Steel City Rivals - One City. Two Football Clubs, One Mutually Shared Hatred. Steve Cowens

was unreal, our boys were scattered all around the ground, with the largest group of around 250 situated in the John Street terrace. A young United lad came down the steps of the stand with blood running from his nose. I shouted over to him and he told me he’d been twatted outside by Wednesday. Then, seconds later, a Wednesday lad called Lebby who I knew pretty well walked down the steps with his mate. Sometimes, in the game I was in, you get carried away and I did on this day. I threatened Lebby and went across the seats towards him. He looked at me as if to say, ‘What are you doing?’ Lebby was old school and always frontlined for Wednesday on the streets and I should have given him a bit more respect than I did.

      A few weeks later, I bumped into him in town and was man enough to go over and apologise and buy him a shandy!

      Anyhow, at the match, another United youngster came down the stand and shouted to me that Wednesday were in the concourse at the back of the South Stand. I immediately jumped up and ran up the steps, only pausing briefly to shout to Tap, Lewis, Pud, Tiler and a few others. Without really thinking or waiting for that matter, I ran down the gangway on to the concourse. To my left and towards United’s Kop stood around 40 Wednesday. I started jogging over towards them. They were all stood around eating pies and drinking Bovril. It was most of Wednesday’s main firm with no bits of kids with them. A quick glimpse back and I realised I was on my own, for the time being at least. A few Wednesday spotted me and fanned out with their arms outstretched. I continued my jog, then thought, fuck it, in for a penny in for a pound. I just steamed in. My arms and legs were going like the clappers as I fought with Wednesday. I was just thinking how well I’d done to stay on my feet for so long when, under a barrage of punches, kicks, pies and Bovril, I went down. Immediately, I tried to get back up but the boots were flying in and the old hands over the head and face was my only option until the much needed help came. A shout of ‘Come on’ confirmed reinforcements had arrived. Tiler, Luey, Tap and around six or seven more came steaming in.

      I jumped back to my feet and it was game on. We were well outnumbered but the lads we had fighting were all game as fuck, plus, as the concourse wasn’t that wide, we could go toe-to-toe with Wednesday’s frontline. Fists and boots lashed out as we battled it out with each other, neither side giving an inch. Wednesday were getting in each other’s way but we had more room to manoeuvre. I ran in a couple of times landing punches as I did. Then I caught sight of someone coming from the side of me; just in time I threw a right-hander, which connected sweetly. As he reeled back, I realised it was Mifter, a lad I knew reasonably well. He’s a handy lad and, fair play, he knew the score, no love lost in battle.

      Stewards and police came flying in and it was time to ring the bell on this tear-up. The match had kicked off, so we took up our seats.

      By half-time, word had spread around the South Stand. I didn’t need a pie as I had enough during the first half as I picked lumps of steak and pastry off my coat. Around 30–40 had wormed our way through the crowd towards where Wednesday were. The OB were all over the shop but let us mingle together; a few insults were exchanged but there was no violence, as one punch would mean one arrest. I saw Mifter, and his eye was completely closed. I said to him there was no offence; he just nodded but naturally looked a bit pissed off. If I had copped for one, then I wouldn’t have held any grudge and nor did Mifter.

      Lads were giving each other grief: ‘You’re shit, Wednesday.’ ‘Fuck off, Bertie, we’ll see you up West Street later.’ ‘Me and you, let’s take a walk,’ and so on.

      A lot of plain-clothes plod mingled in and both firms’ footie coppers kept a close eye on who was doing and saying what. The game finished with a very up-for-it United team beating the much more fancied Wednesday outfit 2–0 (Whitehouse and Deane). The Blades had four Sheffield lads in the squad, Bradshaw, Ward, Hoyland and Dane Whitehouse. Not only were they Sheffield lads but they were all avid Blades fans and can be seen at the Lane from time to time with Dane not missing many games.

      To me, that was the difference in the two teams: passion. In an extraordinary moment during the second half, Wednesday’s Nigel Jemson was punched on the touchline by a Blade who took a dislike to him. I knew the lad who did it and he was carted off to the cells. He never got banned or even had to go to court. When I asked him later why he’d punched Jemson, he said that he hated Wednesday. Fair enough.

      A lot of United’s lads headed up Ecclesall Road afterwards, for two reasons: Wednesday might be knocking around up there but the main reason was we wanted to celebrate and there was plenty of licensed burger bars where we could have a beer or ten. The beer flowed and the singing began, with everyone in great spirits.

      Walk tall, walk straight and look the world right in the eye, That’s what my momma told me, when I was about knee high, She said, sonny, you’re a Blades fan, so hold your head up high. And as you’re walking down the street, poke a pig fan in the eye.

      As usual, a few did one without paying. Later that night, we went around town and headed up West Street in search of our foe. Wednesday must have gone home with their little pink curly tails placed firmly between their legs.