Going ‘There’

Jon Bradley on the necessary but painful journey to keep up a Sheffield Derby hot streak.

Well, hopefully, that is that for the foreseeable future.

Hillsborough—a path much less trodden for me outside of football, having grown up at the other end of the tram. Sunday was a rare fruitful trip to S6. I once went to Hillsborough baths. Someone did a shit on the side of the pool. We had to leave. Another visit saw me looking for Pokémon cards, which once more proved to be unfruitful. Two summers ago, Alex Turner managed to remove all the charm from the Arctic Monkeys' homecoming.

Despite working up the road for several years, it really is not a place that holds amazing memories for me. Hopefully, Jarvis and Pulp can go some way towards rewriting some of the above wrongs in July

Football-wise, Sunday was the latest in a series of nauseating trips to the ever-increasingly decrepit bucket of rust that is Hillsborough. Continuing my Sheffield Derby hot streak, which stretches back to the Steel City Cup on 27 August 1996. You get less for conspiracy to murder. Although ‘lucky’ to be able to attend such games, losing there is as bad as it gets, and watching them celebrate at the Lane turns the stomach more than if you had opted for the Pork Rib Ciabatta you could have washed down with your Carling on Sunday.

The shadow of Owusu ‘raising the roof’ on my first trip there in 2001 in the League Cup is a long one, still making me wince when I think back to that frosty exchange. Sure, the last time we went there was a 0-0 snore fest in a season we ultimately got promoted, and the penultimate trip was the emphatic 4-2 win, but going to Hillsborough for me is always bad, bad vibes.

We do not help ourselves, do we? I love Ben and Andrew, top men and great podcasters, but the preview of the Derby had me reaching for the drinks cabinet as I skipped through onrushing Newcastle fans in King’s Cross on Saturday afternoon to get the train up to Sheffield. A low-key evening followed by an early start saw me arrive at my good pal Matt’s gaff to see him pacing on the drive. “I said don’t let me forget the tickets.” I have only just arrived, mate. He had ‘misplaced’ them numerous times throughout the morning—behaviour only this sort of fixture conjures up in the most reasonable of people.

Having spent much of the week telling my better half I did not want to go and her rolling her eyes at the fact I even wasted my breath pretending I wouldn’t, we were on our way. As I am sure many of you know, heading behind enemy lines is always a daunting experience. We recapped all the build-up: Sausage Roll was looking forward to the fixture, Callum Paterson is the Scottish Drogba, and not to mention Matt Smith—the Championship’s answer to Ibrahimović. Matt really shouldn’t have cleaned the car, as we were both shitting it.

As we bent down Walkley Lane to park on Limbrick Close, the smell in the air changed, and the feeling in our stomachs grew. “Fucking hell,” we both declared as we saw Hillsborough Corner awash with porcine, surprisingly all kitted out in blue and white or looking like they had been kicked through Flannels, drinking in the streets. We made our way up towards the park, only to be stopped by a very generous pig offering us a Zubr. Apparently, it’s “reight nice, never had it before.” We politely declined. Instead, we opted for a coffee in Hillsborough Park and some nervous pacing awaiting the team sheet.

A couple of coffees and a sit down on the throne later, the team news dropped. No Souza. Drogba and Ibrahimović were starting, though. We were f****ed. This was going to derail the season. Brewster isn’t good enough to start. They’ll be licking their lips at that side. Oh god. Oh no.

Off to Leppings Lane we went. It’s still the same — how I do not know — and we settled in to see a range of familiar faces. All sharing this weird collective dread a Blade has before this particular fixture. You hate to go, but you’d hate it even more if you missed it. Lots of knowing smiles and head shakes as we headed up. The ground is bad, but that PA is appalling, and it sounded like it was cranked up to 11 and Spinal Tap were playing. If only they were. Instead, we had the usual Wednesday pre-match traditions: "Hey Jude" (new one on me, must have been stuck on the concourse for previous versions) and "Hi Ho Silver Lining." It was time to get the game underway. Fuck's sake.

It was a terrible game of football; you all saw it or have done retrospectively. But we won. Brewster scored. The celebrations were beautiful. What a day to be a Blade.

It was a bit hairy getting out, as, if you did not know, the place is not fit for purpose. A steady drive to Doncaster station, two double cheeseburgers, some serious head loss on "Praise or Grumble," Wilder's interview, on the train at 4:25 pm and stepping off the Tube in South London five minutes from home at 6:30 pm makes for a perfect Sunday.

The stress and the build-up are, of course, part of the Derby. But it's not enjoyable; it’s horrendous. Thankfully, with Wilder at the helm, we do everything to not lose, and next time we go there, we should have a little more faith in what we are all about rather than worrying about them. Wilder and Brewster have done half a job. Jarvis (the pig) must finish the job in July, and I might not hate going there quite as much.