May 1992

The cigarette is simmering as I move with a shaking hand, the sixth pint of bitter towards my mouth.
The clock above the bar is ticking. 2:45 the time says and the pub is emptying. One chap, sporting the yellow and black strip from the glorious 1982/83 season, belches loudly.
'C'ON the Stone,' he yells. Several chaps slam their pint glasses on the wooden bar noting that they will see the landlord after the game. The landlord Keith nods to the men then, with his customary beaming smile, grabs his Leighstone scarf and is soon out the door and into the May sunshine, followed closely by his daughter.
My stomach is skipping as I neck the last drops of my drink. As each second passes, I am playing out a number of different scenarios in my head. John Williams, our captain and longest serving player with a header in injury time and our fans on the pitch. Chris Greaves, our goalkeeper saving a late penalty, or our eleven men camping inside our box as Hereford United, the day's opposition and a team with nothing to play for, press forward trying to break the deadlock. Then an old chap in front, his flat cap perched half off his head pulling the radio away from his ear and yelling 'Aldershot have lost, we are safe,' and the crowd roaring in delight as friends, family and strangers jumpt around celebrating the great escape. Then I blink the fantasies away, 'what will be will be,' I say to myself. But then I consider what it could be, failure to win and Leighstone's proud 105 year old history as a football league club could be over.
I repeat each scenario out in my head, each time arriving back at the same conclusion, Leighstone Athletic simply have to beat Hereford today otherwise our fate will be out of our hands. My legs are feeling numb, and, despite the beer, my stomach skips and flutters as I remind myself how good it will feel if we win. If not, and the worst happenes, then so be it, I be back again next season.
I need to piss for what feels like the hundredth time. I stub out the cigarette and head to the gents, my shoes are sticking to the beer stained, dark red carpet as I walk towards the toilets. As I reach them the door swings open, and I have to duck back to stop it catching me, and a large chap stumbles out the door, belching loudly. He eyes me up and down, then grins, 'yellow and black army,' he says, plastering me with the smell of stale beer. 'Been out since ten son, gonna win today, I can feel it.' Then, he leans down coughing, and pulls a cigarette from a crumpled packet and places one in his mouth, before fumbling around for a lighter, eventually locating it in his back pocket. He lights up, takes a long drag and then grins at me, 'and then Medford Town lose in the playoffs, will ... will dick them next season.'
I do not know what to say, aside from that our hated local rivals and their venture into the Division Four playoffs is the least of our worries. So I just look at him and simply say, 'yes, up the Stone.' Then head in and take a large piss, staring in front at the yellow walls, stained with tobacco and Christ knows what else. As I stare my body quivers with nerves. Hands washed, a deep breath and then I look in the mirror before walking out of the pub, lighting up another smoke with Al and Jimmy at my side. Crossing the street and then the next road, then we can see it, hear it and feel it. The distant bustling of the tannoy, the singing from inside and there is it, the walls and roof of the North Stand appearing in our eyesight, Derwent Road, our place, our ground, our home.
All around me fans are surging up the road, wearing our colours, yellow and black, the colours of Leighstone Athletic FC. Voices are talking nervously; someone waves a rattle whilst his mate bangs a drum. Several grown men walk past, one draped in a Union Jack and covered in yellow and black face paint and a ludicrous yellow and black wig. Children walk by, their necks draped in club scarves, holding on to their father's hand as he glances down at the matchday programme. Burger vans are humming on the road, the meat sizzling on the dirty grill and the unmistakable smell of frying onions hangs in the air. Men and women are standing around in bunched up queues, ordering the vile fast food as the sound of our local radio station ripples and hums loudly from the back of one of the vans.

Radio Paveshire, Derek Mills reporting and it is D-Day at Derwent Road, Leighstone Athletic need a win today to guarantee their stay in the football league ...'


The revelation is not a new one, but it makes my heart skip all the same, as we join the queue outside the turnstile for North B, the terrace I have stood on since I was six years old. I can hear the murmuring of the crowd inside the ground growing clearer now, it is pushing 3'o clock, and the players will be out any minute. To my left a man on the programme stall hands over a pound and buys the last one. 'Sold Out,' the programme boy yells loudly, and several disappointed people turn away, joining the back of the queue I am standing in.
'Not seen it this busy for a good while,' Al says, 'not since Charlton in the Cup a couple of years ago. Your dad not here Tel?       
'He will be in the Dave Banks stand,' I say gesturing towards the large new stand to the left. It is the ground's pride and joy, stretching down the full length of the pitch with new orange and black plastic seats. It had been constructed throughout the previous season and opened back in August. Dave Banks being the name of our legendary manager who got us up to Division Tow in 1976 and then a couple of years later to the FA Cup Semi Final. I could remember those days very well, and often, especially in these later days of struggle, recalled them in huge detail. However, now was not the time to be thinking on better days. 'My Grandad had his op last week, says he won't be able to stand on a packed terrace, so he, my dad and uncle are sitting.
'Is your Grandad well enough to be here?' Al asks looking slightly bemused.
'Probably not,' I say with grinning affection, 'but you try and stop him coming today. They will all be in the Royal George after as well. If we need cheering up after we can ask them to retell the story of the time my dad and uncle skipped school to go and watch us play at Bournemouth in the league cup.
'Brilliant,' Al says, 'I never get bored of that story.'
'Reckon it could be a sell out?' Jimmy asks as he looks around at the growing queues at the next turnstile.
'Our fans always come out for important games,' I say, as I spot a congregation of Hereford supporters, singing and enjoying the occasion, knowing their team is under no pressure on this day, being herded towards the away end by several mounted police. Far off I hear several police sirens.
'Easily more here than there was for the Medford Town game I reckon, if it doesn't sell out it won't be far off.'
Behind me I hear someone talking jovially, 'ah well, if we lose we get Slough as our local rivals and we will be the biggest team in the conference.'
Several people laugh, I don't see the funny side.

My ticket rustles as I slide it over to Arthur on the turnstile. Sitting there with his flat cap, red wrinkling face and short gray hair, his pipe producing dark smoke that fills the air with the smell of tobacco. At 78 years of age he still insists on working the turnstiles and has done since he returned from the war in 1945. The word is that he attended his first Leighstone game in 1914, when he was a three week old baby. Arthur collects the ticket and puts it on a large pile next to a separate pile of coins and notes. Then he nods with a grin and presses the leaver with his foot, I push and the steel turnstile clicks and then I am in, Cigar smoke, urine, coffee, alcohol, the smell of them all hits me in different waves as I pass the refreshment bar, then the roofless cubicles. Then it is up the small set of steps, the sound of the crowd growing louder and then I am there, looking down from the corner of North Stand B, staring out at the turf, which has turned brown and is covered in sand. The result of a snowy January and a soaking wet February. The stand is nearly full, and so is the rest of the ground, even North Stand A, the seating tier above stand B appears pretty full from what I can see. To my left, the Dave Banks stand is crammed as well, some fans unable to find or route out their seats are simply standing on the steps. Meanwhile, close by, some people are shoving past me, and wandering down before becoming lost in a sea of bobble hats, scarves and shirts, muttering, staring, many no doubt praying.
I glance over at the East Stand, the low roofed away stand on the opposite touchline. There are already a good number of Hereford fans in there I see. Their supporters, 800 strong I reckon, are singing, though I can't hear what amid the hubbub around me. Seconds later they are passing a banner down the stand as their mascot, some poor soul clan in a cartoon like bull suit salutes and encourages the away supporters who cheer back at him. I consider a cigarette, but push the idea from my mind, it will be impossible to even consider smoking on the packed terrace. So, with a yell of 'come on the Stone,' me, Jimmy and Al shuffle down, moving forwards, then sideways and knocking people, until we reach the centre of the terrace. Up above the boards at the back of the old clatter and bang, then there is a roar ....

'ATHLETIC .... ATHLETIC'

It drifts down the stand and then on to our terrace. We roar it with the top of our voices as the stadium announcer, Phil Green, walks onto the pitch and glances around, remaining silent. Fans are beginning to shout with anticipation, until Green lets go and yells out the two teams and the terrace erupts as the players enter the pitch. Two small mascots clad in yellow and black are leading the players out. My nerves evaporate and are replaced by pure adrenalin.

'Come on the Stone.'