My dad was anti-invasion of any pitch; if we were watching cricket on the telly and a fan dared to run on the sacred 22-yard strip he would shout, "Get off the wicket!" No amount of pointing out they couldn't hear him was wasted as he muttered darkly about holy ground. At the end of that fateful game against Walsall in 1981 his cupped-hands hearty booing was aimed as much at swarming Blades on the pitch as it was the under-achieving players. As a result of this and an inbuilt fear that my dad would disown me if I ever got arrested for encroachment, I have never invaded the pitch. Apart from once...
The day after Ched was sent down, that feeling of "Sheffield United are going to fuck it up again" sank into the depths of my stomach, even though that day against MK Dons we could have gained promotion if results went our way. In the pub prior to kick-off I felt so pessimistic I reckoned we would never escape League One, to the point where I said to everyone that if we went up that afternoon "I'll be on the pitch". Without raking over shitty old fucking miserable coals we all know how that day, and indeed that season, finished up.
I therefore maintained for every one of the following five seasons that whenever we did get out of that fucking division, I would be on the pitch regardless of when and where we did it. Back in 1994 I worked for a telemarketing agency in Banbury where my outstanding work in booking appointments for Grant Thornton was rewarded with a pair of shades with the word "PROMOTION" emblazoned across each temple. That day at Northampton in 2017 I had those shades in my bag but was firmly told by everyone around me not to tempt fate by putting them on prematurely. After Fleck's goal and injury time ticked away, the bloke sitting next to me announced that at last I could put those shades on, and so with crappy plastic sunglasses balanced precariously on my ski-slope nose, I picked my way to the front and at the final whistle hopped over the hoardings and onto the pitch with a multitude of other delirious Unitedites, saying over and over to myself as I ran towards the middle, "Sorry dad!"
Despite feeling I had good reason to break the law, I never told him and remained happy in the knowledge that despite having a Facebook account, my dad never quite got to grips enough with modern technology to spot the following photo, taken by the legend that is Steve Cryan, emblazoned across my FB profile as I made my way back to the stand when all the excitement had died down.
I've never gone on the pitch since - probably never will either.
