In light of the Vicarage Road centenary celebrations earlier this season, writers from The Watford Treasury magazine look back at players who performed great feats on home soil.
First featured in last season’s matchday programme, Ian Grant writes about a local boy and fan favourite whose performance in one particular cup-tie encapsulated everything we loved about him.
Technically speaking, Paul Robinson was playing at left wing-back when top-flight Charlton Athletic turned up at Vicarage Road for a Worthington Cup fourth-round tie in November 2001. That’s where his name presumably appeared when Gianluca Vialli drew up the team, anyway. It didn’t entirely work out like that, though.
As a local lad and youth-team graduate, Robinson quickly became a fan favourite for his, um, competitive approach to defending, after making his debut as a teenage substitute in the early minutes of a derby game. First impressions were of a proper full-back - all snarl and studs; booked often, usually with justification; scored rarely - but they were deceptive, for he truly flourished when asked to push forward rather than merely hold his ground. Having contributed brilliantly to a win over Chelsea under Graham Taylor, he was one of very few players to flourish under Vialli’s tutelage, adding depth and subtlety to his game. He’d already scored a couple of goals that season, including one with a trademark take-it-all tackle in the opposition box against Wimbledon. So, yes, he was at left wing-back in this game. Oh, and everywhere else. I suspect he’d have had a go as rush goalie if Alec Chamberlain had let him.
He had the time of his life. Back then, Charlton were a beacon club, holding their own in Premiership mid-table despite limited resources, and theirs was a cup scalp worth claiming. Our football under Vialli was often tepid, possession without purpose or passion, but we tore into them, sacrificing no principles but taking no prisoners: notably, Paolo Vernazza’s opener came out of chaos created by both wing-backs in advanced positions, Robinson stampeding towards the penalty spot and Lloyd Doyley chancing his arm with a shot from inside the box, albeit one headed towards the corner flag. It was to be that kind of evening: a breathless, ridiculous, end-to-end cup-tie which remains among the finest games of football I’ve ever seen.
Charlton equalised just before half-time. Robbo scored on the hour. It’s a beautiful goal: Micah Hyde dancing around tackles, Gifton Noel-Williams with a deft lay-off, Vernazza drifting a languid pass from deep into space inside the right side of the box. The camera follows the ball; in the stands, our eyes did likewise. Suddenly, Paul Robinson appears, far from home, hurtling across and forward as fast as his legs will go, as gleefully out of place as a pitch invader fleeing a steward; he turns the ball home with his right foot as the Rookery explodes. “What was he doing there?!” asks Mike Vince on the commentary. I’ve still no idea, Mike.
We attacked, they attacked. We nearly scored, they nearly scored. They hit the post. We missed a penalty, won by You’ll Never Guess Who, sprinting up the left wing with the urgency of someone chasing the last night bus out of a dodgy part of town, shoved over by a defender trailing desperately in his wake. It’s surprising that he didn’t insist on taking it, really. Charlton’s second equaliser, in stoppage time, ushered in another half-hour of this mayhem, welcome in hindsight if not at the time. Heiðar Helguson restored the lead with a typically fearless far-post header.
-dynamic_image.jpg)
Few things in life bring a smile to my face quite as readily as this, from the second period of extra-time: Paul Peter Robinson, as full of running as if he’d just come off the subs’ bench, bombing into the Charlton half on the break, chin jutting out with intent, fists clenched, every muscle taut, every instinct gone a bit feral. He gets as far as the edge of the area, beats the keeper with his shot, begins to celebrate only to see it rebound off the inside of the post. He claims a corner, ploughs an unsuspecting opponent into the turf just to be sure, bellows and gestures furiously at the linesman. Everything I love about football is in those delirious, giddy moments.
Charlton hit the post again late on, Robbo doing a jig in front of the visiting fans as the ball bobbles to safety. It meant absolutely nothing: we got stuffed at Hillsborough in the next round, finished in the bottom half, nearly went bust. For the Man of the Match, however, it was a landmark on an upwards trajectory that’d take him back to the top-flight, sold to promotion-bound West Brom in October 2003 in a valuable, if reluctant, contribution to our ailing finances. His refusal to celebrate with his team-mates as the Baggies thrashed us upon his eventual return to Vicarage Road in 2007 was both noble and a little heart-breaking. When he was ours, he held nothing in check. This victory ultimately meant nothing, but football has rarely been more fun.
