Grimsby Town, Steve Kabba and an inevitable United love affair

It might not sound like the beginning of a grand love story, but an uncomfortably-close win against Grimsby Town was the start of an unavoidable, life-long relationship with Sheffield United

Words: David Taylor

“We should sign him.”

My dad's first - and arguably only - moment of prescient football analysis was directed at Grimsby Town striker Steve Kabba as he ran rings around a surprisingly-leggy Sheffield United defence.

“He’s very good,” dad commented through gritted teeth, as Grimsby took an early lead through Wimbledon loanee Paul Robinson (striker, not ‘keeper).

My first match at Bramall Lane got off to the sort of start these things usually do. Growing up in South-West Scotland, son of a United dad and Wolves mum (now Blades season ticket holder), my experience of Sheffield United had been restricted to club shop visits while visiting family, curious Caledonian stares at my white Ward’s away top, and Ceefax 302.

Memory is a funny thing. Darth Vader (spoiler alert) never said “Luke, I am your father”; Febreze isn’t spelt “Febreeze”; Chris Porter somehow never played for England. I remember the match taking place on a bitingly-cold Tuesday evening. Looking back, it was a mid-September night, the sort of night that, twenty years ago, with two fewer decades of global pollution and climate turmoil, would have most likely been a balmy affair.

Still, my hippocampus has stored September 17th, 2002 as the sort of night players other than Peter Ndlovu might even consider wearing gloves. A debut visit to Bramall Lane (or enter other inferior stadium here) is a special moment for any child: I’m sure each of us has an early abiding memory. Walking up to the South Stand, along the terracotta wall, past the table heaving with glistening badges, the early-evening haze dissipating the floodlight beams like a torch through Bonfire Night smoke, my first journey to the turnstiles is etched permanently in the mind’s eye.

United had started the season well, earning the “high-flying” moniker from a nascent BBC Sport website (just look at that layout). My family had obviously decided that ten years old was the correct age for me to be introduced to United World (not that one), having moved from Scotland to Sheffield earlier in the year.

Some supporters might prefer their first game to have been against a top-division giant, or a European night fixture, but something about a last-gasp 2-1 win against a less-than-inspiring Grimsby Town (who finished bottom of the old Division 1) feels comfortingly apt. There were no airs or graces - the closest to modern hospitality was the van in the club car park that served thin, wide burgers on airbag butties to the rightful adulation of thousands of fans.

At risk of sounding like the archetypal “things were better in my day” bore, there’s a part of me that feels sorry for the new football fans of today. Surrounded by football ‘content’ of all types, today’s potential supporter is perhaps oversaturated with the game’s culture before stepping foot inside a stadium. There was something thrilling about walking through the stand’s underbelly, up the stairs to our seats, to hear Greasy Chip Butty live for the first time, having only previously experienced the dulcet tones of the United faithful via the radio. The sights, sounds and culture there to be discovered, gatekept by local papers and storied fanzines. Then again, it is quite nice to watch Billy Sharp’s goals from seventeen distinct angles within a day of the previous match. Let’s chalk it up as a score draw.

The awe built as I squeezed through the old turnstiles, floppy paper ticket defaced by an official as proof of legitimate entry. Even the early goal didn’t dampen my spirits, helped by the parental encouragement that “we always play well when we’re one down.” While this statement has led me to a vast number of disillusioning results, it was correct that night: a Tonge corner headed home by Wayne Allison, followed by the midfielder scoring the winner himself in the dying moments to pip Town to the post. Confusion, joy, relief. Hooked.

It wasn’t a bad season to start going regularly, by all accounts. My booklet of multicoloured paper rectangles was empty by the end, the perforated remnants of each a separate memory, a unique symbol of a burgeoning relationship that has taken in the regular quota of highs, lows and plateaus. The cup-semi-cup-semi-play-off-final season was one of glorious ambition and minuscule misses, all followed from my very own seat.

Grimsby Town’s livewire forward - the one that dad said should make the move inland - joined United from Crystal Palace a month and a half later, taking part in one of the most memorable campaigns in recent(ish) history. Kabba is one of a list of names that will remain embedded in my psyche as long as there’s a Bramall Lane to visit. My debut visit might not have been some groundbreaking contest between footballing titans of the time, but to me, for 90 or so minutes, it was the only thing that existed in the universe.

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David Taylor is a writer, editor and former captain of Whiston Parish Church Cricket Club U17s. His writing has appeared in GQ, Esquire and National Geographic Traveller, with broadcast work for BBC Radio 4 and Premier League Productions. A South Stand aficionado (or so he likes to think), David has been a DEM Blades editor since 2018 and is Contributing Editor of The Pinch.