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!