Happy, Happy, Joy, Joy

According to an item on the breakfast news, today is supposed to be the happiest day of the year. It’s something to do with nice weather, the possibility of impending holidays and the like. No mention of the new season, which is the reason why the clans are gathering at St Pancras once more, discussing new signings (or the lack) of and their team’s prospects for the coming year. I’m travelling up with Jenny, Steve Ducker, Chris Turner and Clarkey. Jenny and Chris were in Amsterdam last weekend, as part of the London Millers’ annual trip to see Yorkshire play the Netherlands at cricket. We’ll gloss over the result of that one…

By the time we’re hitting the outskirts of Sheffield, it’s like we’ve never been away. There’s no sign of the torrential rain promised on the weather forecast, which up the happiness quotient, though it’s lowered again by the sight of a very dead, very squashed rat in the road just by the Shalesmoor roundabout. Which, admittedly, is preferable to seeing a live one.

We’re joined by Phil in the Fat Cat, where it’s very nearly steak pie all round (indeed, there was probably more discussion of the pie on our way up than there was of our chances against Oxford). The kitchen staff have not let their culinary standards slip over the summer, you’ll be pleased to hear.

The Kirkland family arrive while we’re stuffing our faces. The last time we saw Chris’ mum was when she and John decided to make a weekend of it on the outskirts of Burton, and as ever she’ll be keeping well away from the game today. Jenny and I make an early exit, as we need to get down to the DVS to collect our season tickets (hers is waiting in the ticket office, while my dad has mine). A bunch of Oxford fans on the tram are getting very excited about the fact AFC Wimbledon have just equalised against Bristol Rovers. Until today, I’d never been aware of any long-standing rivalry between the Us and the Pirates, so if anyone can shed any light on that, please do. It all becomes irrelevant anyway, as Rovers go on to win the game.

There’s a definite buzz outside the turnstiles, and so many people have already turned up that Jenny fails to get a programme. Presumably as we’re going to have so many unfamiliar players on display, people feel the need to see the squad list so they know who they’re watching. While I’m waiting for my dad, Chris Burrows arrives. The rest of our posse are on the way to Attercliffe, so he’s going to wait and go in with them.

Once my ticket has been ceremonially handed over, it’s off to put up the flag, which has had its summer wash. (Biological powder, 40 degrees, no pre-wash, since you ask.) As Jenny and I are finishing taping it in place, some of the non-playing players turn up to sit by it, but without a programme the squad numbers on their tracksuit are no help in identifying them. Though we think one of them is Johnny Mullins, whose Rotherham career the London Millers will be finishing by sponsoring him this year – sorry, Johnny!

The pre-match build-up and arrival of the teams now appears to come with added Chase The Sun by Planet Funk, better known as ‘that song from the darts’. Surveying the line-ups, the new players in the starting eleven include keeper Conrad Logan, on loan from Leicester and a particular favourite of Ted’s chum John (ahem), Troy Brown, Danny Schofield, Chris Holroyd and Lewis Grabban. However, the shaven individual at left back isn’t a newcomer. Instead, Tom Newey’s had a rather radical haircut that won’t spoil his pretty-boy good looks.

Oxford also have a number of new signings, the most recognisable being Michael Duberry, last seen getting sent off for trying to bisect Will Hoskins at the knees while playing for Stoke. They seem bigger and more solid than last season, and the man sitting behind us is certainly impressed. He keeps up a non-stop stream of random conversation to his friend, spending the first ten minutes or so repeatedly opining, ‘These lot are going to beat us, because these lot are class.’ When an Oxford player puts a free header wide, he exclaims, ‘You know who’d have scored that? Andy Gray. Joe Royle. The Royle Family. Ricky Tomlinson…’ If this was a Harry Pearson book, he’d come across as an endearing eccentric. Instead, he’s just a pain. The man to my left looks like he’d swap his life savings for a pair of earplugs at this moment. ‘At least he’ll never get lockjaw,’ my dad comments. When he and his friend go for refreshments at half-time, my dad looks round, establishes his seat is empty and, with a well-timed pause, says, ‘Thank goodness for that. I thought I’d gone deaf.’

On the pitch, things are slightly less frantic. Oxford’s early spell of possession has come to nothing, their best chance being when they hit the post and Duberry spoons the rebound over the bar. In return, their keeper is forced to make a fingertip save that keeps the scores level at half-time. So far, Schofield has looked the pick of the new players, but Grabban, Holroyd and Alfie are combining well as a front three, and of the old players, Danny Harrison in particular looks reinvigorated. The London Miller boys are sitting about three rows from the front, and Clarkey’s thrown the ball back when it came into the crowd at one point. Ted needs to enlighten him on the art of heading it back. Over the summer, the Football League has done away with the multi-ball system. While this prevents certain managers cough Alan Pardew cough taking away all the spare balls when their team takes the lead, it means our tiny ball boys spend forever chasing the ball over the running track. Please don’t view this as any kind of time-wasting tactic. If we wanted to waste time, we'd lure Neil Cutler out of retirement to go back in goal...

The Millerettes haven’t gone away, and are probably still basking in the glow of being voted the league’s best cheerleaders. They do their thing while the new Mayor of Rotherham performs the half-time draw. Top-notch entertainment as always.

Oxford are out well in advance of the second half, but if they’ve had a stern talking-to by manager Chris Wilder (ex-Rotherham player in charge of Oxford, while Andy Scott having played for Oxford provides delicious symmetry), it hasn’t worked. Within a couple of minutes, we’ve taken the lead, when Jason Taylor threads a ball through the midfield and when Grabban picks it up, he scores with a beautiful, powerful side-footed shot.

This rouses Oxford, who press for an equaliser. They fizz the ball across the box from a corner, but no one connects with it. We make a couple of substitutions, Gareth Evans coming on for Holroyd and having an attempt on goal from distance that just goes over the bar. Grabban has a great shot well saved by the Oxford keeper, and apart from one chance very close to the end, Oxford don’t look like getting back into the game. The man behind us with the verbal diarrhoea has now decided we’re the ones who are ‘class’, though his opinions are still surrounded by what the man to my left calls ‘the longest suicide note in history’.

It’s a toss-up whether the most remarkable moment of the ninety minutes is the sponsors’ man of the match award going to Jason Taylor, to general disbelief (he’s not had a bad game by any means, but obviously the crowd don’t agree with today’s sponsors, who we reckon are Jason Taylor’s parents) or the sight of Alfie chasing back sixty yards to try and get the ball off an Oxford player.

Both Jenny and Clarkey are staying up in Rotherham for a few days, so Chris T, Steve and I head for a quick drink in the Old Queen’s Head, where the TV screen is showing Leeds going two down to Southampton, to almost general approval, before catching the train. Chris gets into conversation with a Wednesday fan and his son, who tell us to look out for David Prutton’s goal on the highlights as by all accounts it’s a cracker. Chris, naturally, tells them the same about Grabban’s. It also appears Chris O’Grady, better known to Rotherham fans as O’Greedy for refusing to defer his wages in our time of crisis, is about to join the Wendies. Chris declines to comment…

Somewhere outside Leicester, a rainbow appears in an unbroken arch. The gold is buried in Oadby, unless my compass is off. It might not have been the happiest day of the year, but all things told, we’re pretty content.