FOOTBALL CLUB WORLD

The 16th of May 2010 is a day that will be fondly remembered forever by supporters of Oxford United.

The season had seen us top the division for the majority of the year, before we had dramatically collapsed in a way Oxford United only know how. The mid-season slide down the table was prompted by a debacle at Kenilworth Road where we conceded two injury time goals. As a result, we were back in the dreaded play-offs. This is the place that can spark either utter joy or depressing misery in a football fan depending on its outcome. Thankfully we passed our first test, in the semi final, thus avoiding that hollow nothingness that followed after our previous play-off semi final in 2007. Here we crashed out in the cruellest of fashions, in a penalty shootout, to Exeter City. A tactical masterstroke by manager Chris Wilder, reverting from 4-4-2 to 4-3-3 saw us comfortably brush aside an unimpressive Rushden & Diamonds over the two legs.

So there we were, back at Wembley. That day, Saturday the 16th of May, was a day when all fans of Oxford United came together. The M40 on the way to High Wycombe station was a sea of yellow; scarves were draped out of cars, while Oxford banners attached to bridges flittered in the wind. At Wembley Stadium itself, the pubs in the vicinity were packed with Oxford supporters. There were fans of old in retro shirts, the yellow fading, sipping on a bitter reminiscing about our last outing at Wembley in 1986. Then there were the hardcore, the ones that had been to Barrow and Gateshead who were dealing with their nerves by sinking lagers and belting out Oxford chants. There were whole families on a day out, their young, excitable children kitted out in the latest replica shirt. In the corner were those that had watched the U’s avidly during the glorious 80’s that had been dragged out of retirement for one last hurrah. This was a day of togetherness, when all fans of Oxford were united.

See, we had suffered like no other club. The last ten years, had quite simply, been a total disaster. In 2001, we entered the basement of the football league, having been relegated suffering a record 33 defeats and conceding 100 goals. At that stage, we even chanted about how rubbish we were. Once in the lowest tier of English football, we tried every formula seemingly possible to galvanise the side. The long ball game under Ian Atkins, where players pumped the ball up to sluggish carthorse, Julian Alsop up front, appeared to be paying off for some time until it became too predictable. Alsop, incidentally left the club in acrimonious circumstances for attempting to insert a banana up a youth player’s bottom. The pretty football that followed under Graham Rix was attractive on the eye, but ineffective in bringing about results. We even tried to bring in some Argentinean flair, in the shape of Ramon Diaz. What followed was a bizarre mix of overweight, skilful foreigners plying their trade aside hurly-burly workhorse Englishmen. Diaz left, however as failed to obtain a work permit. Brian Talbot came next. He was just no good. We were drifting into obscurity, to the dark depths of the Conference. So we played our last trick, which was to bring back the man who had led us in our glory years, Jim Smith. The gamble did not pay off. Following a home defeat to Leyton Orient, we lost our football league status.

The Conference, or the Blue Square Premier to be precise, is a league where no football fan wishes to see their team. The fixture list, including the likes of St. Albans and Lewes does not exactly set the pulse racing. Some grounds, such as Kettering Town’s Elgoods Brewery Arena, did not even possess a toilet. It was a leak on the wall job. We hoped, and secretly thought that we were too good for the league. We had won the Milk Cup for goodness sake. However, after our penalty shootout play-off heartache in our first season, the next two seasons had seen us slip into mid-table mediocrity. We were regressing. We had become the ultimate nothing club. A point on the road to Histon was viewed more as a point gained, than one lost. Yet a revival under our 13th manager (including caretakers) in 10 seasons, Chris Wilder, had now given us that chance to return to the Promised Land.

Wembley Stadium was a cacophony of noise. The fans had now moved from the pubs and the ground was awash with yellow. We had brought a staggering 33,000 fans to York City’s 7,000. There were roars from the Oxford faithful echoing round all corners of the enormous arena. Familiar faces met your every turn. We shared a mixture of excitement and anticipation, yet underneath the nerves were jangling. Amid the din and the torrential rain, the match finally got underway.

Wilder had opted for an unchanged line-up from the semi-final games and we started at a ferocious pace, zipping the ball about with purpose on the damp Wembley pitch. After fifteen dominant minutes, our pressure eventually told. Confusion in the York area saw the ball drop to Matt Green on the edge of the box, who swivelled and lashed home a half-volley into the roof of the net. We were sent into delirium. Four minutes later, it got even better. Our talisman James Constable was sent through and clinically placed the ball past Michael Ingram in the York goal. 2-0. Deafening noise came from the Oxford contingent. Grown men slapped each other on the back, children were lifted into the air and the old-timers let out a relieved smile. Half-time was approaching. We had battered York. Then, disaster struck. Player of the season and ever-reliable goalkeeper Ryan Clark dropped the slimy ball into his net off a corner. The smiling faces had been replaced by head in hands. That horrible, inevitable feeling that comes with watching Oxford United had returned: we were going to throw away a lead from a position of dominance. I thought of the games against Gateshead, Hayes & Yeading, Ebbsfleet...Please, God. No.

The second half was nervy and tense. The enjoyment of the first half was now but a distant memory. York had found their feet; that fortunate opening had given them the confidence to express themselves. The game had become an equal contest. The next goal was crucial. York had two clear openings, but squandered them both. It was beginning to be painful to watch. I was breathing deeply and chewing frantically at my fingernails. Ten minutes left. Five. We were nearly there. Then in stoppage time, York were awarded a corner and in their desperate attempt to find an equaliser pushed their whole team forward, bar one defender. The looped ball was headed clear and fell to Alfie Potter, who sprung a counter attack with Sam Deering. After a series of one-twos, Deering passed the ball across the face of the box for Potter to guide into gaping net.

Ten painful years banished in an instant. Heartache and hurt was suddenly taken over by joy and elation. We had plummeted to the depths of depression, yet now it was all over. There was noise everywhere; there were tears, beaming faces and fists punching the Wembley air. The diehards tore down the Wembley stairs their arms aloft; families jumped up and down hugging one another, while the old-timers just lifted their heads skywards and smiled.

Oxford United were back where they belong.