Читать книгу Steel City Rivals - One City. Two Football Clubs, One Mutually Shared Hatred - Steve Cowens - Страница 20

The 1989–90 season was United’s centenary year. To celebrate, a pre-season friendly had been arranged with the old foe, Sheffield Wednesday. The game was to be played in August at Bramall Lane and would be a nice warm-up for our now very strong firm.

On the day of the game, we met as usual in the Pheasant on London Road. When I turned up at midday, there were only around 40 of our firm gathered in the pub. Wednesday were meeting at the Arbourthorne Hotel, a pub situated on a tough council estate around three miles from beautiful downtown Bramall Lane. Wednesday had been making big noises that they were turning everyone out and this new Blades firm were going to be put back in their place after taking over proceedings in Sheffield. A few telephone calls were made and I spoke to a top Wednesday lad. He told me that Wednesday had about 150 lads out and that the firm they had was the best they had turned out for many a year. I could tell by the tone in his voice that he fancied their chances but then again so did I. It was agreed that Wednesday would make their way down to the Earl of Arundel and we would head for the Sheaf; hooligan kick-off time was arranged for 2.30.

With more of our lot turning up by the minute, by one o’clock we had well over 100 lads out and, to be fair, they were all our main firm of mid-20-year-olds who were by now seasoned thugs. Our average age at this time was probably around 24, while our rival firm’s average age would have been 30 to 35. To us, it didn’t matter about the numbers or quality Wednesday had out, as we knew that we would steam into them and, when you have over 100 lads who are all of the same mind, then Wednesday were going to struggle to cope. In truth, man for man, Wednesday probably had a harder firm than us but this was football violence and it didn’t matter how handy individuals were, the firm who wanted it most were the ones who were going to come out on top.

One of our scouts pulled up in the car outside the Pheasant and told us Wednesday were on the move and also confirmed they had a massive team out. Good, no excuses then, I thought. They were keeping their end of the deal by heading to the Arundel, so we supped up and headed for our appointed destination, the Sheaf. We’d split up into twos and threes as the plod were all over London Road like a rash and we didn’t want to attract their attention by walking en masse to our destination and ruining our chances of an off.

Everyone was buzzing and well up for it outside the Sheaf, as lads went around encouraging each other and shaking hands as if to confirm the tightness of our firm. Bang on 2.30, we set off. I walked in front with Tiler. We both knew that neither of us would back off an inch, so we bounced in front of our firm whose strides were getting quicker and longer with every step.

The Sheaf was only 500 yards from the Earl but not visible until we walked around the corner. We were by now 300 yards from the Earl and Wednesday spilled out of the pub and began running up towards us. We fanned and our quick walk soon became a jog. I looked at Tiler who was running down parallel with me. ‘Don’t stop, straight in,’ I yelled but Tiler didn’t need telling. I was just getting the old adrenaline pumping through my body. Wednesday did indeed have a great mob and, to be honest, I thought we were going to have a big job on our hands to shift them along; the least I expected was a toe-to-toe battle as Wednesday had turned every face out.

‘BBC, BBC’ was shouted with an aggression I had never heard before.

Wednesday completely filled the road and pavements. Around 10 black lads were fronting for Wednesday. I knew most of them and they were respected geezers in our city, but this was football and it wasn’t about individuals, it was about who wanted it most, who was the gamest, who had the bottle.

As the two firms got within launching distance of each other, glasses, bricks and bottles filled the air. We didn’t slow in our charge. The two front rows tore into each other but Wednesday had committed the cardinal sin of stopping their charge and standing flat. Big mistake – it’s the first sign of loss of nerve.

Anyhow, Wednesday had managed to get 100 yards from the pub so perhaps the bog hiders missed the action but Wednesday started to lose nerve and backed off. I ran and hit one just as he was turning to run; he went down but was back on his feet and running in a split second. They were screaming at each other to ‘STAND’ but we’d got them on the hop and continued our assault on the disappearing Wednesday line. That sight of Wednesday’s best firm in total retreat was a buzz and a half. A game lad called Zack had stood on his own and was copping a beating from around 10 of our lot who had captured him. I ran over and pulled a few of our lot off him; fair play to him, he was the only one with the bollocks to stand his ground, and kicking him into the middle of next week was the last thing he deserved.

I escorted him to the sanctuary of the surrounding roadside trees. He shook my hand, muttering that Wednesday were shit. I ran to join up with the rest of our firm who had totally written off Wednesday’s firm. In that one 45-second brawl, we had proved we were still the top firm in Sheffield. They had turned out every face and every big gun they had but our young Casual firm were too strong and too game. A lot of their older heads seemed to disappear from their ranks after that day.

The OB got the bedraggled OCS firm together and marched them slowly to the ground. Quite a few of us waited near the top of Bramall Lane, as we wanted to mock their firm and rub the result in as much as possible. The OCS made a token effort to break from the escort as a few of us were shouting ‘runners’ and ‘shit Wednesday’. The half-hearted attempt at breaking free was greeted with a cheer from our lot; they had had the chance to dance but failed. We went in the ground but a lot of United’s lads didn’t bother. Wednesday for their part sloped off into town under the OB escort.

The game itself was a boring 0–0 draw only highlighted by that tosser Carlton Palmer getting sent off and effectively ruining his chances of playing for his country. Just how he ever pulled an England shirt on only Graham Taylor will ever know.

Around two weeks after the game, Housey, Vinny and myself were in Josie’s nightclub when in walked the whole Wednesday squad. We couldn’t resist and started giving some pig players the verbals. Palmer was my target but he successfully rebuffed my attack with the line: ‘It’s always been my ambition to play for England and I’ve probably blown my only chance to play for my country, so please leave it out, mate, I’m gutted.’

He’d shut me up with that as he looked genuinely hurt by the fact that, by being sent off, he’d been left out of the English team. He’s still a tosser, though; the one thing I really hate about some footballers is the fact that they become big-time Charlies and, in my opinion, Palmer fits that bracket with bells on.

Anyhow, after the game, we scanned the streets and went looking in town for Wednesday, but no luck, the Wednesday firm had melted but deep down we knew they would have to try and get some face back. The small groups of our firm all eventually met up in a city-centre pub called Silks, which was our usual haunt at the time. Every Saturday night between six and eight o’clock, you’d find anything up to 300 lads in there depending on our opponents for the day. As I went in, it was packed with around 250 United; don’t get me wrong, not all of these were our firm but a lot of the others were Barmys who would get stuck in if need be.

I was surprised to see Zack and around six of the black lads who had been run along with the Wednesday firm earlier standing at the bar. Zack again shook my hand but, just by having a look around, I could see that a lot of our firm were unhappy to say the least at their presence. I mentioned this to Zack; the one thing that I didn’t want to happen was our lot to smash the fuck out of seven lads. It’s a no-win situation really: you don’t give it to them and you’re mugs; you do give it to them and you’re bullies. The Wednesday lads left and it was obvious they would return with the rest of the OCS.

In situations like these, we needed a couple of lads that were leaders who could think on their feet and who had enough respect that the rest would listen, but we were all more or less equal as we had that many game lads who all tried to have a say but what we needed was a Chelsea Hickmott-type figure to sort us out. The reason I’m mentioning this is the fact that I was trying to get us to split into two groups with one group heading just down the road to the Three Cranes, which was only 100 yards away from Silks. I was trying to think on my feet as I knew the OCS would turn up soon and there was only one exit point from Silks, so, if Wednesday did appear, we would struggle to get everyone outside.

Sure enough, the 10 or so United who were stood outside came in screaming that our foe had arrived. Objects crashed against the pub windows and ‘Wednesday, Wednesday’ echoed in the street. Everyone headed for the one exit door. United lads were rammed together like sardines and the unfortunate ones nearest the door were pushed towards the Wednesday firm as they attacked the doors. What also went against us was the fact that Wednesday had tooled themselves up from roadworks just around the corner, which gave them a ready-made arsenal, but, to be fair, we would have done the same thing; never look a gift horse in the mouth.

Inside, it was bedlam as we tried to get out but the front lads were taking the brunt of Wednesday’s attack and quite a few of our lads got hospitalised. It also didn’t help our cause that Tony’s rottweiler dog was biting everyone around it, as it went into a slavering frenzy.

I managed to battle towards the front and, in a surge, around 15 of us got out; we were instantly attacked in the doorway and backed down the road. It was suicidal really, as bricks and bottles crashed into us and the steel spikes that are used for roadworks’ red and white tape were used against our little surge. To make matters worse, the Wednesday lads who had been in Silks 10 minutes earlier came up behind us with around another 10 lads in tow.

We now had to run through another attack and I managed to get through with a punch landing on my shoulder as I ducked. We turned at the bottom of the road to see another surge as Tony and his dog ran into Wednesday. I think at this point Wednesday had exhausted their ammo and were looking to get away, as the OB were closing in but my memory of Tony and his dog running into Wednesday is still vivid.

To be honest, Wednesday had backed away from the pub doors, whether it was because they had had enough of the onslaught or the fact that the OB would be here in minutes I don’t know. It wasn’t the end though, as the police screeched up. The Wednesday lads headed towards us as we jogged back up the street.

A very young Lester Divers (RIP) then dropped one with a roundhouse kick, as the 15 of us squared up to Wednesday. Lester wanted his name left in my first book and actually told me prior to a Wednesday game that he didn’t give a fuck and didn’t want his name putting in as Forest or the other disguised name I used. That moment when Lester dropped a very respected and handy lad confirmed that this man was special and he would become probably the most respected lad United’s firm has ever seen or ever will see for that matter. He’s gone now but his memory lives on.

The dog was set on a couple more Wednesday and one was badly bitten as he tried to crawl into the Mucky Duck pub. The hospital was full of wounded football thugs. It even kicked off in casualty to end a very violent day in Sheffield’s hooligan history. Wednesday argued that they had made the day a draw but in reality we had sent their firm packing and attacking a pub doorway was nowhere near enough to gloss over the fact that we had battered them in the head-to-head on the street.