Today 54 years ago was my first-ever match watching The Blades. On April 23rd, 1962 (Bank Holiday Monday), my mum and dad took me across the Pennines to see the original United play Newton Heath. We won 1-0 (Doc Pace) in front of an underwhelming crowd of 30,073. We were in the top flight, hovering around 5th – 6th place and this win – with just two games of the season left – set us up to finish possibly fourth.
To prove nothing fucking changes with United, we lost our last 2 games. The ‘return leg’ with Man. United took place the next day (Tuesday 24th) at Bramall Lane as was the custom back then. We lost the last game at Arsenal.
Anticipating a big crowd at Old Trafford, we went in the standing South Stand (the side where the cameras are) and, to ensure their beloved little 7-year-old could be easily found if I got lost in the crowd, they dressed me in a bright red jumper. Away. At Man. United. I think they were trying to tell me something. (I
did lose my parents during the match but, to their obvious horror, I was returned to them).
So 54 years of thin and thinner. Why do we do it? If your marriage caused you so much misery, you’d get a divorce. If your dog gave you so much grief, you’d fucking shoot it. But we keep going, not just because football creates loyalties and bonds unlike any other, but this is The
Blades.
Now every team would claim their team and fans are unique but I really believe that
none are as unique as us lot. When Villa and Man. City were in the Third tier, they got massive crowds. But would they have stuck around for four years (and counting)? Like most fans, it was my dad who first took me to BDTBL. However I’ve always maintained that, if he’d first taken me to Hillsborough, I would have gravitated towards United. It’s in my nature (being an awkward bastard). Back then – and plenty of times since – it has seemed that everybody supported Wendy. Nearly all kids at school, in the park, at work, in the pub. Bring it on!
In 1966, the pigs got to the FA Cup Final (v Everton) and our primary school teacher
ordered all us kids to support Wendy. Like fuck. I went home, raided my mum’s sewing drawer, found a piece of blue cloth and some white paint and made an Everton flag. And took it to school.
The day after the final, I was dragged over to Middlewood Road by my parents to meet some random rellies (why
do parents do that?) Wendy were having a procession (I believe they were the first losing side ever to do that) and thousands lined Middlewood Road to Hillsborough. I went along (I was eleven), shouted some abuse and ran off before I was lynched.
Fast forward to 1993 and The Steel City Semi Final, and this sums up the difference. When I finally got home sometime on the Sunday (or was it Monday?), I went into my local to be met by the resident big-gob Wednesdayite. ‘You should have been in
here’ the cunt said, ‘it was
packed with Wednesdayites!’ I replied ‘That doesn’t surprise me.
We were all at the fucking match!’
So, in a bizarre way, it’s been an education and mostly a weird kind of fun. Football has changed beyond all recognition over that 54 years. Most grounds back then were shitholes and potential death traps. The hooliganism was utterly frightening. The ‘away day special’ trains in the 70s could have done service at Auschwitz but the whole country was a dismal, dirty place back then. When United played in London in the late 70s British Rail used to do cheap weekenders where the train fare
and hotel was about £28. We once stayed at St. Pancras Hotel and it was a soot-covered shithole.
Shit, I could be here all day! I’ll sum up:
Best United player? TC (I was at his debut in 1968)
Best match? Forest PO Semi 2003
Best goal? Pesch’s in that game
Worst game? Crikey, this could fill a few pages (and that’s just this season) but away to Swindon on 4th December 1993 stands out. It was 0-0 but what made it utterly unique was that there wasn’t an incident – not a single fucking one - worthy to comment on. Luckily, me and a mate had booked an overnighter in Oxford and I ‘got jiggy’ with a barmaid in ‘The Old Fire Station’. No Jean Hatchet back then.
On my ‘50th Anniversary’ in 2012 I got this tat done. Instead of ‘1899’ I had ‘1962’ done and the ‘50’ between the crossed swords might just be visible.
If I’m still around in 2022, to celebrate my 60th Anniversary, I’m having a full-frontal lobotomy.
So, many friends, more hilarious incidents, thousands of miles and even more pints later, I’m still standing. Just.
Anyway, onwards and sideways. Now let’s go and beat those Baaarnsley fuckers!
