In each edition of Red Passion we will ask one lucky/unlucky person to reflect on their first-ever visit to watch a Wrexham home match...

From Wiltshire to Wales

Racecourse Virgins No.14

Rowena Sharp

Rowena Sharp comes from Mere in Wiltshire. She travelled up to North Wales on 6 November 1999 to watch Wrexham 0 Brentford 1

It started with a kiss, or it did to the extent that Hot Chocolate were on the radio when the telephone rang with the ultimate invitation with words which went along the lines of: “How would you like to dispense with your Racecourse virginity?” Slightly startled, I replied: “Can you promise me a match of rare quality, vision and infinite skill, plus a glut of goals…?” There was a prolonged pause before an emphatic “No” was offered. With that sort of naked honesty, what more can a girl say except: “Let’s go!”

November 6th 1999 sees my seasoned Wrexham fan friend pick me up in Wiltshire for the four-hour drive to North Wales, and what a drive! Beautiful autumn sunshine, burnished trees and vibrant colours as I gazed across to the Malverns and pondered that even Kidderminster looks vaguely inviting when bathed in autumnal rays. We hurtled over the Wenlock Edge into the memorable Shropshire countryside and in no time we are in Wrexham. “Oh look, floodlights - is that the Racecourse?” “No,” says my regular fan friend. “Wait a minute though, correction, yes that’s it.” We put this rather glaring error down to the low sun and general disorientation of only coming in on this road six times in the previous four weeks!”

We park at Sainsburys and purchase a Rockin’ Robin mug from inside the superstore. We approach the ground by deciding to circle it for atmospheric purposes. We bypass the burger stall, skip along the rough red pavement - which possibly sums up the squad at present - they wear red and there are a few rough edges on the team, nor quite the smooth finished article. We saunter by the entrance to the Pryce Griffiths Stand - an excellent idea for fans to have their names engraved in the bricks. How much does it cost? We meander on round with Wrexham General Station on our right. It looks strangely derelict, disused and abandoned - it certainly failed to disgorge any fans.

We chose the Yale Stand primarily for my benefit from the point of view of, well…the view. It is 2.55pm and the ground is empty. Where is everybody? Maybe they are a cool lot up here and surge in with five seconds to kick-off. I soon realise this is not the case - apathy rules today and they can’t blame it on Christmas shopping or the weather. I can clearly see ‘WREXHAM’ in the seats opposite - not a good sign for the moneymen at the club. Blinding sunshine welcomes the players as they trot out. Wrexham begin promisingly well, forcing a procession of corners - Gareth Owen is tiny, Darren Ferguson looks nothing like his father and Kevin Russell has his long-range shooting boots on, I observe quickly. Much to Kevin Dearden’s embarrassment, Brentford score and the Reds lose the plot as the confidence drains from them. The sun disappears at this point and clouds start to skid across the sky - an omen perhaps. Joey yells encouragement or possibly abuse - it’s hard to tell with him. It seems to spur the team on for a short while and the fans respond - but not for long.

It’s half-time and entertainment is provided by a couple of dressed-up robins cavorting and attempting to score penalties without falling over. I decide reading my programme will be more riveting. Brian writes in a very subdued manner, in my opinion. ‘The Flynn Opinion’ needs fresh impetus as much, and as badly, as the team itself. I guess he worries over job security - the thrashing at Burnley wouldn’t have helped these concerns. Neither would that tricky cup replay at Kettering which had to be negotiated.

The second half degenerates into high balls, huff, puff, and little skilful endeavour - so they bring on Karl and Craig and Gibson, who show nifty intent but who make no real direct headway through an indomitable Brentford defence. The rain slants in now - the yellow ball refuses to be controlled by foot, head or any other bodily part. The final whistle releases us all from the frustration of an instantly forgettable match and releases my knees from the seat in front cutting into them. Let me tell you that leg room in the Yale Stand is downright mean - I’ve never experienced ‘curved’ bruises before!

A home gate of under 2,500 disgruntled fans trudge home, backs hunched, collars up and spirits down. Verbal judgements proliferate in a most negative manner, but truth will out: “My missus shows more passion - and that’s when she’s got a bloody headache…!” A young lad plaintively asks his father: "Are we going to be relegated?” “Don’t state the obvious, son.” A small group of fans aggressively shout, “FLYNN OUT! FLYNN’S GOT TO GO!”, but so do we - home. So, with virginity now lost, did the earth move for me? Not entirely - but during the drive home we must have passed every firework/bonfire party in the Midlands and South, a blazing myriad of colour, a cacophony of explosion, a rush of bangs, whizzes and pops. A thoroughly memorable conclusion to the day - and I suddenly realise I’m a fulfilled woman!

PS. I wish my first visit had been to the Middlesborough cup tie - what a result! How can a team play so badly (Brentford) and then lift themselves to such heights as to defeat a Premiership side? It proves that they are capable and now all they need is the consistency. RP

All contributions to the ‘Racecourse Virgins’ feature are very welcome…