Anthony Cronshaw - Wednesday Rucks and Rock n Roll. Tales From the East Bank

T here is a saying amongst the very good people of Sheffield the sky is blue, and the clouds are white, so God must be a Wednesdayite.

Now Tommy certainly wasnt a religious person; he had hardly ever joined the congregation in church because over the years the boy had spent many a happy Saturday afternoon and the odd Sunday at the other Temple of the Gods, as some called it Hillsborough.

There must have been some truth in this statement, because that other lot were from a place called Bram-Hell Lane. Well, the boy thought that was how it was spelt. They also just happened to sport the colours of him with the pointy horns; you know, the one that takes anyone who has been a bit on the naughty side. The Devil.

And with that association, its no wonder that their team had hardly ever achieved anything in comparison to the saintly believers who followed the team that went by the name of Sheffield Wednesday.

They had been Tommys football team for the past 48 years; he was such a lucky boy because his family were fortunate enough to settle in the Owlerton district of Sheffield.

Tommys family story began in 1920 when a certain George Henry, his grandfather, left his native Runcorn in Lancashire. Times were hard during this period, so the man decided to up sticks and try his luck in the White Rose County of Yorkshire. He managed to navigate himself across the Pennines and ended up in Sheffield. Luck was obviously on his side from day one, because he managed to swerve the dark side of this fair city and settle in the more picturesque surroundings of Owlerton.

His new-found accommodation was neat but tiny; he was a qualified wood turner by trade and landed a job in the same borough. And it was during those early months of his residency that he caught the eye of a certain Florence Emily, who had been widowed during the First World War. Her husband William had sadly been killed on the battlefields of France, just like many young men during that period. George Henry had survived the conflict and was one of the lucky ones, and after a brief courtship he and Florence were married in 1921 and the man had himself a ready-made family.

They lived locally in one of those back-to-back terrace abodes. With a state-of-the-art outside toilet, a tiny front room that opened out onto a cobbled street, and two tiny bedrooms upstairs, it was their home sweet home.

George Henry had never married, so at the age of 40 he had well and truly landed on his feet. One minute he was living in a tiny bedsit, the next he was a happily married man with a loving wife and daughter.

For his sins though Grandfather was a Rugby League man; he played a good amateur standard and supported Warrington. But it was the Sport of Kings that occupied his Saturday afternoons, and the family would head for the local racecourses when work was done.

Life was now great for the family. George had a very good job and to make things even better he lived just a stones throw away from The Wednesday FC. The club itself wasnt so fortunate, however, languishing at the time in the Second Division of the Football League. And to make matters worse, those upstarts from across the city were sitting pretty one division higher.

How could that be? They were squatting in their so-called home, because when it was built in 1854 it was the local cricket clubs, including The Wednesday CC, which had thrown their money into the ring along with several other clubs from the area.

There was never any mention of a United CC and those that would come to be associated with the football club had actually started life as caretakers, looking after the upkeep of the stadium and cleaning the toilets. They didnt even have a team to join in and play with the rest of the city when football became popular, and they were just plain old servants and skivvies. But one by one the other teams left for pastures new and United found they had the ground all to themselves. And they never left.

The Wednesday moved to a place called Olive Grove in 1887. This was a major blow to the committee that were looking after Bram-Hell Lane, as the biggest player in town had upped sticks. Wednesday had suffered enough; they got totally fed up with handing over the rent money to the caretakers and decided to find a home of their own. Even so, Olive Grove was still too close for comfort. The Wednesday had endured a decade living next to those freeloaders who had somehow managed to get a few lads together to play for their hastily-arranged football team.

It had only taken those misfits 22 years to follow in the footsteps of the number one football club in Sheffield, and theyd helped themselves to the ground that the very good people of Sheffield had bought shares in to build. Not only that, but theyd borrowed the local nickname not very original, was it. They devilishly called themselves the Blades, when all around knew what they ought to be called. Unfortunately, that moniker had already been adopted by another outfit that played in red and resided over the Pennines in Manchester, so the Blades it was.

Wednesday was so grateful when the Northern Railway Company decided to put a line straight through the middle of the Olive Grove Stadium. The home that the club had paid good money for, rather than relying on others to chip in like that lot had done in 1889.

Brick by brick the Olive Grove was dismantled and transported across the city, before being restored to its former glory on the banks of the River Don in Owlerton. It turned out to be such an enlightening place that the club wished they had moved years previously.

Tommys story now fast forwarded to 1931 when his father, James, was born. This must have been a shock to the system for George Henry and Florence Emily; after all George was to be a dad at the tender age of 50. James made his Wednesday debut in 1937, when he journeyed along Penistone Road to watch his heroes in blue and white for the very first time. He had latched onto the family of one of his classmates; he was only five months away from his seventh birthday when the season kicked off.

Unfortunately Wednesday contrived to lose and the young James thought he had brought bad luck onto his team. He even contemplated giving the remaining matches a miss until the adults present reassured him that the life of a Wednesdayite had many more downs than ups.

Just like when George Henry had moved into the area, now James found himself watching Wednesday in the Second Division. This time, though, he had the added bonus of knowing that those worshippers of Satan from across the city were also down a league. James only managed to cheer his heroes to victory on ten occasions during that first season, and it was that steady home form that just about managed to keep Wednesday from slipping into regional football for the first time in their history.

Tommys father had loved his first taste of life amongst the Wednesday faithful and could not wait for the 1938/39 season to start. He had even purchased an autograph book, keen to seek out his heroes before the game, and he was now old enough to take himself on that short journey from Neepsend to Hillsborough. He would spend hours waiting for the arrival of his team, sitting on the wall that overlooked the River Don and writing the name of the opposition at the head of one of the pages just in case he managed to add their names to his collection.

James had now amassed numerous match day programmes, which he kept safe in a shoebox under his bed. They had cost him two old pennies each, and also safely tucked away were the autograph books that by now were full of signatures. Even though his team was flying along, so were the other lot, and in a nail-biting end to the season Wednesday muscled their way into second place with victory over Spurs at Hillsborough.