The 10-year-old Andrew Dawson thought he’d struck gold when he jostled his way through a crowd of autograph hunters to get the sacred scribble of bubble haired striking maestro Dean Saunders. Surely such a prize would carve a pathway to riches and girls. Maybe, but for one thing.

It’s often said, mostly by angry Premier League fans on 6-0-6, that footballers these days are disconnected from the fans. The Manor Ground afforded them no such luxury. 

There was no exclusive players’ entrance. No velvet rope. No underground parking that allowed their blacked-out VIP coach to sneak in unnoticed. It didn’t matter if you were Gary Lineker or Gary Briggs, you entered the Beech Road dressing rooms the same way. By walking across the car park. During the First Division years, that short journey was a huge inconvenience for visiting superstars. But for us 10-year-old autograph hunters, it was a fantastical footballing loophole.

When the big clubs grudgingly came to Headington, Dad would usher me to the Beech Road car park where we’d loiter with the other biro-wielders. Some had scraps of paper. Some had dog-eared programmes. But us connoisseurs carried autograph books purpose-bought from Mallows in Peachcroft. Players would usually emerge twenty minutes after the final whistle. The door would swing open. A waft of Deep Heat. Then the assembled pack would force pens into their freshly aftershaved faces. It worked a treat. I got Lineker. I got Hoddle. And Waddle. I got Sir Billy Wright. Obviously I got Houghton, and Aldridge, and Hamilton, and Shotton, and Langan. Not Ardiles though. Ardiles bulldozed past everyone. Diva. Swindon’s relegation for financial irregularities was surely karma.

My most vivid memory of Manor autograph hunting was of the 14th March 1987. Full transparency: my memory’s not that vivid. The specific date is courtesy of Google. Oxford versus Liverpool. Liverpool were top of the First Division, as they were for most of the late 80s. Oxford were battling relegation, as they were for most of the late 80s. 

But this wasn’t just a David versus Goliath story. It was David versus Goliath, plus Eastenders. John Aldridge, once our hero, had humiliated us. Called us names. “A Mickey Mouse club”. Then worse. He broke our hearts, running off with his true love, Liverpool FC. This match would be his first trip back to the Manor. So what did Kenny Dalglish do with this Oxford legend, a man whose goals propelled us through the divisions, from obscurity to the top flight to Wembley glory? 

He left him on the bench. A player so essential to us, utterly superfluous to them. But then again, that Liverpool side was so good they could afford to leave him out. They had Dalglish and Rush. They had Grobbelaar, Lawrenson, Hansen, Johnston and Wark. Players who not only performed on the world stage, but also performed The Anfield Rap.

Of course Oxford lost. 3-1. But to the best of my recollection, and thankfully corroborated by Rage Online, this match marked Dean Saunders’ full debut for Oxford. In another soap-worthy plot line, the day our former saviour returned was the same day a new saviour emerged. 

Okay, Saunders didn’t score that day, but Oxford’s goal came from his spilled shot. Saunders’ promise was clear. The buzz around the Manor was tangible. It was as if we somehow already knew he would go on to score six goals that season to save us from relegation.

Despite this, my post-match aim was to get as many Liverpool autographs as possible. Disloyal? Completely. But come on, this might be the last time that Liverpool ever played at the Manor. (It actually turned out to be the second-last time. Thanks again, Rage Online.) 

So I got their autographs. I got Dalglish. I got Rush. I got Grobbelaar, Lawrenson, Hansen, Johnston and Wark. Not Aldridge though. Already had his. And more than that, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. 

Then suddenly, electricity. Despite having global football superstars in our midst, the masses gravitated to a new centre. I stared into the fast expanding crowd. At its heart was a young man. Dark, curly hair. Broad smile. It could only be our new yellow hope. Dean Saunders.

I charged in, jostling for position, praying Saunders would get to my autograph book before he reached the safety of the London Road players’ bar. It was touch and go. But I got it. I got Dean Saunders. 

I returned to Dad proudly holding the autograph aloft. He smiled. I smiled. Mission accomplished. Liverpool hotshots and Oxford’s new legend, all safely preserved in my book.

I turned back to get one more glimpse of Dean Saunders. But something wasn’t right. The crowd around him was thinning, and I could now make out something I hadn’t seen before. Hung around Dean Saunders’ shoulder was a bag. Not a sports bag. A post bag. Curious. The crowd thinned some more. It wasn’t just the postman’s bag. There was something else. Dean Saunders was wearing a Royal Mail uniform.

Turns out I hadn’t got Dean Saunders. Along with two dozen giddy Oxford fans – all of us over-excited and lacking knowledge of what Dean Saunders looked like close-up – I’d actually just got the autograph of a postman. Maybe he didn’t want to disappoint? Maybe he thought his letter-delivering skills were finally being appreciated? Either way, he wasn’t Dean Saunders.

I still have the autograph book. The mystery postman’s signature was scribbled over nearly forty years ago out of sheer embarrassment. And while I never did get Dean Saunders’ autograph, I hope that somewhere in Oxfordshire there’s a postman who shares this exact Manor memory with me, just from the other side. “Have I ever told you about the day I was Dean Saunders?”