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...