My Favourite Pars Matches

1968 and Roy Barry Memories, by EC

Our most powerful football memories are usually located in our earlier years, so I am no different. Here are a couple of my favourites.

First one a Bert Paton special, unique because although Greaves, Best, Maradona and Messi have scored similar goals they never did it at walking pace.

‘The first day of 1968 and torrential rain was turning to sleet at East End Park, stotting off the playing surface. Raith Rovers were 5-0 down with a few minutes left to play when Bert Paton, back to goal, turned his marker at the left hand edge of the penalty area. Then he went walkabout. He offered the ball to one defender then skipped the slide tackle, dummied a shot to remove another and eluded a third. Only the keeper remained so he just dribbled round him as well. Had he scored there and then it would have been a wonderful goal. We were screaming at him to shoot- but Paton had spotted a valiant Raith defender sliding along the goal line to block his finish. He paused. By now we were near fever pitch: couldn’t he see the keeper coming back for a second bite? He could, for he stepped back inside as the goalie pawed at his legs. With the merest of feints he avoided a final forlorn challenge then walked the ball over the line, almost apologetically. It was worth the Hallelujah Chorus. The best we could muster was a roar that rose to a crescendo as he trotted back to the halfway line. A friend rejoiced: Wait till my old man hears about this- he cannae stand Paton.’

And a tribute to the night Roy Barry was allowed to show us the Scottish Cup the same night Celtic came to be confirmed League Champions in front of EEP’s largest ever crowd.

‘Coronations are often insipid affairs that are soon forgotten. This was not one of those. It was a night of buckled crush barriers, over 200 fans on the enclosure roof, a police baton charge outside the turnstiles and an STV emergency news flash. That there was only one fatality seems miraculous in hindsight. Yet from the packed terracing, unable to pull a cigarette from a jacket pocket, we savoured the thrill of an arena which confirmed our standing in the Scottish game. This was a theatre where Roy Barry belonged; one overflowing with turmoil, a hectic sense of occasion and an undercurrent of danger.’

As they say, nostalgia ain`t what it used to be.