10 Blades v 11 Pigs isn't a leveller. We should still have enough to beat them
Reminds me of an adapted version of the old joke...
It’s derby day in Sheffield. The air feels tense before breakfast and half the city is checking the other half’s team news with the intensity of military intelligence. Scarves everywhere. Pub doors propped open. Nervous laughter. Wild predictions. Absolute certainty that
this is the day bragging rights are secured for eternity.
But about two hours before kickoff, something strange starts happening in the United dressing room. At first, it’s just a sniffle. Then a cough. Then two players asking for the physio. Then five. Then eight. Then someone quietly asks if the stadium has a bulk order discount on paracetamol. Within forty minutes, the entire United squad, bar two men, is down with what the club later describes as “a highly aggressive, mysteriously selective viral illness with impeccable timing.”
Medical staff are sprinting around like they’re in a disaster film. Kit men are Googling whether substitutes can be legally replaced by “anyone who once owned football boots.” The manager briefly considers ringing the under-12s, but they’re already playing a match and apparently winning 6–0, so nobody wants to interrupt the momentum.
Eventually the dust settles. Two players remain standing. Gus Hamer and Michael Cooper. That’s it.
The officials offer postponement. The league suggests rescheduling. The broadcasters hint, very gently, that eleven-a-side might be preferable to… whatever this is shaping up to be.
But pride is pride. It’s a derby. United will play. So out they come.
Sheffield Wednesday with a full squad, substitutes, tactical plans, hydration strategies, and warm-up drills that involve more players than United currently employ in total. United… with two men and a vague sense of defiance. The referee checks his watch, looks at the team sheet twice, shrugs in the way only referees can, and blows the whistle.
And somehow… unbelievably… the game begins.
What follows is ninety minutes of pure footballing absurdity. Wednesday dominate possession, as you might expect when outnumbering the opposition by roughly the population of a small village, but every attack runs into an inspired, borderline supernatural defensive display. Wednesday shoot 38 times. Hit the woodwork five times. Have a goal ruled out for offside. Have another cleared off the line. Halftime arrives. 0–0.
The second half is more of the same. Relentless pressure. Impossible resilience. Minutes tick away. 80th minute… still 0–0. 85th minute… still 0–0. 90th minute… stoppage time… still 0–0. In the 94th minute, Gus Hamer breaks away and slots one home. 1-0 to United!
The Wednesday supporters can’t quite process what they’ve witnessed. United fans celebrate. Under the circumstances, it feels historic.
After the match, the TV crew gathers pitchside for interviews. Gus Hamer walks over, looking like a man who has personally run a marathon while carrying a fridge. The interviewer smiles.
“Gus, incredible result today. Considering the situation, you must be delighted with the three points?”
Hamer nods thoughtfully, still catching his breath. “Well… yeah,” he says. “I mean, it was always going to be tough…” He pauses.
“…after Coops was sent off after six minutes.”
