The season had seen the Yellows top the Conference for the majority of the year, before dramatically collapsing in a way that only we know how. The mid-season slide down the table was prompted by a debacle at Kenilworth Road where, 1-0 up, Oxford conceded two injury time goals. As a result, we were back in the dreaded play-offs. These can spark either utter joy or depressing misery in a football fan depending on the outcome. Thankfully we passed our first test, in the semi final, thus avoiding that hollow nothingness that followed our previous play-off semi final in 2007 when we had crashed out in the cruellest of fashions, 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.
The M40 was a sea of yellow. Scarves draped out of cars, while Oxford banners attached to bridges fluttered 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, dragged out of retirement for one last hurrah, sipping on pints of bitter and 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 settling 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 shirts. This was a day of togetherness, when all fans of Oxford were united.
You 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, we tried every formula 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 Argentinian 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, having 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, bringing back the man who had led us in our glory years, the ‘Bald Eagle’ himself, 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 this 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 ground was awash with yellow. We had brought a staggering 33,000 fans to York City’s 7,000.
Roars from the Oxford faithful echoed around all corners of the enormous arena. Familiar faces met your every turn. We shared a mixture of excitement and anticipation, yet underneath our 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 Oxford started at a ferocious pace, zipping the ball about with purpose on the sodden 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, 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. Hugs and smiles all round. 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 heads 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 goal 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 it into the gaping net.
Oxford United were back where they belong.
