As a student from Nottingham living in Sheffield, United or Wednesday away was the draw that I wanted and I was understandably excited when both teams involved in this fixture came through replays away from home in the fourth round. The date approached, ticket prices were lowered and Bramall Lane is a mere half an hour walk from my door – what more could I wish for? As it turns out, a lot. As soon as tickets went on sale (to season ticket holders/members first, of course), the tickets began selling out at an alarming rate, thanks to United’s offer on tickets, and a second allocation of tickets was still not enough for them to become available on general sale. No matter; I’d just buy a ticket in the home end. What a decision that turned out to be.
I woke up on the day quietly confident. We were 16 unbeaten in all competitions and more than capable of beating a side languishing in the League One relegation places (albeit a side who have turned over Fulham and Aston Villa in recent weeks). The journey to the Lane began (for me) at just after two o’clock and I set off wishing for a more entertaining fixture than the dour, atmosphere-less 1-1 draw between United and Walsall that I witnessed on my first appearance at Bramall Lane. The first things I noticed, as I walked past the away end, were the scores of Forest fans already in fine voice and the huge police presence which, in hindsight, turned out to be justified. I bought a programme, entered the ground, found my seat and prepared myself for a victory. It was at this point that things started taking a turn for the worse.
As kick-off approached, I found myself acquainted with more and more of the locals, who seemed unbelievably friendly towards the travelling contingent. I was surrounded by a particularly raucous bunch, being near the Forest fans, and the air was repeatedly punctuated with venomous cries of ‘scab,’ mostly from Stone Island-clad teenagers born fifteen years after the miners’ strikes, ‘wanker,’ and the occasional ‘If I see him outside afterwards I’ll fucking smash his teeth in’. It was all I could to not to burst out laughing when one of said cretinous horde began chanting ‘dirty Nottingham bastards,’ to the tune of Seven Nation Army. Forest fans responded in equally aggressive fashion, trading ‘sign on,’ chants with United. Mull of Kintyre rang around the ground, followed by United’s own ‘Greasy Chip Butty’ anthem. All this excitement and it wasn’t even 3 p.m.
Kick off came and went, and neither team could gain a foothold in the game. The match was generally even and carried on as such throughout, although United definitely had the better of the chances even in the opening stages, with Jose Baxter shooting straight at the solid (mostly) De Vries when through on goal. The first real moment of quality, however, came almost on the half hour mark and was one to shout about. Decent passing play down the Forest left landed Reid with a great opportunity to swing a ball in and when he did, it landed inch perfect on the ever-threatening Paterson’s head and dipped beautifully, flying over Howard’s head and into the far side of the goal from a tight angle. I even managed to refrain from celebrating, although it was mostly through shock that Paterson had found the net from the position he was in.
The locals were understandably disgruntled and continued their abuse of the officials, the Forest fans and the players, mostly (again) with the use of the word scab. It wouldn’t surprise me if some of the fans in attendance at the game had a vocabulary of less than 50 words. It was shortly after this point though, that they found out what winning this tie would mean. The sixth round draw had been made: as long as Wednesday beat Charlton in their fifth round game, United would face them at home in the quarters and the excitement rippled throughout the ground. I tried to pretend to care when one of my neighbours chose to grin at me and offered a delighted ‘We’ve drawn Wednesday!’, but I don’t think I quite managed it. The rest of the half passed without incident, aside from one beautiful moment when Halford knocked a ball over his man, ran on to it and volleyed narrowly over. This resulted in a cry of ‘Premiership, you’re having a laugh,’ from one fan, who shortly realised the error of his ways and replaced ‘Premiership’ with ‘Championship’ the next time a Forest player made a mistake.
Half-time, and I was mercifully left alone on my row. At this point, it was probably inevitable that the United players would run out as if possessed and up their game after the Wednesday news had filtered through. It was also inevitable that Billy Davies’ traditional ‘attempt-to-sit-on-a-one-nil-lead-away-from-home’ tactic would make an appearance.
100% correct.
Despite a decent spell of play around the hour mark, the typically flaccid away from home and leading Forest began to shine through, as it had done at Preston in the fifth round. The Blades looked increasingly dangerous, despite Michael Doyle attempting to break the record for quickest sending off after the break, and Greg Halford was continually turned inside-out by Jamie Murphy as he had been in the first half. If United were to score, it looked like coming from the wing. And it did. John Brayford (of all people)’s cross looked simple enough for De Vries and warranted nothing more than a routine catch, but he conspired to fumble the ball. Halford continued his fine game by getting tangled up with De Vries while attempting to clear the ball and the pair could do nothing as Conor Coady slotted home into an empty net.
Being in the wrong end when the team you’re playing score is not the nicest thing in the world. You’re caught between two decisions. If you don’t celebrate, you’re instantly spotted as being out of place. If you do, you’re cheering a goal against your club. In the end, I stood dumbstruck until I realised where I was and then let out a strangled cry and raised my arms a couple of times. Not awkward in the slightest. From this point onwards, the game was only going one way. Despite the arrival of Jamie Mackie and Djamel Abdoun along with Reid’s dipping free kick that was palmed away straight after the equaliser, Forest offered nothing going forward and almost appeared to be playing for the draw at times. United pressed and pressed with a succession of corners and finally got a slice of fortune with a relatively soft penalty for handball against Halford as he was sliding in, after a couple of calls early in the game involving similar situations.
Up stepped the prolific danger-man that is Chris Porter in the 90th minute, whose introduction to the game not long before had led to ironic chants of ‘If Porter scores, we’re on the pitch’. Lo-and-behold, he kept his composure well, sending De Vries the wrong way, and a small number of the of the United supporters on the far side followed through with their chant by running onto the turf, but were quickly escorted off. This goal also led to a tragic smoke bomb being set off by a Forest fan and a few scuffles with police. At this point, the fans surrounding me were probably starting to question my allegiances, as I half-heartedly waved my arms in the air after an injury time winner that could lead to a game against Wednesday, but they were too delirious to care. This was painful.
And worse was to come. Porter, not content with just the one, grabbed another shortly afterwards to compound the misery and embarrassment and send Bramall Lane into uproar. Fans again spilled on to the pitch and when the full time whistle was blown shortly afterwards, a half-arsed pitch invasion was attempted. I almost felt sorry for the Bladesmen, as a pathetic rag-tag bunch of kids made their way down the pitch towards the Forest fans, no doubt to hurl abuse and nothing more. A bit tragic, considering that it was nothing more than a last-16 cup game against a Championship team. A good win no doubt, but not much else.
As a sour-faced me left the ground, I came to the conclusion that both teams really do have bigger fish to fry, with Forest standing more than an outside chance of automatic promotion in the league and Sheffield United standing an even better chance of being relegated to League Two. Still, it did little to cheer me up, as a culmination of negative tactics, moronic fans and Chris bloody Porter conspired to make it a miserable day at the Lane. At least I’ve learned my lesson: if you can’t sit with your own fans, don’t bother.
Under The Floodlights 