Don't fear the Big Occasion

Or how I learned to stop worrying and make the best of a 5-3 defeat to Hull

Words: John Ashdown

Call it a revelation if you like. Or call it an epiphany. But I am not who I was. Stefan Scougall was my Baptist. A half-time £9 pint of Wembley Fosters was my holy water. Blades brothers and sisters gather round, for I am changed. I have seen the light. I'm not scared of the Big Occasion any more.

The fear had been there so long it hardly seems worth rowing over why it took hold in the first place. We all know the results. We've all seen that Seaman save played over and over again (a quick personal view: it's really not that good a save, it's a terrible header from Pesch and Jags should have buried the loose ball in any case). We all have our personal anti-favourites, from Cardiff or from Old Trafford or, the biggest of the beasts, from Wembley.

For me Huddersfield was the low point. Sure, David Hopkin was no fun and that first half hour against Wolves was hardly a barrel of laughs but Huddersfield was something else. A dour, unlovely United team, Wembley somehow at its soulless worst, the sort of match that gets lodged in your memory as being played under slate grey skies regardless of the actual weather at the time. It was a miserable, futile two hours of football, enlivened only by the first few penalties before the shootout turned into that macabre, dark endurance test.

By the end of extra time, we'd gone 616 minutes of Big Occasion football without seeing United score on the big stage—more than 10 hours stretching all the way back to Alan Cork and his big bushy beard. And even that game in 1993 is something of an anomaly—at least we scored. After that game until Hull in 2014 our neutral venue Big Occasion record read: P6 W0 D0 L6 F0 A7.

Disappointment every time. And not just plain old disappointment but a cold, dead-eyed disappointment that somehow sapped the joy from the stands and drained the brightness from the day.

But then the dam broke. I imagine telling a Manchester City fan on Saturday that "I used to dread coming to Wembley but then we lost 5-3 to Hull so now I feel much better about it" might have them edging away and eyeing the nearest fire exit. And maybe they'd be right to. A record of P7 W0 D0 L7 F3 A12 doesn't seem all that much better after all.

But … half-time against Hull. In some alternative reality there's a South Yorkshire version of Trainspotting with a post-coital Sean Bean sighing: 'I've not felt that good since half-time against Hull.' Glorious sunshine bathed the stands and giddy smiles were plastered all over the concourse, Wembley suddenly a kaleidoscope of colour. I remember a sort of confused released-hostages-staggering-out-into-the-sunlight vibe about it all. The early lead through Jose Baxter's goal had been cancelled out by Yannick Sagbo but seconds later Jamie Murphy - brilliant, unplayable Jamie Murphy - had wriggled down the left and pulled the ball back and …

It's still one of my top five United goals – Scougs crashing the ball home, sparking Blades bedlam and befuddlement. What the hell was going on? We're at Wembley and we're … enjoying ourselves? This isn't how it's supposed to go.

Yes, OK, we conceded four in the second half. But there was no going back – the spell was broken and even in defeat came catharsis. After David Meyler had made it 5-3 deep into injury time, the United fans in the stadium rose to applaud the team, this strange, soft rain of applause that said simply: 'Thank you.' We lost but it barely mattered. That place, those fixtures, no longer just hold memories of misery. There's joy there now too, a bright blast of light to send the monsters scattering back to the shadows.

And there's a particularly big monster to meet on Saturday, a side that has spent close to £300m in the time we've made one permanent signing. Possibly the best team in the world right now. But who cares? Defeat is all but certain and in that comes a kind of freedom, a release of pressure. What a chance this is to say thank you to a team, a squad, that really has done something remarkable this season.

Amid the bleakest of off-field backdrops – an owner who doesn't want us any more and a takeover deal so dubious we should probably be delighted that it seems dead in the water, even if that does raise troubling questions about the future – promotion back to the Premier League could barely be closer and we're in the FA Cup semi-finals. Much of that is down to Paul Heckingbottom. Not as loved as Wilder or Bassett or even Warnock when the mood took you and the battle fever was on, but someone who has done a tremendous, weirdly underrated job and is all set to join them in the pantheon. We could so easily have been Watford or Norwich. This could have been a season of doubt and distrust, of recriminations and rage. But it hasn't been.

So this is a team that deserves some love. George Baldock, 200 games in and still as furious as ever. Jack Robinson, clanking gaffe-merchant turned cult hero turned clanking-cult-gaffe-hero-merchant. John Egan, defensive rock and promotion songsmith. Oli Norwood, still pinging after all the years. John Fleck and Chris Basham, two club legends set to join a tiny number to be promoted three times as Sheffield United players. League One Wes. Sander, the brilliantly baffling and baffingly brilliant big Norwegian. Billy Sharp, still scoring goals (occasionally).

And perhaps fittingly in a week where we said goodbye and paid tribute to Eddie Colquhoun – someone quite literally, given the song, in the conversation for United's greatest-ever – a player who if not the greatest ever then maybe the most talented ever to pull on a red and white shirt in Iliman Ndiaye.

So I can't wait to see this team at the national stadium, whatever happens. Make no mistake the ghosts will be there. The ghost of Simmo. The ghost of Bright. The ghost of, err, Wade Elliott. But let go of the fear. We're going back into the haunted house but those ghosts are just kids in sheets.

Sing loud, sing proud. Keep the (new) faith. See you at Wembley.