Sunday Bloody Sunday

I’d completely forgotten that stupid o’clock on Sunday morning exists, and yet that’s when I had to get up to catch the train to Donny. Our game against Rochdale was put back 24 hours to accommodate U2, who played the Don Valley Stadium on Thursday night and needed the extra time to dismantle their needlessly huge stage set. That’s the problem when you’re a tenant in a ground like the DVS – if the biggest names in rock want to play there (and the venue has hosted such luminaries as Tina Turner, Bruce Springsteen, the Rolling Stones and – er – Gay Dad, who I only mention because I used to work in the same office as their lead singer), the landlords are unlikely to say no.
Kings Cross station is surprisingly busy, but the concourse clears when the 9.00 to Edinburgh is called. Obviously everyone’s off to the Festival. Jenny almost gets trampled in the rush. It’s like the stampede scene in ‘The Lion King’, except it’s not wildebeest which are going to mow her into the ground, it’s pieces of luggage the size of Swindon on wheels...
Only the two of us are travelling up, but when we get to the Fat Cat, not only is Mr Kyte basking in the beer garden, but so is Chris Turner, who left it too late to get a cheap rail ticket and so has come up on the bus. A very pleasant lunchtime ensues: for once, the place is busy not with football fans but for people who’ve just come to enjoy Sunday lunch and the good weather.
Getting off the tram at Attercliffe, I spot a familiar face – or, rather, the back of a familiar head. A couple of weeks ago, Ted and I went down to Hooper’s in East Dulwich to watch Darlo’s televised Carling Cup game against Leeds (a long way to go, admittedly, but it’s one of Ted’s favourite London pubs and they did show the match specially for him). We were joined briefly by a chap called Andy, who used to run the Gardener’s Arms in Lewes, a pub which was the recipient of the DAFTS Football Pub of the Year award a couple of seasons ago. He’s a serious, serious groundhopper, though many of the matches he fits in involve the three teams he supports – Swindon, Berwick and Lewes – and that night he was off to Dulwich Hamlet’s ground to see the reformed Fisher FC play their first ever league game. Today, he’s fitting in his 23rd game of the season already, having been up at Berwick yesterday. As we’re milling around outside the ground, we bump into my dad and Gordon, and get into conversation with a steward we used to chat to in the old Millmoor days. The topic of conversation is where the new stadium will be sited – the current favourite is a piece of land occupied until recently by B and Q, which is conveniently close to Rotherham town centre, but there are fears that nearby residents will object. Our steward chum has also been told that we’ll be moving back to Millmoor in the not-too-distant future, but no one seriously believes that’s going to happen.
I don’t have the flag with me as I’m staying overnight – after what Jenny and I told Drewe Broughton before the Accrington game, he’s going to think we’re either part-timers or drunk in a ditch somewhere. I get to my seat just in time to miss the new pre-match dancers, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Cheerleaders just don’t work at English games, though the LM boys who once spent an afternoon ignoring the match at Underhill in favour of watching Barnet’s pubescent dance troupe practising a very wobbly human pyramid may disagree.
We’ve been warned that the U2 concert will have caused ‘some discolouration’ of the pitch. What this means is that two-thirds of it is lush and green, the rest is a dirty yellow colour, with patches of dirt showing through. However, the ref has deeemed it playable, even though Rochdale’s manager Keith Hill (a man who’s not averse to having a moan when it comes to all things Rotherham) has apparently complained about it pre-match and will do so much more publicly after the final whistle.
Also causing a stink – at least among the Rotherham fans – is the fact that Rochdale have taken Chris O’Grady on loan from Oldham. He’s now known as O’Greedy, thanks to the fact that when we were in administration two seasons ago, he was the only player who refused to take a wage deferral, and his every touch is booed. He also falls over under minimal contact a couple of times, causing Miller Bear to mimic him with some extensive rolling over... Down the other (green) end of the pitch), we’re creating a number of chances, looking much more threatening than we did at Bournemouth. The Rochdale fans give us stick, as they did last season, by calling us ‘tax dodgers’ and referring to us as ‘Sheffield’. How blindingly original. We respond with a chorus of ‘Where’s your Alfie gone?’, in reference to Adam Le Fondre. He’s had the ball in the net, having got on the end of a very bad kick out from the Dale keeper, but the ref decides he used his arm to control the ball and it’s ruled out. However, a couple of minutes before half-time, we take the lead when Alfie gets on the end of a Nicky Law free kick and knocks in a real bullet header, much as he did against us at Spotland last season. It’s a deserved lead, but Dale equalise almost immediately, Chris Dagnall taking advantage of a slip in defence and slotting the ball past Don who almost, but not quite, keeps it from crossing the line. At least we know Rochdale’s defence are going to have to cope with the uneven bounce down that end of the pitch in the second half.
For the second half-time interval in succession, we have a Chuckle Brother performing the Mayday and 50/50 draws. Last time it was Paul (the short, be-mulleted, moustachioed one), this time it’s Barry (the tall, be-mulleted, moustachioed one). I wouldn’t be surprised if Howard Webb isn’t lurking somewhere, too. In the press area, we’ve got Ian Sharps, who’s out with a groin injury, and Richie Barker, who’s probably summarising for Radio Sheffield – ah, the glamour of being an ex-pro!
The winner comes with about half an hour to go. The bloke behind us has been grumbling about Tom Pope all game, and when he appears to have lost possession of the ball, he mutters, ‘That’s rubbish, Pope.’ Pope immediately makes up for his error by winning it back and putting in a really good ball which 36-year-old goal machine Paul Warne volleys home. Cue the man sitting on my left turning round and telling Mr Moaner what he thinks of his negativity. They don’t fall out too badly, but it’s noticeable that for the rest of the game the criticism of Pope is replaced by praise for Nick Fenton (who is, it has to be said, putting in a very good performance). At least it’s all sweetness and light among the children who sit round us, who band together to go playing somewhere as it’s clear the youngest out of each of the two pairs is thoroughly bored by the football...
After that, we revert to a traditional Rotherham failing by defending more and more deeply as we attempt to preserve our advantage. There is mass panic among the crowd whenever Rochdale have the ball, even though they aren’t doing a great deal with it and Fenton is winning everything in the air. Le Fondre and Warne are substituted for Kevin Ellison and Micky Cummins; the latter substitution is with about five minutes to go, and Cummins should probably have been brought on earlier, as he makes the midfield look a lot more solid. Dale have brought on the tricky Adam Rundle, who caused Dale Tonge so many problems last time we played them, but his best shot goes wide. Nicky Law is announced as sponsors’ man of the match, but then Don makes a couple of last-minute saves which ensure we take all three points and would surely have won him the award if it was voted for after the game.
This has been a decent test of the team – Rochdale are a good side, even if most of their fans now have an unaccountable downer on us – and this performance seems to indicate we’re going to be able to hold our own in the league. Time to get home and find out what’s happening in the small matter of the Ashes – Australia were something like 270-2 when we left the Fat Cat, but there’s still time for wickets to fall. And that really would put a gloss on what’s turned out to be not so bloody a Sunday after all...