This post was written by exiled Blade Giacomo Squintani a couple of months ago at my request. I wanted something that would tell what it is like to follow the Blades from afar, with only rare live viewings, hanging on the words on social media, fan forums and the briefest of highlights on The Football League Show.
You could say that Giacomo was lucky. He doesn't get dragged down by the week in week out performances and results. You could argue that in terms of the game he attended he was lucky, but going into the second leg at Swindon, maybe we need to approach it with the excitement of a long distance fan and realise that, like at Giacomo's game, a surprise can happen. Anything can happen.
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| Photo Copyright : Sam Cunliffe |
Valentine’s Day. That commercial creation designed at shifting flowers,
chocolates, cards… perennial source of teenage embarrassment and adult whinging
(it’s always too much or too little, isn’t it?)… A right waste of money!
I solved the problem by proposing to the now Mrs S on February 12
(2005, that is). That way we have our own anniversary and don’t have to faff
around with any of that malarkey. It also means that, when the fixtures threw
up United at Ashton Gate on February 14,
it was never going to be a challenge to secure a pass!
Ian has kindly invited me to jot down some thoughts about the day, from
the perspective of an exiled Blade. Because, having made the mistake of leaving
Sheffield for a second time in 1998, following my initial extradition (aged six
weeks) to Italy in 1976, that’s what I am. When Saturday comes, I follow the
rituals via Twitter: the pilgrimage, the hydration, the build-up inside the
ground… rituals I remember well. Rituals by which I could once set my watch:
whatever the weather, whatever the traffic, they always seemed to take place at
the same time. Just like, regardless of the length of the Bible passages and
the sermons, handshakes and communion seem to when Sunday comes.
But it’s different when you’re a lapsed stadium-goer. When Bramall Lane
is 178 miles away, yet Ashton Gate is just eleven, but still you’re only going
to cover that distance to watch Dem Blades. You no longer go through the
rituals automatically: you need to think about your order of service and work
out those milestones. And, if you’re me, odds are you’ll get them wrong.
I cautiously caught a bus just before 1pm, a time not dissimilar to the
one when my late Grandfather would have turned the key and set the car in
motion along Sharrow Vale Road. But back then we had to find a parking place,
walk over and allow chatting time with the familiar faces. Here, it’s a
five-minute walk from the bus stop to Ashton Gate, not being Mourinho I had no
bus to park… so I found myself in Bedminster with what felt like an age to
spare. Took a lengthy wander around Greville Smyth Park, finding time to sit on
a bench for my first instalment of homemade sarnies… and eventually the time
felt right to walk through the gates.
Ever the fashion guru, I was sporting my black-and-red 1997 AVEC
sweater. It’s a good dozen years younger than the green polo I wore when Ian and
I first met up in 2013, after all! But there was never any danger of aggro:
like it or not, I could easily have blended in with the locals, most of them
seemingly turning to red and white scarves. Having never seen that much white
on Bristol City shirts, I did occasionally wonder whether we’d taken over
Bristol. But such thoughts were… premature.
As I took my place in the Atyeo stand, I recognised a few people. Don’t
ask me for names: but quite a few faces looked familiar. I must have seen them
at The Lane, maybe outside the ground or maybe in the proximity of one Michael
D. Rooker, or on the road. All I knew is that I’d seen them. And suddenly I
felt at home. Because, for one day a year, the accent in BS3 sounds… local.
I know I’m preaching to the choir here, but even infidels will concede
that ‘The Greasy Chip Butty Song’ is one of the finest, its blend of pride,
passion, history, humour and self-mockery quintessentially Sheffield and
quintessentially United. I could be anywhere on this planet singing it out loud
with fellow Blades and I’d feel at home. Bedminster was no exception… and then
we were off!
For a detailed match report, read here. My abridged
version:
1. Down 1-0 at the break: unlucky.
2. Didn’t panic, kept playing football. Done looked quality.
3. Were denied a penalty shortly before Done’s equaliser.
4. Deservedly went 2-1 up as City never really increased the pressure
as you’d expect the League leaders to do at home.
5. Jamie Murphy to seal it in the 82’ minute. 3-1. Three points. Job’s
a good’un. And Done IS quality.
Not being able to drive and living in the UK’s largest town without a
train station, away games are a rarity for me. Which is a shame, given my track
record in recent years (with Wembley obviously not counting as ‘Away’):
25/04/2011:
back from 2-0 down to end a disastrous away record under Micky Adams by winning
3-2 at Reading. A truly bonkers experience.
05/05/2012:
2-2 at Exeter: not quite the party that a few weeks earlier we thought it might
have been.
23/11/2013:
Roberto’s first (and, so far, only) game – and we nicked it 1-0 at Ashton Gate
Sincere apologies to the faithful Blades who travel up and down this
country in weather far worse than we had in Bristol a few weeks back, for whom
the elation of Ashton Gate is a rare feeling… that’s ten points from four for
me! And we’d all but won in Exeter, but that would have been the most pointless
win ever…
During the second half at Ashton Gate I’d got talking to the Blade next
to me. He was a fellow exile, having driven up from Yeovil. Beyond the spoken
words, there was a silent appreciation of this rare privilege of watching The
Blades, accompanied by the chagrin that it was indeed a rarity. Least that’s
how it felt for me: maybe he was just wondering what the traffic home was going
to be like. I should have asked.
At the final whistle, having set off at that leisurely, post-match
place, I made a run for the bus stop. There was an orderly queue: in fact,
there were about three. Not quite sure if I joined the right one to secure one
of the four available standing places, with some of the many home fans who’d
left ahead of the final whistle having got on earlier to but fill the bus: but
I got on there alright. I’d earnt the right to leave a few Robins behind. Well,
Dem Blades had won it for me. Lots of red and white on the bus back to
Portishead, but I was the only one smiling! And I duly celebrated with my
second lot of sarnies. That’s how I roll.
No post-match pint(s) for me: best part of an hour on a bus, two minute
walk to my front door and quickly got ready to go to dinner at friends’. I kept
on my 125th shirt, but it was lost on them, neither big on football.
Ah well.
So, there you go: some thoughts from an exiled Blade. A Blade who grew
up in exile, in Italy, returning to Sheffield in 1994 only to leave a second
time in 1998. My first departure was justifiable enough: my parents lived in
Italy and clearly thought that I should grow up with them, Mum only having
travelled back to God’s Own County to deliver me unto an unsuspecting world.
But second time round… that was a mistake, and one that I look back upon every
day. A mistake greatly influenced by an uncle’s passing comment that I should
leave Sheffield for London upon graduating: I always regret not giving
job-hunting in Sheffield a month or two.
Driving back from Exeter in May 2012,
that same uncle suggested
I shouldn’t try to run a 10k, that it would be too much for me: and, as
some of you may know, that’s one piece of advice I ignored. Had I done so first
time round I’d probably have been a season ticket holder for almost two decades
by now! As it stands, I have to make do with a couple of games a season. And I
don’t just miss The Blades: I miss the whole experience, each and every ritual.
Which is why, whisper it quietly…
…I would never begrudge my sons becoming Bristol City supporters. Just
like United is my hometown club, City is theirs. So, whilst part of me hopes
they keep wearing their Blades kits for the rest of their lives, I won’t deny
there’s a part of me that would be happy for them to develop their own matchday
rituals with their own friends and to live them out at least once a fortnight.
Is that sacrilege? At least the scarves would look right…
So, Valentine’s Day 2015… how was yours?
Mine began with a 5k personal best (where I overtook a Bristol City fan
late on to set the tone for the day!), ended with a nice meal with friends and
featured a surprising (well I was!) but wholeheartedly convincing win at Ashton
Gate. Good football, made the League leaders look like some frustratingly
inconsistent side: so yes, true role reversal. If for just one afternoon. As I
told my wife, it was the best Valentine’s Day of my life.
