Fairy Tale: Who would you choose to score the winner at Wembley?

[RecordBreakers]

Peck he'd go mental an be in the stands wi fans

 

[Champagneblade]

I understand why folk are saying Peck, but I went with Brewdog.

The lad was stigmatised as soon as he signed, because of the absurd fee we chose to pay for him. Then, rightly or wrongly, became a focal point for fans' ire when that season turned into a disaster.

Since then, we've had glimpses of his ability; false starts where he's started to find his feet only to get injured again. And then this season, he's truly started to establish himself, scored a few, including the goal to give us the 3 points in S6, and looked like he's shrugged off some of the past struggles.

It would be so fitting if, in what might be his final game for us, he makes the difference, and fires us to a win at Wembley/in the playoffs, 2 things which seemed previously impossible.

Same.

Then the camera cuts to Barry Bannan in his living room, head in hands.

 

[Stannington Blade]

Sydie for me. Just because it would be like watching any one of us celebrating in the stands, going absolutely mental.

As others have said, for all he's been through I'd like it to be Brewster.

Or Anel for all the crap he's been through this year. It would be amazing to hear his song being belted out like it was earlier in the season.

Or vini for the redemption arc.

Or...actually sod it, all of them. Or our fan favourite OG off of someone's arse. Genuinely dont care but there are some proper fairy tales awaiting someone if they step across the precipice.

 

[Blade56]

One scores they’ve all scored.

If I had to pick one it would be Cooper in pen shootout

 

[Westran]

Peck, Souza, Moore and Cannon coming on as a late sub. 4-0 Blades.

 

[Lord Eddard Muir]

Honestly don't mind who scores so long as we win, could be our old mate Owen Goyle for all I care.

But for me the fairytale would be Cannon, just to take away the one lingering thing about this otherwise great season that people are still managing to moan about.

 

[ForgeBlade]

Close for me...I'd love one of Peck's shots to finally come off, but I went for Brewster. If we're talking fairytales, then the ultimate redemption ars is surely going from "worst signing ever, waste of money, crap, bad attitude etc etc etc" to scoring winners at Hillsborough and Wembley in the same season. Genuinely reckon Brewster would go as mental as any of us if he popped up and smashed in a late winner.

 

[Iffy Onuora's Shiny Head]

It’s the morning of the big one. Wembley. SUFC vs SAFC. The streets are buzzing, the pubs are overflowing, and spirits are high… until disaster strikes.

The entire United goalkeeping squad – Cooper, Davies, the lot – decide to go for a pre-match fry-up at a suspiciously quiet East London café called “The Offside Trap.” Fast forward two hours and they’re all simultaneously evacuating their souls from both ends. Food poisoning. Chronically ruled out. A disaster of biblical proportions.

Chris Wilder, in a blind panic, starts cold-calling every club in London asking to borrow a spare keeper. Palace laugh him off. Brentford block his number. Arsenal ask “Chris who?” Dejected, he stares out of his hotel window with his morning Bovril, only to spot a familiar figure queuing outside the Tate Modern wearing an addidas tracksuit and enjoying a greggs sausage roll.

Kevin. Bloody. Blackwell.

Wilder sprints down 18 flights of stairs, shoulder-barges a wedding party in the lobby, and rugby tackles Blackwell outside the gift shop. One heartfelt plea and a hastily scribbled 24-hour contract on a Tate Modern flyer later, the man is back between the sticks.

Kick-off arrives. United dominate possession. Peck is floating like Zidane, Hamer dancing through defenders, and Anel is pulling Cruyff turns – but the ball won’t go in. Sunderland barely threaten. That is, until the 90th minute.

Jack Robinson, perhaps mistaking Wembley for a WWE arena, decides to chokeslam Jobe Bellingham in the box. Penalty. You could hear the collective squeak of 35,000 Blades tightening.

But up steps Blackwell. Not to protest. Not to delay. But to blindfold himself. Yes, blindfold. A double bluff so outrageous it’s now being studied at the LSE.

Bellingham runs up. Blackwell, still blindfolded, leaps like a salmon with an overhead scorpion kick. Save of the century. The ball rockets out to Campbell who doesn’t even blink – straight down the wing, skinning his man, floats in a cross… and who’s arriving like a steam train at the back post?

KEVIN. BLACKWELL.

Flying through the air like a fridge in a tornado, he volleys it home. 1-0. Pandemonium.

He doesn’t stop to celebrate with the team. No. He sprints, full tilt, up the Wembley steps screaming “OH MY GOD!” like Paul Peschisolido possessed. Upon reaching the roof, he whips out a parachute he pre-planted before kick-off, dives off the edge, and base jumps down to the wembley grass, unfurling a banner mid-air that simply reads:
“THAT’S FOR WADE ELLIOTT.”

As the referee blows the final whistle, RAF jets roar over Wembley, leaving a red and white smoke trail… which then mysteriously transforms into the Greek flag as the wind shifts, because you did say it was a Fairy Tale right?

 

[Balham]

It’s the morning of the big one. Wembley. SUFC vs SAFC. The streets are buzzing, the pubs are overflowing, and spirits are high… until disaster strikes.

The entire United goalkeeping squad – Cooper, Davies, the lot – decide to go for a pre-match fry-up at a suspiciously quiet East London café called “The Offside Trap.” Fast forward two hours and they’re all simultaneously evacuating their souls from both ends. Food poisoning. Chronically ruled out. A disaster of biblical proportions.

Chris Wilder, in a blind panic, starts cold-calling every club in London asking to borrow a spare keeper. Palace laugh him off. Brentford block his number. Arsenal ask “Chris who?” Dejected, he stares out of his hotel window with his morning Bovril, only to spot a familiar figure queuing outside the Tate Modern wearing an addidas tracksuit and enjoying a greggs sausage roll.

Kevin. Bloody. Blackwell.

Wilder sprints down 18 flights of stairs, shoulder-barges a wedding party in the lobby, and rugby tackles Blackwell outside the gift shop. One heartfelt plea and a hastily scribbled 24-hour contract on a Tate Modern flyer later, the man is back between the sticks.

Kick-off arrives. United dominate possession. Peck is floating like Zidane, Hamer dancing through defenders, and Anel is pulling Cruyff turns – but the ball won’t go in. Sunderland barely threaten. That is, until the 90th minute.

Jack Robinson, perhaps mistaking Wembley for a WWE arena, decides to chokeslam Jobe Bellingham in the box. Penalty. You could hear the collective squeak of 35,000 Blades tightening.

But up steps Blackwell. Not to protest. Not to delay. But to blindfold himself. Yes, blindfold. A double bluff so outrageous it’s now being studied at the LSE.

Bellingham runs up. Blackwell, still blindfolded, leaps like a salmon with an overhead scorpion kick. Save of the century. The ball rockets out to Campbell who doesn’t even blink – straight down the wing, skinning his man, floats in a cross… and who’s arriving like a steam train at the back post?

KEVIN. BLACKWELL.

Flying through the air like a fridge in a tornado, he volleys it home. 1-0. Pandemonium.

He doesn’t stop to celebrate with the team. No. He sprints, full tilt, up the Wembley steps screaming “OH MY GOD!” like Paul Peschisolido possessed. Upon reaching the roof, he whips out a parachute he pre-planted before kick-off, dives off the edge, and base jumps down to the wembley grass, unfurling a banner mid-air that simply reads:
“THAT’S FOR WADE ELLIOTT.”

As the referee blows the final whistle, RAF jets roar over Wembley, leaving a red and white smoke trail… which then mysteriously transforms into the Greek flag as the wind shifts, because you did say it was a Fairy Tale right?

Don't do drugs, kids.

 

[joe casey]

Dan Ballard OG 120+2

 

[Flumps]

Vini Souza's redemption arc will be completed by him scoring the sort of goal we usually concede in play off finals. Peck can add a second just so he can celebrate for himself rather than for someone else.

Balham s Vini Souza

It doesn't happen often but I've seen a decent long distance strike from Vini once or twice last minute screamer, keeper full stretch, smashes the bar and then in. I'd love that for Vini.

I however have to go to Brewster. I am one of his biggest critics' and I have said on countless occasions he needs to leave this club, not because I dislike him I just think it isn't working for him here. I've even said that as recent as the Bristol games but he does have this weird ability to score only very rarely but at the most crucial times and I would find that hilarious. This season scoring the promotion winner and at Hillsborough would completely justify is 40m price tag (or wherever the S6 lot have currently got it to at the minute)

 

[Berkshire Blade]

Every single one of them would go down in blades history.

I do not give a fuck who how or why we win just that we win.

 

[dexter101]

Peck for me. o'hare or Campbell both for me would be well deserved

I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that this might be the last game we see Vini in a blades shirt. I would like the winner to be someone who is at the start of their journey with the club, not the end.

 

[Boxer Blade]

As its a fairy tale , Starman, then see him charging around the pitch with his arms outstretched being chased by his team mates and standing in front of 35,000 blades acknowledging him singing starman, close your eyes and imagine it.

 

[redandwhitewizard]

I'm voting for Sydie. He deserves a big moment.