Big old Bradford
When the Football League Gods paired Wrexham with AFC Wimbledon for our first away fixture in the pyramid for fifteen years, supporters from all over the UK hurried to lend their support.
But not to us. Oh, no. They would be backing “the proper club”. They made sure to tell us that.
Of course, worrying too much about what the likes of John from Blyth (United fan), Wendy from Guildford (City fan), or Simon from Hednesford (Juventus, Sparta Prague and sometimes Chelsea fan if they’re doing well) say on social media is a frightening waste of time. But nonetheless, on a weekend where we played Bradford City AFC - whom by anyone’s definition belong in the “proper club” category - it’s intriguing to note that our right to wear this proud label has been revoked.
Strange, really, considering Wrexham score well when measured against the “proper” checklist. Decades of history? Tick. A good fanbase? Uh-huh. Trophies? Yup. A touch of arrogance? Yeah.
But as long as the pair of famous faces - who pulled our club up from the soggy quicksand of non-league by its fingernails - are in charge at Wrexham AFC, we can’t rightly call ourselves a “proper club”, apparently.
The way some people see it is that the likes of AFC Wimbledon have done it the hard way - scraping and battling up the rungs one season at a time against all the odds - whereas we just won the lottery. And nobody is ever happy for the ticket winner dancing a merry jig with a big cheque under their arm on the tele, are they?
Of course not. The jammy bastards.
As Dragonheart’s Bill Long pointed out on the recent podcast Teach Me How To Wrexham, our ownership model isn’t quite as despised as the one currently in operation at Franchise FC or Mini Man Utd, and some can see past our sparkly shopfront to the authenticity that lies within. But rightly or wrongly, many football fans seem eager to rally around the Football League’s other fallen giants who aren’t getting quite the same exposure as we are.
You can bet many of these people were, on Saturday, backing Bradford - a club which has sadly rolled from the summit of the 92 like a stone in a storm down the Pennines.
Bantams fans have admirably clung onto their team regardless - watching, waiting and praying for the glory years of Premier League football to return to the land of wool and mill chimneys. About 19,000 of them turned out at Valley Parade on the weekend - creating a sea of claret and amber hats and scarves that made the scene around the stadium feel like a Yorkshire version of Lowry’s Going to the Match painting.
And we were excited, too, of course. Becoming famous doesn’t suddenly make you immune to becoming starstruck, and visiting Bradford was a big deal for us.
Watching the Reds walk out at such a behemothic ground rekindled memories of the stadiums we got to visit last year like Sheffield United - although the oddity of Blades fans and players (old men picking on Reds in the underpass after beating a non-league side, Blubbering Billy’s antics etc) was a case study of how dishonourable an honoured club can actually be. For a more dignified example, see Coventry City.
Anyway, Bradford were pretty much everything we’d hoped for. Their big and buoyant crowd filled almost every seat in the house - even the rows so far up they seemed to be perched on the green hills behind the ground. They greeted Parky - who masterminded their knee-slappingly fun cup upsets and earned a handshake from Jose Mourinho for his achievements in Yorkshire - like a soldier returning from war. It was all set up for a gigantic, rowdy game.
A bullet header from Pele in front of the Red Army looked like it might have been enough to win it for us, too, but Jacob Mendy’s mis-kick and subsequent bumper car defending from our backline meant the Bantams blasted themselves back on terms with just minutes to go.
A bit gutting. But never mind. A point apiece was fair.
The final whistle saw Reds stagger around the city of sandstone in search of local ales and spicy curry. By 10pm, the fans who’d squeezed like sardines onto the Northern Rail services to Leeds mere hours ago were all back in the same carriages, sprawled unconsciously across tables instead of roaring with excitement in the aisles.
Dodgy heads and wobbly stomachs for all on Sunday. But it had been worth it.
A proper day out at a proper city - between two proper clubs. No matter what anyone says.
Lowery 's painting 'Going to the Match' was of Bolton fans and the old Burnden Park, on 'tuther side ' of Pennines lad, not a compassion they would appreciate. Otherwise another excellent article, keep them coming.
Nobody likes us and we don't care. Up the Franchise team.