Davies

I’ve lost me voice again, and it’s only September.

Here’s what nobody tells you about the seats: you see about half of it. The other half you hear, or you find out on your phone at half-time. So don’t ask me for a match report. The lads with the replays can do that. I’ll tell you what it was like.

After Leeds I was hard to live with. I’m walking up from the Metro, mild for September, onions frying outside the ground, and nobody’s saying much: Hull unbeaten, lads out injured all over the place, bairns from the academy on the bench. The bloke behind me is already moaning about the ref, and the ref hasn’t even walked out yet.

Then the teams come out, the whole ground’s singing, and I’ll be honest, I needed that more than I’d have told you.

Barely three minutes gone and there’s a roar, and I’m on me feet before I know why. Somebody shouts “Willock!” Right. Willock. Lovely. Then it goes again, and this time I actually see it, a lad winning the ball deep, a one-two, and he’s motoring up the pitch like he’s late for a bus, and it’s in the corner. Left-back. Hall! Two-nil, and I’m hugging a stranger and checking me watch, because we’ve been here before and every one of us knows it. Nobody say it. Nobody say it.

Then the penalty, and I’m going to be straight with you: I’ve no idea why we got it. I’m at the wrong end of the ground for that one. Murphy’s on the floor, the ref’s pointing, and I’m cheering like I know what’s going on. Then the ref stands there with his finger to his ear for what feels like a week and the whole stadium’s got a theory. Dive. Foul. Joke. Not a joke. I turned to me mate and he said, “He’s been clipped,” and I said, “Where?” and he said, “Somewhere.” That’s football, that is.

Wissa takes it and I can’t look, so I look at the bloke next to me, and his face tells me the lot. Saved. The groan that came out of this place! Nobody had a go at Wissa, mind, we just went “aw, man” all together like a big sad choir. I said to me mate, that’s coming back to haunt us.

Half-time, queue for the pies, and me mate’s showing me a clip on his phone. Somebody had hold of Murphy’s foot. His foot! From where I’m sat I’d have needed a telescope. “Take it,” I said. Behind me the bloke says it was never a pen, same as he’s said about every penalty since the Keegan days.

Second half, and something’s changed. They’re coming at us and ours are slower, I can see it from here, I can practically see them breathing. Steur goes off and the whole ground stands, and I stood too, and I never stand for anyone before the final whistle. Lovely lad, calm as you like. But I’ve seen bairns come and go in this shirt, man, and I’ll wait till he’s done it a few more times before I start ordering the statue.

Then they score, and I’m not going to pretend I saw it. Something goes wrong in the middle, someone loses it, their lad’s away, and the away end’s on its feet before I’ve worked out what’s happened. Found out after it was young Miley, a minute after they’d shoved him into midfield. Don’t you dare. He’d been class all day and it’s one slip.

Then our gaffer goes to three at the back and I say “no” out loud, to nobody. Nobody wants three at the back. But what’s he supposed to do, bring on Monty Magpie? The bench is full of bairns. I’ll let him off.

And then the last stretch, and I don’t remember breathing. Every ball comes back at us, the bloke next to me has his scarf wrapped round his face, and there’s a kid two rows down asking his dad what’s happening while his dad says “nowt, it’s fine,” and it is not fine. Somebody throws a foot in front of goal, somebody gets a leg to a shot, and I’m looking through me fingers like a kid at the pictures. The whole ground’s whistling for the ref to end it, every one of us. The board goes up for added time and it’s loads, felt like a week, and their keeper’s up for a corner, up for a corner, and I’m staring at me shoes.

Then the whistle. Not a roar, not at first. One great big breath out, and then the roar. I hugged the bloke behind me, the one who’s been telling us we’re doomed since the teams came out.

Man of the match? You’ll get folk saying Hall, and fair play, he scored. You’ll get the lads who’ve watched it back on telly telling you who ran where. I don’t need a replay. Barnes. Ninety minutes and he was still asking for the ball when everyone else’s legs had gone. That’s my man. Hall can have second.

After Leeds I just wanted them to look like they cared. They cared. Pardo’s legs went, Steur’s legs went, and that’s not a bad thing to see in your lads. Break now, then Coventry. Hull get Everton. I’ll worry about it next month. Tonight I’m finding a pint, me voice is shot, and I wouldn’t swap it.

Howay the lads.

Davies Robson is a fictional character, giving the fan’s-eye view from the terraces.

I need a pint. Several pints. Give us a minute before I even start this.

Elland Road’s a proper ground, I’ll give them that much and not a word more. Old brick, tight corners, none of your soulless new-build nonsense — the kind of place that’s been putting the fear into away fans since before any of us were born. We’re rammed into the corner of the West Stand and even before kick-off you can hear that home end going, Marching On Together, over and over, louder every time, and it gets in your chest whether you like it or not. Dry night, mild, no rain — so no, don’t even try telling me the weather did us in. We did us in.

Six minutes. Six minutes is all it takes to turn a decent night out into a bloody disaster. A deflection, then another deflection, in off one of our own lads twice basically, and I’m stood there like an absolute mug thinking, fine, unlucky, these things happen, we’ll be alright. Then a header goes in that shouldn’t have counted for toffee and it’s two, and I’m not thinking “unlucky” any more, I’m swearing my head off at nobody in particular because there’s nobody else to swear at. Third one goes in right on the whistle and honestly, half of me wanted to walk straight out there and then. Three-nil at half-time away at bloody Leeds. Elland Road bouncing, absolutely loving it, and us just stood there taking it on the chin like a pack of mugs who paid good money and took a day off work to watch this.

I was livid. Proper livid. Not the “oh well” kind, the kind where you’re shouting at strangers and not even caring how it sounds. Some individual mistakes in there I won’t repeat what I called them at the time, not in print anyway.

Second half we finally turned up, and for twenty minutes I let myself hope, God help me. Big roar when the subs came on, proper eruption when one of them cracked the bar, whole end up on its feet before the ball’s even landed. Then they go and score a fourth right in the middle of it and it’s like getting your pint knocked out your hand — you weren’t even doing anything wrong, it just happens to you. Some absolute muppets started leaving after that. Didn’t blame them. Wanted to join them, if I’m honest.

Scored a consolation at the death and I was up cheering like a lunatic over absolutely nothing, because that’s what you’re reduced to by that point — four-one’s four-one, doesn’t matter how you dress it up, but I’ll take one daft cheer over ninety minutes of silence any day of the week.

Walked out of there properly seething. Not at the lads giving everything, at the manner of it — getting bullied, pushed about, made to look like a Sunday league side by a team who simply wanted it more for an hour. That should not happen. Not to us, not at any level, not ever, and I don’t care how new the manager is. Long drive home, nobody said a word till Wetherby, work at half eight the next morning after that. Brilliant.

Right. Head’s talking now, because somebody’s got to. It’s early days. New manager, barely five minutes into the job, and this is the kind of night that happens to a team still figuring itself out — I know that, I do. He’s earned a bit of rope, and I’ll give it to him.

But I’ll tell you what — I’m sick to the back teeth of “early days,” and I’m sick of being patient, and if I have to watch us get run over like that again I’m not going to be nearly this reasonable about it. Give him his time. He’ll get it. I’ll just be effing and blinding at the telly the whole way through, same as I was tonight. Hull at home Saturday. Better be better than this. Has to be.

Davies Robson is a fictional character, giving the fan’s-eye view from the terraces.