation, for there is little doubt that we all kicked every ball.
And then, after what seemed like an eternity, there it was on the podium, gleaming silver in the sun, the antique trophy that was the object of all our desires. Baggio and Lockey were the first to take delivery, wrenching the pot from Jack McGinn's hands to the acclaim of the massed maroon ranks in front of them. Thirteen times we cheered as the cup was held aloft by each of the players in turn, but we were holding back, merely rehearsing for the loudest cheer of the day as the best Hearts player of his generation, one of the best of all time, finally came forward to fulfil the dream and receive the award he has coveted for so long.
And when John Robertson finally raised the Scottish Cup with his right-hand, it seemed that the burden of disappointment and the weight of expectation we've all carried since that day at Dens 12 years ago simply fell away, to be replaced by the calm realisation that our team were winners at last.
As we congad out of the stadium for the mother of all parties back in sunny Gorgie, we knew that supporting Hearts could never be quite the same again.
Thank God for that.
Jambo Den
Pics
http://www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/colin-cameron-side.jpg
our first goal in the first min
http://www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/stephane-adam-side.jpg
our 2nd and our winner
www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/scot9-side.jpg
CHAMPIONES CHAMPIONES!!!!!!!!!
our goals
www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/1998/mg_goal1.avi (http://www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/1998/mg_goal1.avi)
www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/1998/mg_goal2.avi (http://www.heartsfc.co.uk/team/archive/scottish/1998/mg_goal2.avi)
[ 05-28-2001: Message edited by: Jambo Den ]