🏆 Thirty years of hurt - Wembley, Chapter 1

From THAT defeat in the FA Cup to facing down the might of Manchester City.

Words: Rob White

I vividly remember the day I told my parents I would become a Sheffield United fan. It’s a moment in every football fan’s life – the nailing of team colours to the family mast, where sometimes they match, sometimes they don’t.

Seven years old, from the back of the car, I made what was hitherto the biggest announcement of my life. Born in Doncaster, but raised by one Owl (Dad) and one Blade (Mum), both from Sheffield clans, it was inevitable I would land on one side of the Steel City. I think the balance was tipped by my cousins – bold, daring, cool even, with one very talented at football; I wanted to be like them. And they were Blades.

I instantly drew up a badly spelt “Suport Sheffeld United” poster for my bedroom door. I was hooked. The next few years would see the Green ‘Un purchased weekly, Teletext frantically scanned, match tickets, and the new shirt sought on birthdays. 

The first game I remember was with my Dad; he was less invested of course. An FA Cup Quarter Final against Blackburn Rovers, and in those nascent years, I didn’t know how rare these were. We all know how it ended, plus I gained lifelong admiration for Alan Kelly, being a budding and not very talented goalkeeper myself. 

Days later, the moment came. The draw. Sheffield Wednesday. Elland Road was to be the venue, but after protests from both sides, it was switched. Dad nobbled a contact for tickets in the United end, no less. I was eight years old, and I was going to Wembley.

I remember the day well. His two friends, both Owls, joined us for the trip. One bought me a programme in a one-man effort to bridge the divide. Secretly, I dreamed of how smug I’d be on the journey home if I were the only winner.

We were driving, so beforehand, I spent ages winding the back window up and down to make sure my scarf would fly in the wind rather than end up in the same orbital path as Chris Waddle’s World Cup penalty a few years earlier. Dad’s scarf flew on the other side when our vehicular equivalent of the half-and-half bounced out of Donny.

The day itself was like nothing I’d ever seen. It felt like the whole of Sheffield had come down for it. The atmosphere was at a fever pitch outside, but inside was another level. An entire semi-circle of Red facing down one of Blue. 

Families divided. The noise. The spectacle. The history. The anticipation. It felt like it’d last forever.

It lasted two minutes. I was behind the goal when Chris Waddle bent that free kick past my hero. Dad still claims he celebrated and was told to “sit down pig” by someone behind him. Historical sources dispute this.

I do recall saying, “That doesn’t count, does it? It’s too early.” It did count, and we were up against it.

And yet, despite Wednesday’s clear dominance, the moment arrived. That feeling on 44 minutes is still unrivalled. Alan Cork in on goal. Will he chip Chris Woods? Go round him? Put it under him? Stepovers? 

No, he’ll scuff it. 35,000 United fans will start blowing to get it over the line, and frankly, it might need it. Simultaneously, 35,000 Wednesday fans are doing the same to keep it out, and it looks like it might work. But it goes in. Half of Wembley, half of Sheffield erupt. Is it our year? I’ve only had one year at this point, and this could be “it.”

Unfortunately, later, Mark Bright is completely unmarked from a corner. He makes certain I endure a glum, smugness-bereft drive home with three admittedly very magnanimous Owls. They reached both finals that year, which felt greedy to an eight-year-old. Seeing them draw the League Cup Final, then lose the replay and the FA Cup Final softened the blow. 

Much has changed since then. I’m 38 now, with many highs and lows watching the Blades. Heroes have come and gone: Kelly, Borbokis, Brown, Morgan and McGoldrick. 

I missed the Newcastle Semi Final due to a school trip, but I was there for Hull in 2014: 2-1 up at half time, then 41 minutes from Europe. It was probably as good as it’s ever been. I was there for O’Connell’s goal when we made it back to the Premier League, but it’s not the same as the Cup.

I’ve seen that wonderful trophy at Old Trafford. But having it at my club, in my captain’s hands on an open-top bus, would be the pinnacle. Just four sets of fans still have that chance this year. 

And you know what, we’re one of them. Yet pessimism pervades.

There’s so much chatter about how many we’ll lose by. Friends, colleagues, family, S24SU. “Owt less than four is a good result.” “They could play their third team and hammer us.” “Haaland will get five.” I’m sorry, I just can’t accept it. And I won’t. 

Let’s talk logistics first. City’s priority is the Champions League, then the Premier League. It’s not the FA Cup. Ask yourself a quick question – in the Mansouri era, how many times have they won it? 

Twice. They’ve only made the final three times. That might suggest they want to put things right. To me, it absolutely screams bigger fish to fry.

On the Wednesday before they play us, they’re in Munich battling Mane & co in the Champions League. While Pep’s superstars are busting a gut to get through, before catching a midnight flight home, our players will be home on the sofa watching, 24 hours on from their last game, which was at home. 

City also have Arsenal the following Wednesday, a pivotal game in the title race. Suddenly, an FA Cup semi final against lowly Sheffield United has all the hallmarks of ‘big guns on t’ bench’.

Looking at the squads, they’re clearly better than us. They’re the best team in the country right? Well, actually no. They trail Arsenal by eight points, albeit with a game in hand. They’ve failed to win over a quarter of their league matches.

They drew with Villa, Everton and Forest. They lost to Brentford, then Spurs, who we beat comfortably. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t feel confident against any of those? 

They lost to Southampton, 2-0, in a cup quarter final. A weakened team, sure, but Haaland and De Bruyne both got more than half an hour. Still saying no chance?

Aside from losing that 2013 final to Wigan, they also lost 1-0 to the newly-relegated-to-League-One Latics in 2018. Stones, Laport, Danilo, Gundogan, Sane, both Silvas and Aguero all started. De Bruyne and Walker came on. It couldn’t happen… but it did.

United have been great this season overall. At times unplayable; at others, like they’ve never met. We’re inferior in every position, even with Ndiaye, but we have options. Norwood’s long balls and Robinson’s long throws. McBurnie in the air and Ndiaye on the ground. Bogle’s skills or Furious George’s determination. A rock star Bosnian centre half with the kind of goal threat most strikers would settle for. It’s also the biggest game most of our players will ever play in.

We want Man City flying home, high on a win, thinking “it’s only Sheffield United, worabaht t’ Arsenal match. Will I be playing after another round of Pep Roulette?” We’re at our best without pressure, and there could hardly be less on Saturday. 

I’m off-the-chart excited. A third Semi Final for me, and I live in London, so no travel or hotel needed. The London Blades are already chattering about which pubs we’ll hit.

London Blades

But where’s the optimism? We have a very, very good team. And yes, they might be much better, but are they that good? Are they Barca-at-Messi’s-peak? Simply put – no.

So I’m not saying we’ll win. But we absolutely could…