My First Game: Alan Woodward held out his hand - and my lifelong passion for Sheffield United began

Today, Simon Eyre remembers United’s game against Burnley in 1975, when he was five years old – the day his blood ran red and white.

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I stood against the white-washed wall, teetering on my toes to peer over the whitewashed wall and through the painted railings out on to the drama unfolding before me. As the crowd noise rose to a crescendo, it seemed the whole team dressed in red and white were powering towards me, attacking the goal just to my right, forcing the defenders in claret and blue to retreat in an ungainly shuffle. A player strikes the ball and it rockets towards the top corner of the goal, but the goalkeeper - in his slim-fitting green shirt - dives to his left and palms the ball up and around the post.

The ball hits the wall with an almighty bang, bounces onto the bronze cinder path, spins manically then eventually comes to a halt right there, in front of me. I lean forward as far as I can, trying to touch the match ball but it’s agonisingly just out of reach. Then, what seems to me an absolute giant of a man with broad shoulders and a flashing mane of silver hair trots toward me to fetch the ball to take United’s corner.

It’s Alan Woodward. He smiles cheekily at me as he bends to pick up the ball, winks at me then suddenly sticks out his hand, grabs the front of my oversized red and white bobble hat, and yanks it down over my face.

The crowd behind me cheers in delight, I yank off the hat, my face burning bright with embarrassment and pride. I’m as red as the stripes on my new hero’s shirt. Woody ruffles my blonde hair and skips off, ball under his arm to take the corner.

In 1975 I was a five-year-old lad, already in love with the Blades, and this was my first ever proper game.

My dad had already taken me to several games as we lived in Heeley and on our way back from the Sheaf Market we’d regularly stroll through the gates, as the stewards always used to open them at half-time, to watch the last 30 minutes of a game. I was only three back then though, so the memories are vague and, to be honest, mostly of playing on the terraces or under the stand, kicking around a beer can or a toilet roll that hadn’t quite made it onto the pitch.

But the game against Burnley (who were still a bit of force to be reckoned with in those days) was the real deal. An actual full live game in a packed out and noisy Bramall Lane, with proper tickets, clicking through turnstiles, looking at the photos in the programme and, to my absolute delight, sharing a half-time Bovril and a giant packet of crisps with my dad.

We’d moved across Sheffield and into enemy territory in Longley so after getting off the number 79 bus down by the courthouse, we had to walk through town and along Arundel Gate to get to the ground. I recall seeing hundreds of fans all walking in the same direction, adorned in red and white, all hurrying towards the mesmerising floodlights in the distance.

I was so excited I was physically sick, properly sick - my breakfast and lunch making a break for it over the fly-over barriers next to the old Polytechnic building.

The actual memories of the game itself are patchy. I can remember the smell of the grass and even the players’ heat rub, the buzz of the crowd and the tingle of hairs rising on the back of my neck as the noise rose into a crescendo whenever United attacked the goal.

I remember my dad being surprised and just a little concerned when the Burnley players ran out onto the pitch before kick-off and the crowd behind and around us erupted. He hadn't been for several years and hadn’t realised that the Bramall Lane lower tier, where we were, had become the away terrace.

He needn't have worried though, as when United ran out from the John Street tunnel soon after, it was revealed there were as many Blades as Clarets rammed in around us. I remember the hat incident of course (though I think my love of Woody may have made me decide it was him and not someone else ruffling my hair), and I remember us scoring one of our goals and my dad lifting me high above his head in celebration.

I remember being so tired on the bus home that I fell fast asleep with my head on my dad’s lap. The final score was 2-1 to United and it was one of the best days of my life. Beforehand, I already knew I was a Blade without really knowing why, probably because my dad was a Unitedite and therefore so was I – but this was definitely the day it dawned on me that this passion was for life and, if I was to be cut wide open with a sabre off the United badge, I would definitely bleed red and white – forever.

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