Sheffield Wednesday (h) – The ACN Review

Some time ago, in what seems so long ago it may as well be another century, I wrote about the “glass dome” effect that watching a football match in a stadium can provide. For when you are there, the constant bombardment of modern life, just for that brief couple of hours, simply freezes – as nothing else matters in the world except for what is happening in front and around you in the stadium.

I am reminded of this now, as I sit here in the 35th minute of this football match. I am in a place I would never sit in at any time of my life, were it not for the extraordinary bizarre and unprecedented circumstances that we find ourselves in: the away end at Carrow Road.

To my right is the wall of the South Stand, only adorned now by a few forlorn looking stickers that couldn’t be peeled off. A Brentford Bee. A Watford sticker with a cartoon Elton John. A red one that I can’t quite figure out as the text had faded to the elements long ago. Behind, just a few rows, is the back of the stand. Directly in front of me is the touchline and just to the right of this, behind the giant video screen and its adverts for car dealerships and accountancy firms, is the empty Barclay Stand and the feeling of melancholy that comes to me with each glance at it.

Looking to my left, and beyond the pitch behind the always awkwardly small looking City Stand, I have a view of the most glorious winter sunset. The palette of pinks and blues on the lightest touch of clouds provides the skyline to one of the best views in all of Norwich. The cathedral of course. There’s the castle just poking up above the roof. There’s City Hall. Some tall office buildings. The brutalist, kitchen sink charm of the Rouen Road tower block. The River End floodlight with all of the practical beauty we know a floodlight can provide. The winter air is still. Cold. Steam from heating condensers and outlet pipes rise in vertical columns and provide the scene with a frosty, chilly, LS Lowry filter. Birds occasionally darting this way and that in small flocks.

I am seeing this, watching it. Drinking it in as the match plays out it in front of me. I realise for the first time in a long, long time, the worries and the anxiety of that very outside world I am seeing are melting away from my mind. The weight on my head and my shoulders is slowly falling away to the floor. All of those buildings, with their watercolour hue and look of complete stillness, are nothing but the backdrop to what is in front of me. It is the outside. And at this moment the outside does not matter. It is just there to provide the colour.

Milling around the concourse before kick off, I am jumpy and unsure as to what to do with myself. There’s a lot of space, everyone is wearing their mask and stickers and guidelines and stewards are telling us all where to go and what to do to be safe. During my entire time inside or outside of the ground, I literally do not come within 2m of anyone for any noticeable length of time. Hungry, I buy a pie and a Fanta and take it to my seat. There’s a bit of a party atmosphere in the stand. Delia and Michael come over to do a presentation for Marco Stiepermann, the occasionally maligned midfielder is making his 100th appearance and is given a nice picture frame of top moments from his career with us. Unlike a small cup, medal or glass trophy, the warm and personal touch with the picture frame is something that only Delia and Michael could provide, and this hits me a little. Not for the first and last time in the afternoon, I swallow a lump building in my throat which rises again as they start a chant of On The Ball City. It’s a good, paced rendition, with a tone that exposes the fragility of the emotions of everyone singing it. In the back of our minds we are all thinking, I wish there were 25,000 others here to sing it too.

To the extreme right, everyone starts noticing a blue and white striped shirt hanging from one of the hotel windows and, behind it standing in a frame which has been swung open, a Sheffield Wednesday fan beams with the expression that only a man who knows he’s found a loophole or tricked the rulebook can have. He raises his can of lager to the crowd, and, with nowhere available to have easily had a drink in the City pre-match, I can’t help but feel a pang of jealousy over this as I take a swig of my sugary sobering bottle of Fanta.

The match itself, almost as an afterthought, kicks off to the echoed cries of the 2,000 willing to make any sort of noise they can. I remember, with a bit of a shock to the realisation as to what I was supposed to be here to watch, that this is a massive game for City. The ghosts of a poor performance away at Luton in the week, as a result of an injury crisis only Norwich could have, really need to be laid to rest here. Tony Pulis is standing in the opposition dugout like a man who fell into a box in the Hillsborough club shop storeroom and, as such, breaking through the blue and white bus is going to be a tough job for a team that sometimes finds breaking down defensive sides frustratingly difficult.

I pay little attention to the opening spells in reality though. Instead enjoying the mind emptying exercise of looking around a football ground. I watch the match, and join in with the “you’re shittt ahhhhh” that causes the Wednesday keeper to slice his first goal kick straight out of play, but don’t really take in what is happening or the context behind it. Even with Teemu Pukki having a great chance at the far end, I don’t really consciously think about it being a good chance. I continue to watch the sunset behind the City stand. The stillness that it all looks. Despite everything happening in the world, it just all looks so calm. Like how Earth looks from those photographs taken from the moon. All of the chaos is out there, yet I cannot see it right now.

This mindset is jolted somewhat later in the half when Sheffield Wednesday have a chance that is cleared off the line. From my position looking directly down the touchline (a position I quite like watching football from as there’s something about seeing the exact moment the ball crosses the line), I can see very clearly how close to a goal this is. As is tradition at least a few times a game, City fail to deal with an inswinging corner and a flick from Julian Borner causes me to have that split second conscious thought “that’s a goal how annoying”, before the aforementioned centurion, Stiepermann, appears from nowhere to save this potential disaster with a strong head. There’s a genuine noise of sucking teeth from the stand that leads into one of those delightful little Carrow Road murmous of annoyance. The sounds that only a real football crowd can provide. At the other end there’s not much to shout about as a total dominance of possession leads to not much, with Wednesday doing an excellent job at marking Pukki out of the game.

Half time comes and goes within the blink of an eye. I am cold now. My feet and hands are numb, and I am grateful for bringing my bobble hat with me when I nearly didn’t. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to stay in my seat as instructed and, after the usual flicking around on my phone, the players are back out before I even realise.

The background is dark now and lights start to twinkle. As if to remind us that there’s still only 2,000 in the ground, a noisy motorbike makes itself heard from Koblenz Avenue.

Norwich start to dominate possession once more. But, again once more, Wednesday sponge soak it up with the added instruction to counter when necessary. This happens the first time and I do not think much of it, with a shot that goes flying over the bar. The second time, however, McGovern gets caught in two minds to come out for a cross, leaving Windass to header home one of the most Tony Pulis goals ever scored. The flatness in the stand from this is so raw it’s almost touchable. The fact that there’s no cheering away end adds to this discombobulating feeling, making us check ourselves that the goal really did go in and there was no offside or foul.

Windass’ outstretched arms confirm this for me, and all others. Oh dear. This wasn’t meant to happen.

For the next twenty minutes or so, frustration comes to the head – and finally, a misplaced pass provides it. There it is.

The Carrow Road groan.

This sound, such is the feeling of glorious normalcy that comes with it, is so brilliantly reassuring to hear I genuinely laugh out loud.

Emi Buendia gets frustrated. Everyone starts looking at clocks and watches. Farke, always enjoying his little game of “how long can I annoy people by not making substitutions” decides enough is enough at around the 75th minute. A tired looking Marco off, Josh Martin, all alert sprints and dashes, comes on.

It changes the game.

With the Wednesday defence camped on the line of their own penalty area, and the Norwich attack standing almost opposite each of their markers passing the ball laterally trying to find an opening, I note how much like an American Football style scrimmage line it’s starting to look and say to myself out loud “we can’t get through.” Naturally, as soon as I say this, Mario Vrancic plays a decisive through ball so accurate he wouldn’t have been able to do it better had he drawn the pass on a piece of paper with a protractor. Martin pokes it home.

So there is is then. The first goal celebration I have been involved in for nine months. The number one best thing about going to football matches. Yet, subconsciously I feel a little underwhelmed. Sure, we are all standing and shouting and cheering. But, the circumstances of the game seems to tell us all “we should really be getting more than a point here”. It’s a relief celebration. Not necessarily a joyous one.

But I barely have time to register my disappointment at this, when Max Aarons, literally right there in front of me, twists a Sheffield Wednesday defender inside out and plays a one two with Mario. I have no time to go “oohhh” at the backheel before all conscious thought is lost, and I am leaping around like a madman possessed, swirling my scarf above my head and screaming “What a goal! What a goal!” stretching my arms as if to hug the players celebrating 20 rows in front of me. Pure, smooth, buttery, Farkeball. Thank god. The culture club beats the anti-footballites.

There’s still time for Norwich to cause our bowels to freeze mind, and this happens deep into stoppage time with a diving header that has McGovern diving at full stretch (I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think it was in at first). But, thanks to some clever play from Tyrese Omotoye, we manage to kill the game off and the whistle goes to the sound of cheers that echo as though all 25,000 of you who couldn’t make it are still with us. The PA tells us to stay in our seats, but no one is going anywhere anyway. We want the Farke wave. And we’re not leaving until we get it, even if he waves a hand to tell us to wait a minute.

After a deserted train ride (during which I see on Twitter Sheffield Wednesday had two decent penalty shouts that I had completely missed or forgotten about) a long walk home, a supermarket bought ready made curry and a quick beer I have been craving all day; I am watching a poor boxing match on BT Sport. A fatigue I haven’t felt in a long time is becoming overwhelming. Headache and muscles pains. A touch of nausea. Like a really bad hangover.

In the morning, Saturday Kitchen had been on in the background while my other half and I were eating breakfast. The astronaut Tim Peake was on (no doubt promoting a ‘just in time for Christmas’ book) and he had been asked what it was like when he returned to Earth – after the unbelievable experience and high of living in space. He said for days afterwards he felt awful. Dizzy. Sick. Aches and pains all over. The journey into space puts so much pressure on the mind and body, he said, that it naturally takes it a long time to recover when it gets back home.

And, as I curl up into a painful ball on the sofa with the hint of a smile on my face, I know exactly what he means.