For away games I always give myself an hour for something to go wrong, or if it doesn’t, which it doesn’t, to soak up the atmosphere. Yesterday we soaked it up by finding a bin for our car rubbish, pointing at an empty bus and saying, ‘there’s the team bus’, and seeing James Constable chatting with a Coventry official.

With little more to do, we were scanned for explosives (I assume) by a security guard and pushed through the turnstile into the concrete holding area under the stand. It was quiet and with only the toilet and over-priced snack bar for company, we decided to take our seat.

A point I’ve made previously is that I follow the great away day Oxford United tradition of sitting where I want. Only nowadays, where I want to sit is in my designated seat. Directed by the steward, we ascend the steps into the safe standing area. As the air thinned, I looked up to the back of the stand to see a row of cookie cutter teenagers staring blankly out to the pitch. I counted up the rows to go and realised; I was about to spend an afternoon with the hoodlums and toughs of the Oxford ultras.

Now, this isn’t my first rodeo. In fact, I’m reaching an age where I forget which rodeo I went to yesterday. I’m more at home in the designated tutting area than the designated standing area but being amongst strange folk at football doesn’t trouble me.

Close up, the loudest of the Oxford faithful are mostly teenagers, in amongst them are a few older faces, people unable to extract themselves from the culture. Addicted to the thrill of adventure fuelled by ultra processed pies and cheap lager. The sort of people who don’t wear coats in defiance of their mum’s authority even though they’re 32 and would benefit from a trip to a dental hygienist. People who are beginning to see the effects of a lifetime dedicated to the away day, clinging to their youth, but withering away on their unquenchable quest.

The teenagers all look the same; club colours are rare; they’re mostly in black with the occasional fake Burberry check. There are echoes to the past, Fred Perry and Lyle and Scott from the 1970s, Sergio Tacchini from the 1980s, revivalist Oasis-era sports casual of the 90s, slim fit jeans from the 2000s and the ubiquitous Stone Island with those tops with goggles in the hood. It’s a rolling culture that most likely doesn’t know its culture.

As the players appear, the bloke next to me manspreads himself to obscure my view bellowing out a slow-paced, minor key lament about standing on the terrace as a boy at The Manor. Given he’d still have been a boy during the pandemic, recalling the terraces at The Manor is a bit like me singing a sea shanty about heaving heavy ropes on a fishing trawler in the nineteenth century.

Matt Bloomfield has completely re-engineered his front unit during the transfer window; the starting eleven looks completely different to what we’ve seen under Gary Rowett. In fact, apart from Shemmy Placheta and Sam Long, whose origins need to be carbon dated, the team is made up of previous January transfer window signings; it’s nearly the ultimate course-correction eleven.

The game gets underway, but Coventry, currently jittering about promotion after two defeats, don’t start in that way expectant title winners do. They’re methodical but slow, which is an error against a team who only vaguely know each other. We absorb the pressure with a degree of comfort.

In a rare venture forward, Shemmy Placheta jumps a fraction early and is flagged offside by the female assistant referee. The ultras scream that she’s ‘a cunt’ for making the decision. Given this is a universal insult thrown at all officials and there’s no specific reference to her gender, I suppose we could call that progress.

The manspreader’s voice starts to crack and I shuffle into a less obscured view. Spotting his weakening, he secedes to a gentle and deliberate nudge (as I say, not my first rodeo) and shrinks slightly to let me in. A song strikes up and he doesn’t join in, he’s burned himself out, I check the time, we’ve been playing nine minutes. Remember, these are the same people that complain about Placheta’s lack of reliability.

For a world where football data is everywhere, the terrace analysis is surprisingly unreconstructed. Fans still urge us to ‘get it forward’ and everyone is labelled ‘shit’ for every. minor mistake. One bloke behind me shouts ‘seconds’ every time we defend a challenge. It’s theatrical, but meaningless, nobody talks about the merits of a back three, it’s a channel for nervous energy rather than genuine insight.

The game settles and we absorb the pressure with relative ease. There are moments, of course, and Jamie Cumming needs to be sharp, but we’re far from overwhelmed. As the second half progresses, the home side finally start to wake up. The bloke next to me tells his mate ‘You know what, I’ll take a point right now’. You’ve got to admire his optimism that more than that was ever likely; I want to tell him that I’d have taken a gritty 2-0 defeat and not too much traffic on the way home.

Will Lankshear comes on, barrels around a bit and is sent off. It seems harsh overall, but actually helps us, taking away any perception that we need to do more than defend the last fifteen minutes with our lives. There’s a fusing of purpose; the fans and players join as a singular rearguard. The ultras are alive again, noisy, combined, thrusting. The noise fills the gaps between the players, bolsters the vulnerabilities and insecurities, a great wall of resistance builds.

Coventry advance gradually but lack real ingenuity. They’re camped on the edge of our box when eight minutes of injury time is indicated, it’s hard to see how we’ll hold out. When we do get on the ball, we’re reduced to simply launching it as far away as possible down the pitch so we can reset for when it returns.

Finally, the whistle goes, although nobody can hear it, deafened by a giant collective exhale; it feels a bit like Cardiff last season, a draw that’s worth more than a point. We get back to the car and I chat with a Coventry fan who praises our defensive commitment. I struggle to give him any encouragement about his team’s prospects, but wish him good luck; their early season form may see them through, but they look devoid of ideas right now. The result could have a profound impact on both clubs. 

We sit in traffic listening to Wasn’t At The Game, the panel reminisce about moments and near misses I simply can’t remember. Such is life amongst the ultras, I suppose, a noisy joyous blur of which the details and results are secondary. As they say, a win’s a win, even when it isn’t one.