Highbury_Blade
Bummed in the gob
- Joined
- Aug 9, 2009
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Part 4
Apparently to those watching on ITV4 it was a rubbish game, but to those 2267 Blades fans on the away end it was gripping, tense stuff. Actually, make that 2269 because there were two extra Blades in there who also lived locally, one being my big brother Julian and the other his son-in-law Sertan, a Turk who supports Galatasaray but who that night became an adopted Blade. You see, they’d gone to the ticket office at Fulham and asked for tickets in the away end but the dimwits in there had given them tickets with the Fulham fans. Still, at least it meant my brother could get a decent photo of the away end before persuading the stewards to let them in with us lot. At half-time we managed to hook up and as the second half progressed in the rain the tension and anxiety increased. As extra time loomed I texted my boss: “I’ll be late – probably midnight.” This cleverly took into account any penalty shoot-out.
As extra time ticked away the tension increased tangibly, but the Unitedites kept it as relaxed as possible with the evolving chant from, “If Porter scores, we’re on the pitch,” to, “If Baxter scores, we’re on the pitch,” when he replaced our cult centre forward, and finally settling on, “If anyone scores, we’re on the pitch!”
With memories of that penalty shoot-out in the Play-Off Final of 2012 still painfully vivid, nobody fancied another one here, but as the game ticked into its 120th and final minute it looked the most likely option. Still, with one last heroic surge from The Beard, John Brayford, we won a corner. Jose Baxter stuck it over, Harry Maguire headed it back, and there four-yards out was Shaun Miller stooping to conquer and head home. Cue delirium on the away end, if anything even more frenzied than Villa Park.
The walk back to Putney High Street along the Thames through that lovely lamp-lit park-and-tree-lined area was one of the most pleasurable ever even if it was raining. As I approached Putney Station I could still hear chants of “Shoreham Boys, we are here!” drifting on the damp night air, a chant that I carried on all night as I slaved away on the nightshift for Tesco Ashford. I informed the long-suffering Gemma that she would never see me this happy again. Well, it couldn’t get any better, could it?
Well, maybe it could because Round 5 saw us pitched against Nottingham Forest at Bramall Lane, and despite them being on a 16-game unbeaten run we had a decent record against them in recent decades and we really were starting to believe now. The sound investment of a huge cover for the pitch ensured we beat the recent deluge (unlike our massively progressive cousins from across the city). The early evidence of the game suggested, however, that Forest were going to be the toughest team to beat thus far, and when they went a goal up I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to fear the game was up. When my dad phoned me in the second half for an update Mark Howard had just made that double save so I told him we were a goal down, nearly two down, and Forest were looking easily the best team we’d played on the run thus far.
Ten minutes later their ‘keeper spilled a low cross from The Beard, Coady pounced, and the dream was back on. There was also a buzz going round the crowd because the draw for the Quarter Finals which had been made a few minutes earlier had pitched us against the winners of the previously postponed Sheffield Wednesday v Charlton Athletic tie – can anyone tell me how that one ended up?
Despite the goal and an improved showing from our boys, Forest were still making us work tremendously hard, and as Porter came on in the 86th minute I was desperately trying to work out how I was going to get time off from work to get to the replay. Meanwhile, the fans had started again with, “If Porter scores, we’re on the pitch!” and all of a sudden Jamie Murphy was tearing away down the left and winning a penalty with a low cross that Greg Halford decided to slide along the ground towards and stop with his arms – once a Blade, eh? I looked around for my neighbour from the Colchester game because once again Chris Porter had snatched the ball and was shaping up for a last minute penalty which at first I felt I couldn’t watch but in the end I had to. As the ball hit the net the inevitable happened and the fans were on the pitch – well, they had been warned!
Just to rub it in, two minutes later Murphy was on the run again and his cross presented Porter with an open goal the like of which he squandered at Colchester, only this time the lack of Toblerones on his boot diverted it in, and on the pitch they came again. And once more at the final whistle. I have to say I was in a daze after this one. By the time Porter and the others returned to the pitch to warm down there were only a handful of us left in the ground but we made it clear to England’s Number 9 that he was our new cult hero and all previous failings were to be forgotten and forgiven. My dad had obviously decided after my negative update that we were doomed as it took him an age to call me after the final whistle; “Well, what happened?” he asked in a resigned way.
“We won 3-1,” I replied happily.
“What? But when I phoned you we were losing 1-0 and looking like going two down.”
“Yep.”
“So, they didn’t score again and we scored three times?”
“Yep!”
I then phoned Gemma up to tell her that when I’d said after the Fulham game she’d never see me so happy again I was wrong, “except you can’t see me this time.”
A brilliant weather forecast and another weekend booked off work meant a return to the ways of the hitchhiker for Greenwich Blade and so in glorious sunshine I set off from my flat in Ashford (Middlesex) on the short bus ride to the start of the M3 at Sunbury Cross. You see, as it was the day before the match I’d decided it was worth the risk of hitching round the M25, the hitchhiking equivalent of Everest The Hard Way. Besides, a lack of funds meant the saving of train fare across London to the foot of the M1 meant I’d be able to afford a programme. After half an hour or so of trying to get a lift with my “M25 NORTH” sign, I decided no-one had a clue which way was north on the London Orbital, so I switched my sign to “FLEET SERVICES” and within minutes had a lift into Hampshire with a chap who happily chatted to me about Roy Harper and his son Nick. Once at Fleet, I switched carriageways on the M3 and the “M25 NORTH” was re-employed, leading to a lift that took me back up the M3, around the M25 and up the M1 to Toddington Services. From here I soon had a lift to Chesterfield with a bloke who turned out to be a bit of a Gong and Hawkwind fan. When he asked me if I’d ever heard of The Pink Fairies he was shocked but delighted to hear me reel off a list of all their albums before saying, “…and I saw ‘em live at Sheffield University in 1987.”
Apparently to those watching on ITV4 it was a rubbish game, but to those 2267 Blades fans on the away end it was gripping, tense stuff. Actually, make that 2269 because there were two extra Blades in there who also lived locally, one being my big brother Julian and the other his son-in-law Sertan, a Turk who supports Galatasaray but who that night became an adopted Blade. You see, they’d gone to the ticket office at Fulham and asked for tickets in the away end but the dimwits in there had given them tickets with the Fulham fans. Still, at least it meant my brother could get a decent photo of the away end before persuading the stewards to let them in with us lot. At half-time we managed to hook up and as the second half progressed in the rain the tension and anxiety increased. As extra time loomed I texted my boss: “I’ll be late – probably midnight.” This cleverly took into account any penalty shoot-out.
As extra time ticked away the tension increased tangibly, but the Unitedites kept it as relaxed as possible with the evolving chant from, “If Porter scores, we’re on the pitch,” to, “If Baxter scores, we’re on the pitch,” when he replaced our cult centre forward, and finally settling on, “If anyone scores, we’re on the pitch!”
With memories of that penalty shoot-out in the Play-Off Final of 2012 still painfully vivid, nobody fancied another one here, but as the game ticked into its 120th and final minute it looked the most likely option. Still, with one last heroic surge from The Beard, John Brayford, we won a corner. Jose Baxter stuck it over, Harry Maguire headed it back, and there four-yards out was Shaun Miller stooping to conquer and head home. Cue delirium on the away end, if anything even more frenzied than Villa Park.
The walk back to Putney High Street along the Thames through that lovely lamp-lit park-and-tree-lined area was one of the most pleasurable ever even if it was raining. As I approached Putney Station I could still hear chants of “Shoreham Boys, we are here!” drifting on the damp night air, a chant that I carried on all night as I slaved away on the nightshift for Tesco Ashford. I informed the long-suffering Gemma that she would never see me this happy again. Well, it couldn’t get any better, could it?
Well, maybe it could because Round 5 saw us pitched against Nottingham Forest at Bramall Lane, and despite them being on a 16-game unbeaten run we had a decent record against them in recent decades and we really were starting to believe now. The sound investment of a huge cover for the pitch ensured we beat the recent deluge (unlike our massively progressive cousins from across the city). The early evidence of the game suggested, however, that Forest were going to be the toughest team to beat thus far, and when they went a goal up I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to fear the game was up. When my dad phoned me in the second half for an update Mark Howard had just made that double save so I told him we were a goal down, nearly two down, and Forest were looking easily the best team we’d played on the run thus far.
Ten minutes later their ‘keeper spilled a low cross from The Beard, Coady pounced, and the dream was back on. There was also a buzz going round the crowd because the draw for the Quarter Finals which had been made a few minutes earlier had pitched us against the winners of the previously postponed Sheffield Wednesday v Charlton Athletic tie – can anyone tell me how that one ended up?
Despite the goal and an improved showing from our boys, Forest were still making us work tremendously hard, and as Porter came on in the 86th minute I was desperately trying to work out how I was going to get time off from work to get to the replay. Meanwhile, the fans had started again with, “If Porter scores, we’re on the pitch!” and all of a sudden Jamie Murphy was tearing away down the left and winning a penalty with a low cross that Greg Halford decided to slide along the ground towards and stop with his arms – once a Blade, eh? I looked around for my neighbour from the Colchester game because once again Chris Porter had snatched the ball and was shaping up for a last minute penalty which at first I felt I couldn’t watch but in the end I had to. As the ball hit the net the inevitable happened and the fans were on the pitch – well, they had been warned!
Just to rub it in, two minutes later Murphy was on the run again and his cross presented Porter with an open goal the like of which he squandered at Colchester, only this time the lack of Toblerones on his boot diverted it in, and on the pitch they came again. And once more at the final whistle. I have to say I was in a daze after this one. By the time Porter and the others returned to the pitch to warm down there were only a handful of us left in the ground but we made it clear to England’s Number 9 that he was our new cult hero and all previous failings were to be forgotten and forgiven. My dad had obviously decided after my negative update that we were doomed as it took him an age to call me after the final whistle; “Well, what happened?” he asked in a resigned way.
“We won 3-1,” I replied happily.
“What? But when I phoned you we were losing 1-0 and looking like going two down.”
“Yep.”
“So, they didn’t score again and we scored three times?”
“Yep!”
I then phoned Gemma up to tell her that when I’d said after the Fulham game she’d never see me so happy again I was wrong, “except you can’t see me this time.”
A brilliant weather forecast and another weekend booked off work meant a return to the ways of the hitchhiker for Greenwich Blade and so in glorious sunshine I set off from my flat in Ashford (Middlesex) on the short bus ride to the start of the M3 at Sunbury Cross. You see, as it was the day before the match I’d decided it was worth the risk of hitching round the M25, the hitchhiking equivalent of Everest The Hard Way. Besides, a lack of funds meant the saving of train fare across London to the foot of the M1 meant I’d be able to afford a programme. After half an hour or so of trying to get a lift with my “M25 NORTH” sign, I decided no-one had a clue which way was north on the London Orbital, so I switched my sign to “FLEET SERVICES” and within minutes had a lift into Hampshire with a chap who happily chatted to me about Roy Harper and his son Nick. Once at Fleet, I switched carriageways on the M3 and the “M25 NORTH” was re-employed, leading to a lift that took me back up the M3, around the M25 and up the M1 to Toddington Services. From here I soon had a lift to Chesterfield with a bloke who turned out to be a bit of a Gong and Hawkwind fan. When he asked me if I’d ever heard of The Pink Fairies he was shocked but delighted to hear me reel off a list of all their albums before saying, “…and I saw ‘em live at Sheffield University in 1987.”
