The Secret Is To Stand In The Paddock...

Ah, Sky! On the one hand, they decide to televise your games and give you some money for the privilege. On the other hand, they decide to televise your games and move them to bizarre times, like six o’clock on a Saturday night. Which is why a somewhat depleted London Millers party (Jenny, Julia and myself) are metting at Waterloo at two in the afternoon. Clarkey has a decent excuse – he’s up in Crewe reliving (continuing?) his misspent youth at the Westworld weekender, a couple of people may be working, but most of the others would rather be watching in a local pub and fretting than actually going to the game and fretting.

A handful of Aldershot fans get on the train at Brookwood and Ash Vale, cans in hand and a little rowdy but not annoyingly so. They just seem more confident than we do, but as our record in the play-offs is pretty duff (getting relegated in the days when a play-off game could send you down as well as up and losing a semi-final to Leyton Orient on pens) it’s probably understandable.

Once we’ve arrived, Julia and I head for the White Lion while Jenny makes a detour to the ground to get a programme for Dave in Australia. When she joins us, she’s empty handed, as they won’t be going on sale till the programme sellers arrive at 4.30. There are seven or eight people watching the Cup Final in the main bar, but the smaller side room is screen-free and quiet, though Julia eventually wanders off to watch it once penalties start being missed and the excitement level cranks up.

As well as the White Lion’s regular dog, Millie, there’s another mutt with cracking ten-to-two paws soaking up the sunshine. When my brother arrives, I ask him to take a photo of said dog. This leads him into a conversation with the owner, who explains how the dog ruptured its cruciate ligament (it was run into by another dog during some boisterous play. This was an accident – it didn’t find itself being deliberately taken out by the canine equivalent of Roy Keane), necessitating £3000 of vet’s bills to fix it. The things you learn when you start photographing dogs!

Mick Walker is the last of our little party to arrive, having had another quiet drive over (presumably everyone’s watching the Cup Final). Jenny’s arranged to meet Steve Exley in the Royal Staff to hand over some tickets, so Mick gives us all a lift over there. Steve’s in, along with Martin Burton, the son of a friend who couldn’t make it to the game and Hugh Vaughan, sporting his new Alan Lee tribute teeshirt. We ask Steve if he had fun at the end of season dinner and whether his bread roll escaped unscathed. Apparently, he had a great time, ending up chatting to the legend that is Howard Webb until the bar closed. Photos of the event are up on the official site, including a photo of the whole squad which makes them look, as Gwenn remarked sagely, like one of the failed entries from Last Choir Standing. It’s no surprise at all to see big Drewey yet again wearing a suit that appears to be a size too small for him...

When we reach the ground, it’s to see that half-a-dozen flags are already on display in the away paddock. A couple we’ve seen before, including the much-travelled Tivoli Millers and the Scarborough Millers, but the rest have emerged from the woodwork. Still, we find a space and take up residence in the sunshine. We’re in a great position to be picked up by the cameras, and my dad later tells me we get a mention on Radio Sheffield. What shameless media tarts we are.

There’s a great atmosphere building up as the game gets close to kick-off. Some of the Aldershot fans have been given banners with the players’ faces on them to hold up, and the ball is brought out to the centre circle by a couple of members of the armed forces. There are about five hundred in the travelling Rotherham contingent, and one of them has a drum. We do wonder if it could be Miller Bear in mufti, though we have no idea whether he got his drumsticks back after he told us at the Cheltenham game someone had pinched them!

Having rested Alf last week, Ronnie’s restored him to the line-up alongside Ryan Taylor, but Harrison and Mills are preferred to Walker in midfield. However, the real tactical masterstroke comes when we win the toss. Knowing Aldershot like to kick uphill towards their fans in the second half, we make them do it in the first instead.

The game is tight and tense, as is probably to be expected. Aldershot fizz a shot across goal; Robert, Exley and co hurl coordinated invective at the assisant referee, convinced he should have given an offside decision. Alf collides with the Aldershot goalkeeper while contesting a ball, with the result that the keeper picks up some kind of injury and has to be subbed. That’s pretty much the height of the excitement until the very end of the half, when sub keeper Jaimez-Ruiz saves an admittedly tame shot from Alf, Aldershot immediately mount an attack and Don saves with his feet. The defence has looked solid, Nicky Law is having a good game and Clarkey would be impressed by the chants of ‘Ronnie Moore’s red army’, which must have gone on for fifteen minutes straight.

The Crossbar Challenge game is played at half-time, but without an away fan taking part this time. Instead, the contestants are the Shots’ phoenix mascot (who’s been busy handing out sweets throughout the first half, even to the photographers behind the goal) and what I’m sure the announcer describes as ‘a fat bloke, a Mexican and a nice bit of crumpet’, though I could have somehow wandered into an episode of Ashes To Ashes by mistake...

The second half progresses much the same as the first. Ryan Taylor, who’s certainly benefited from his time at Exeter, judging by his improving physical presence on the ball, curls a shot wide of the post. Aldershot have a couple of decent opportunities, but nothing on target. The longer the game goes on, the more it seems we’re going to be happy with a nil-nil draw. Then, with a couple of minutes to go, Brown in the Aldershot defence sends a rather casual backpass towards the keeper. Alf is on to it like a flash, but even as he’s charging on goal, we’re still convinced he’s somehow going to miss. He doesn’t, and comes dashing over to the corner flag to celebrate. We’re starting to think standing on the paddock is the secret to guaranteeing a Rotherham win, as this is where we were when we won courtesy of Reuben Reid’s spectacular lob last season.

The three minutes the ref adds on seem to last forever. When the whistle goes, the players come over to applaud us for our support, but they don’t over-celebrate, or do anything to suggest the tie is somehow now sewn up. 

A few of the Aldershot supporters are hurling abuse – and, according to later stories, coins, though we don’t see any evidence of that – towards the away part of the terrace, so fans are being let out at the point furthest away from them, and when we’ve finally taken down the flag, we get safe passage courtesy of a police escort. Mick and Robert head straight for their cars, anxious to be away from any potential trouble near the ground. Walking back to the station, I’m more tense than if we’d lost, or if there’d been no score. Already, we’re thinking of all the ways Rotherham could mess this up in the second half.

I’m not going to the home leg – it’ll be my turn to fret in front of the TV – but as we say our goodnights at Waterloo, a faint hope glimmers that, this time, we might actually make it to Wembley...

Two Arabs, A Beermat And Some Bloke Out Of Zulu

When the fixture computer threw this one up, we joked that our first game back in League Two had been Hereford away, so it would be only fitting if our last game at this level was Hereford away. That was before we (along with Bury, Dagenham and Cheaterfield) decided to spend the second half of the season blowing our shot at automatic promotion. That relative disappointment (and everything’s relative when you live with someone whose team has just been relegated into the Blue Square Prem) does little to dampen our enthusiasm for today’s main objective – partying!

There should be a big turn-out for this trip. Unfortunately, while Jenny, Joy, Julia, Clarkey, Tim, John Kirkland, Rob Maxfield and I are all present and correct, complete with the hats which are today’s official dress code, Andy Leng and Chris Turner are conspicuous by their absence. We have no choice but to leave without them, and it’s not long before Jenny gets a text to let her know they’ve both managed to oversleep. It has to be stressed that they were not in the same bed at the time, even though we now have an image of them in pyjamas and nightcaps à la Morecambe and Wise. More tragically, Chris now has 36 cocktail sausages sitting in his fridge which he was going to bring along today.

Not that we’re short of supplies. We have champagne, bagels, croissants and other nibbles, and there’s more than enough for Steve Czajewski, who joins us at Oxford, and my brother, who gets on at Worcester. Robert is wearing the Bombardier dragon hat he got at the GBBF a couple of years ago, but that’s discreet compared to the one John has for Chris, who’s joining us at Hereford – it’s in the shape of a lion’s head, which is kind of appropriate given the mane of hair he’s still attempting to cultivate. I’m wearing a more discreet plain black number, but I’m teaming it with Drewe Broughton tribute sweatbands because, frankly, it had to be done...

It’s a long journey (and involved a bleary-eyed eight a.m. meet-up at Paddington), but one through some very pretty countryside. Having met up with Chris and Chris at Hereford station, we make our way to the Barrels, flagship pub of the Wye Valley Brewery. Last time we were here, it was a sultry August day and we sat outside. Today, it feels twenty degrees cooler and we huddle inside. Phil Kyte arrives, with new girlfriend, Catherine, in tow. When he told her he’d be introducing her to the London Millers, I have no idea whether she realised we’d all be in novelty hats...

Nigel Hall and Steve Ducker make an appearance. Nigel has given Steve a lift because he’s been up till stupid o’clock the last couple of nights reporting on the election and its aftermath. The Devon Millers, Dave Bates and Andy, join us, and immediately make the rest of us feel underdressed in comparison by donning flowing Arabian robes and headdresses. They fit in beautifully when we get to the ground – plenty of people have come in fancy dress, and we spot monks, a bloke dressed as a beermat and a lad in a military jacket and pencilled-on moustache who appears to have escaped from the cast of Zulu. We’re squeezed in down one side because the stand behind the goal is condemned, making tatty old Millmoor look positively salubrious. There aren’t quite as many Rotherham fans as there would have been if we were still in with a chance of automatic promotion, but they’re in good voice, even if most of their songs are in tribute to Millers legend Alan Lee, who kept up his knack of scoring against Wednesday last week and helped ensure their relegation.

Sadly, we might have turned up but the team clearly hasn’t. Their performance reminds me of our game at Crewe a few years ago, when they still had a chance of relegating us and staying up themselves, but only if they overcame a goal difference of ten. Alfie has been rested, with Drewe Broughton taking his place, and no one seems to want to risk picking up an injury before next week. We’re playing in first gear, and Hereford are one up in five minutes, two up in twenty. In both cases, the defence simply goes missing.

Clarkey and Tim decide to amuse themselves by partying like it’s 1974. Cue chorus of ‘I was born under the Railway End’. At half-time, Catherine takes a team photo of us in our hats. My, how fetching we look. Meanwhile, I decide to plug myself into my radio to see if I can get some idea of the ups and downs in our league and the one above. Can Grimsby complete their unlikely resurrection? (No. After doing all the hard work and beating Barnet last week, they get stuffed by Burton and Barnet beat Rochdale, who seem to have lost interest since they actually got promoted.)

Will Hartlepool get relegated, appeal against their points deduction and cause mayhem for the fixture compilers. (No. Somehow Gillingham, the team everyone’s forgotten are still in the relegation scrap, go down, which means if we’re in League Two next season we can look forward to more dodgy decisions at the Priestfield.) And by the time the third Hereford goal goes in, right at the end of a second half in which Rotherham have played much better without carving out too many chances, Morecambe have scored against Aldershot. It means they finish fourth, and play Dagenham, who got the three points everyone expected they would at Darlington. We’ll be playing Aldershot on Saturday evening, which is a nice, easy trip if nothing else. The atmosphere is very flat as we leave the ground, but I’d rather we got a bad performance out of the way this weekend, rather than next.

There’s just time for a reviving drink in the Wetherspoon near Hereford station (coffee in my case, because it’s still freezing!). Clarkey and John K catch the train by the skin of their teeth and we trundle back as far as Worcester Foregate Street. Tim spots deer in a field, before he and Steve Cz start some London Underground-based trivia. (Example. Q: What letter starts the names of the most consecutive stations? A: H. Hounslow East, Hounslow Central, Hounslow West, Hatton Cross, the three stations round on the Heathrow loop and back to Hounslow East. Yes, I know it’s sneaky.) Steve gets the biggest laugh for naming all the stations in Ealing, including ‘Sexual Ealing’. It’s a shame we have to turf him off at Oxford, no, honestly it is...

As we get off, a couple sitting by us tell us they wish all travelling football fans were like us. Tell that to Mr Grumpy of Didcot!

At Worcester, we bid farewell to my brother and his daft hat, and pick up the train which will trundle us back to Paddington. Some rugby types behind us are playing a complicated drinking game, but we’re more concerned with trying to catch a glimpse of Wembley as London approaches, and keeping our fingers crossed for a more close-up view at the end of the month.

Down Came The Rain

The last home game of the season (possible appearance in the play-offs notwithstanding), and there’s a decent turn-out. Jenny, Joy, Clarkey, Chris T, Steve D and myself. The train’s pretty packed, it being a Bank Holiday, even though all the Championship games are taking place tomorrow – including the winner-takes-all Wednesday/Palace tie which probably 99.9% of Rotherham fans are hoping Palace win. (I’m keeping an open mind...)

At the station, we meet up with Phil in the Sheffield Tap. He tells us he was out leafleting for some cause the other day, and a couple of people came up to him and said, ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’, meaning celebrity chef James Martin. It’s strange – you couldn’t describe them as actual lookalikes, but for a long time we’ve thought that there is a certain resemblance in terms of appearance and mannerisms, and this just confirms it.

As is becoming usual for the last home game, we divert from the regular ‘straight to the Fat Cat’ pattern. Instead, our first stop is the Harlequin, where I’m delighted to see they have a cider festival on the go. Couple that with pork and stuffing rolls and some truly world-class crackling provided as bar nibbles and I could happily stay here all afternoon. Instead, we have one drink at the Harlequin then visit the Riverside, a few minutes’ walk away. It’s a big, airy pub with a bit of a café feel to it, and it’s warm enough to sit outside, admiring the river view.

The ladies make an early move, as Jenny has to pick up tickets for the Hereford game next week. Fortunately, the queue is very short, unlike the one to collect pre-ordered home shirts, which snakes impressively along the concourse. We spot Steve Exley, waiting to pick up a shirt for Kiran, who’s already taking a large adult size. Steve reckons he and I should have done some kind of deal, as I fit the largest junior size and therefore pay the junior price!

Robert has driven over for the game and is in his seat when I arrive. There’s a small but noisy Crewe following – there’s nothing for them to play for, and so no real inclination to travel in numbers. For us, the maths is simple – two more points will absolutely guarantee a play-off place, though a win today would be nice. We start with purpose, while Crewe seem content to play on the counter attac. The closest either side comes in the half is hitting the bar; apart from that, both keepers only have one shot to save.

Everything changes when the weather does. Richard Lee, rattling through the Fifty-fifty numbers and the answer to the ‘this was the top five, but in which year?’ competition, announces that the rain is on its way in minutes. When it does, it’s less rain and more a mini-monsoon. Water is soon standing on the pitch, and if it wasn’t so late in the season with no real opportunity to reschedule the game, there’s a good chance this would be called off. Walker (who still seems to be suffering from the knock he picked up last week) and Marshall are replaced by Bell-Baggie and Broughton. The change nearly pays off, but Alfie insists on shooting, hitting the side netting, when passing to an unmarked Broughton would surely have led to a goal, while Broughton himself loses his footing on the sodden turf when in on goal. Crewe also have chances, but the game has pretty much been reduced to a farce by the freak weather.

Despite requests not to, at the final whistle there’s a soggy pitch invasion. The players are due to come out for the traditional hundred yards of the track of honour but, collecting a flag which now weighs a good four pounds more than it did dry, we decide against staying to watch it. The London-bound party instead reconvene in the Sheffield Tap, where a large bouncer comes over and tells me they have a no colours policy. (I don’t usually wear a replica shirt on matchdays, but it was today’s unofficial dress code). As I’m removing the shirt, he asks me how we got on. ‘I’m Wednesday,’ he admits. ‘We’ll be playing you lot next year.’

The good news is that, thanks to other results, not only are we definitely in the play-offs, with Morecambe and Aldershot playing each other next week, we can’t finish any lower than fifth, meaning the home leg will be mid-week. However, things are so tight that our opposition could be any one of about seven clubs – either of the aforementioned teams, Dagenham, Cheaterfield, Bury, Port Vale or Northampton. Exciting, eh?

Back in London, Chris, Jenny and I meet Ted for a drink at the Betjeman. Darlo have beaten Macc and he’s already planning his trip back there next season – either with us if we don’t go up or, failing that, on a weekend when the Quakers are somewhere he doesn’t fancy visiting. We colonise the comfy sofas outside, which is pleasant until a group of Belgian schoolchildren fresh off the Eurostar start charging around. As with all such parties, their parents/teachers have sent them away to play so they can have a pint in peace. Zut alors!