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A close encounter in 'Death Valley' Extract from Chronicles of a Timid Lover by Stanley Lover

"I battled furiously for space and balance against men twice my size and weight but to no effect."

In 1937, we moved from our flat at 27a Kidbrooke Park Road, Blackheath, to a modern semi-detached house at 31 Wolfe Crescent, Charlton. It meant a three mile walk to school through Charlton Village but the big compensation was the view, a remarkable change from our claustrophobic semi-basement servants flat in a typical Victorian home.

The house is set on a small hill facing west. It provides a panoramic sweep, taking in Greenwich, Central London, with the Houses of Parliament and St Paul's Cathedral on the horizon, the snake-bend of the River Thames at Blackwall where the Millennium Dome (now the O2 Arena) is sited and out over the docklands to West Ham and beyond to the North. But, for Frank and myself, the focal point of all the historical geography laid out before us was no further that the foot of the hill.

From the top back bedroom window we could see the roof of the Charlton Athletic grandstand in The Valley of our football dreams.

On a sombre note, The Valley was a burial ground for thousands who perished during the 1350 plague - The Black Death. It sometimes carries the macabre tag of 'Death Valley' and in football terms many famous clubs have had their hopes buried in this same place. For Charlton fans, reliving the victorious years, it has always been 'The Happy Valley'.

Aston Villa at The Valley 1938
Aston Villa's goalkeeper Sam Bartram making a typical save at The Valley 1938

Standing on a chair, in the bedroom, we could see a strip of the pitch about 6 yards wide, with the grandstand just behind. On match days thirty to 40,000 fans made a lot of noise so we could guess the ebb and flow of play by the crescendos, the groans, and silences. A sudden roar would have me rushing upstairs to see who had scored by observing the movement of play from the restart.

In the 1937-8 season, Charlton had a good FA Cup run to the 5th Round and were drawn at home against Aston Villa, an exciting team on the way to winning the Second Division. Radio and newspaper comments fuelled intense interest in the clash with the result that a record crowd of 75,031 jammed into The Valley on a cold February afternoon. I got myself onto the Southern terrace trying to find a place in front of a crash barrier where I could wedge myself on a metal angled stay to glimpse the field.

But, before I could a suitable spot, I was caught in the middle of a moving sea of bodies with my arms pinned to my sides and being swept off my feet. I battled furiously for space and balance against men twice my size and weight but to no effect. The following terrifying moments were like a film in slow motion. Suddenly I was on my knees, face pressed into thick wool overcoats and trousered legs - and going down. Shuffling heavy leather boots, kicking up clouds of choking dusty earth, scraped my head and shoulders. One boot stamped on my right hand, another back heeled into my chest.

Then, everything went black - I was dead! But only for a second or two - an elbow had rammed my cap over my eyes. A knee knocked it off as I was crushed like a nut in a nutcracker. My own cries and the shouts and screams of men, women and children, fearing for their lives, could hardly be heard above the cacophony of noise as the teams appeared. Then, hands grabbed my hair and pulled. Like a pea from a pod I was squeezed out of the morass, lifted into the air and passed feet first over heads by centipede hands down to the playing field. There I joined hundreds of women and children on the goal-line.

Policemen calmed and organized the spill-over until we were about four deep outside the lines around the pitch. It was a marvellous place to watch the game, within inches of touching my Charlton idols, but I was very lucky - many people were injured on that day.

The match ended a disappointing 1-1, the replay 2-2, and the third attempt went Villa's way with a score of 4-1.

Football history is scarred by stadium disasters. Ibrox Park, Bolton, Bradford, Hillsborough, and a dozen others around the world, illustrate how football fever can quickly change from an exciting and happy occasion to tragedy. Each succeeding drama involving large crowds at football matches revives my own very close encounter in 'Death Valley' on the 12 February 1938.