Today marks the 26th anniversay of one of the most important days in our history when we went to Hereford United and got the 1-1 draw that ensured our survival as a Football League club. Here, and in his own words, chairman Dick Knight recalls a day that anyone who was there will never forget.
I’d come this far. Surely Hereford wouldn’t ruin it.
I’d battled for months to save the Albion from the forces of darkness.
I’d come through the nerve-wracking grind of the first-ever FA-inspired independent mediation process to determine the future of a Football League club – finally able to prise control of the Albion away from the damning grip of Bill Archer.
I’d convinced the fans that here was someone they could trust – we would face the future of our club together, I was on their side, because I was one of them.
What future? The Goldstone Ground had played host to its last game… bag-piped out to a depressing final existence as a retail park, our memories the only thing left standing, but our famous old home had gone out with a defiant roar – 1-0 against Doncaster Rovers, keeping our hopes alive and our hearts pounding.
I’d come this far.
The Goldstone crowd had greeted me like a hero, but I’d done nothing yet except put some money in. I was desperate to start the job of rebuilding the Albion and I was determined Hereford wouldn’t get in the way.
So I was full of confidence as we approached the day of the game…
The match itself was something else.
For a start, the pitch was awful – bone-hard, mud-baked, sloping, almost grassless – hardly the setting for a classic.
Which it was never going to be. So much at stake, everything to play for – the teams nervy, edgy, staring at the non-league abyss – Brighton, boosted by the win against Doncaster but with a dreadful away record; Hereford, coming off a long run of dire form.
Never before, since the Football League was founded in 1888, had the two bottom teams in the league played each other on the last day of the season – the prize for the winner was survival, the loser would be relegated from the league. We needed a draw, Hereford had to win.
Quite simply, for the Albion, after 77 years of playing in the Football League, it was the most important game in the club’s history.
What a time to take over the club, but it didn’t stress me. It didn’t scare me. I was ready for whatever fate threw at us.
At Edgar Street, over 3,000 Albion fans were in party mood, obviously buoyed by our win over Doncaster and also, perhaps, a teeny bit because they had a new chairman.
As a new boy, I was about to learn the unwritten code of the boardroom on matchdays – a layer of cordiality and friendship to the visiting team that masks a deep-seated desire to thrash them 6-0.
Before the match, I did interviews on the pitch for TV and radio, mostly with Steve Gritt. He looked calm and collected as usual, but inwardly was probably anything but. I must have wished him good luck half-a-dozen times.
As kick-off approached the atmosphere in the ground changed – it became more and more tense. Everyone knew what was at stake. I was suddenly gripped with anxiety.
And then the game started, and it was probably the worst game of football that I or anyone else had ever watched. The pressure on the players was huge, there was so much riding on it. And these were two pretty poor teams. But people weren’t there for the quality of the football – avoiding the cliff-edge was all that mattered.
And after 20 minutes of nervous non-football, Brighton fans became even more on edge. Racing back in an attempt to clear a cross that had eluded Mark Ormerod, Kerry Mayo turned the ball into his own net. Bloody hell. 1-0 to Hereford.
As the players trudged off at half-time, I could see the despair on Kerry’s face. I felt desperate, for him and for my team. So I did something at half-time in that match that I never did again in all my years as Albion chairman.
Towards the end of the interval I left the Hereford boardroom and, because the ground was so compact, within a few steps I was outside our dressing room. I could hear Steve talking inside, urging our players on. But I didn’t go in. I waited outside.
The door opened and the players began filing out past me, most of them not even conscious I was there, their thoughts fixed on something more crucial. The last one out was Kerry; he still looked awful, shoulders slumped.
He began walking the few yards towards the players’ tunnel. I joined him, and started talking, as quickly as possible.
‘’Kerry, the game’s not over. Forget what happened, you’re playing well. We’re not out of this game by any means.’’ I now had my arm around him. ‘’Come on – we’re not going down today, we’re not going to get relegated!’’
Kerry mumbled, ‘’Thank you Mr Chairman’’ and ran out onto that nerve-shredding playing surface.
The second half began with mounting Albion pressure. And then, after 62 minutes, we scored. As Robbie Reinelt sprinted for a rebound off the post, I had an instant feeling he was going to win the race with Hereford defenders to the ball and bury it. And he did.
An explosion of Albion euphoria… and as the players trotted back, I saw Kerry looking over and giving me a thumbs-up.
The rest, as they say, is Seagulls folklore.
When the final whistle blew, Albion fans at one end of the ground went crazy, pouring onto the pitch, while the other end was stunned, in a state of collective shock.
And then the Hereford chairman was shaking my hand, graciously offering his congratulations. I thanked him, meaninglessly apologising.
I went on the pitch, where the players and Steve Gritt were being engulfed by Albion fans. There were more interviews. A gorilla in a blue and white scarf came up and hugged me.
We’d done it. We’d saved ourselves. We were still in the Football League.
On the way home, through a vanguard of cheering cars, I spared myself a moment of reflection: ‘What a day, but I’m glad it’s over. Now the real work begins.’