Ellafella

I was fortunate enough to watch our second title win as a youth on the 'pop side' I'll always remember a midweek game towards the end of that season against man city, which we won 2-0 (I think) with Rioch scoring an absolute screamer! The other game that always stands out is our FA Cup quarter final victory over Newcastle...... The goals..... What a game, Charlie George, Kevin Hector, never reach those heights again, I consider myself very fortunate to have witnessed that era........ You Raaaaaaaaams!! 

August `68 and we had made a poor start to the season, 5 games without a win.
Ron Atkinson brought his glistening thighs together with his Oxford United team to the Baseball Ground.
We won 2-0 and the overriding memory is of an unlikely twosome, Roy Mac and Willie Carlin, "dancing" with delight after the former had scored.   
As an aside, I wonder what the reaction of the fans would be if we only took only 3 points from our first 5 games next season?
Patience was certainly rewarded in 68/69.
 
 
 

15th April 1963
Geoff Barrowcliffe and Ray Swallow scored the 2 late goals, the first being scored by Barry Hutchinson.
Attendance was 13,253.
Of course I had to look it up......Derby County   A Complete Record 1884-1988    Gerald Mortimer.

Simon Groom and his dog Goldie from blue peter coming onto the pitch at half time and Colombo end blast out Simon groom what a ****** what a ****** , not my best memory but funny.

For me as an 8 year old in October 1976 beating Spurs 8-2. I was stood with my Dad amongst the Spurs fans near the floodlight under the Ley Stand ( you could in those days ). For some reason my Dad thought it was safe to stand there at home games, he must have some sort of death wish. Bruce Rioch scoring the last 4 goals & momentarily sitting on the ball in open play to take the p1ss.
Also May 1983 beating Fulham on the last game of the season to stay up. I was in the ‘kids corner’ with a German student staying with me on a school exchange – he was totally bewildered & petrified & then I took him onto the pitchside for the last few minutes & he nearly had a meltdown thinking we would get nicked & the British police would think bad of German people – I nearly wet myself laughing & told him to grow some.

This Easter Bank Holiday Monday will be 54 years to the day in 1963 that my Father took me to see the Rams for the first time at the BBG, and my memories have not diminished from that first time.
We played Middlesborough and we stood in the Osmaston End paddock, next to the players tunnel and behind the small wooden dugout. I can't remember the attendance or all who scored, however, I do remember that Derby were losing 3-1 with 5 minutes remaining but we scored twice in those final minutes to draw 3-3.
I have so many memories of following the Rams, home and away, as well as many anecdotes of glories and failures, and despite being pilloried by other club's supporters when I was based overseas, it will always be that first experience which set me on a path of following Derby County football Club.

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

Awesome thread ! 
 
Thank you to the OP .. Ellafella
 
 
 

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

You are a true gentleman Sir. 

Regardless of what you think of that song it really does sum up what being Derby County is all about, be it as a supporter or as a player. Gary Rowett could do a lot worse than put that video up on a large screen and make the players read the words. Every single successful side we've had in my memory, the principal attribute it has had is pride in wearing the badge. I remember perfectly the Brian Clough, Dave Mackay, Arthur Cox and Jim Smith teams. First and foremost they played 100% every game. They gave their all. They won their personal battles. After that their class shone through, but they worked hard and with pride to allow that to happen. Nigel Clough was also big on that aspect (but that's for another, hopefully long ago written, thread). If Rowett can get his team playing with pride in the badge, something which he always did, then that bit of class which these players supposedly have should be more than enough to make them serious contenders for promotion. Derby Pride, let's start showing it EVERY game. After that que sera, sera. What will be, will be! For me this is the "Derby Way".

I know we all have different thoughts on Steve Bloomers Anthem but something that's often overlooked is the crowd overlay from the BBG that does capture the spirit, indulge yourself in a quick bit of BBG whilst the mrs isn't around.
the 1st 20 seconds, 43 seconds and 1.33 seconds !!
 

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

When I had, ahem calmed down a bit I started to take a friends 12 year old lad on the popside ,we were playing Chelsea and the away fans were banned after throwing the seats on to the pitch the previous season .
They did get in and a scrap started on the popside so I took the lad down the front and put him on the running track .I look back up the terracing to see a line of coppers with a sergeant on the end just watching it go on.
I walked back up the terracing through the punch up and spoke to the sergeant "are you going to sort this out I've got a young lad with me and these buggers aren't even supposed to be here"
The copper looked at me took his helmet off and handed it to me " here son you want it sorting out borrow my helmet "
Pride Park just not the same.

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

Went on holiday to Magaluf ( classy) that Summer Premier and had a Fulham fan at our hotel. When he found out I supported Derby the mardy git blanked us for the rest of the holiday. Lol... 

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

Can't be sure but I think I might be one of the boys up at the fence in that top coloured pic. Can't quite zoom it up with enough clarity to tell.

It's 50 years this month since I first went to the Baseball Ground and I remember the Beatles Strawberry Fields Forever and Penny Lane being played repeatedly on the tannoy system. Every time I hear either of those songs it takes me straight back to standing in the 'Boy' s Corner' and being totally enthralled by attending my first Ram's game. 
I think the game I most enjoyed was the record attendance game two years later in September 1969 when we beat Spurs 5-0. It was unbelievable that a newly promoted club could do that. 

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

I know...it's probably been done to death but...oh it was special...
How apt: the very final game at the famous old Baseball Ground was against the Arsenal. I am minded of a game some years earlier against the same opposition, for it was an occasion that really brought home to me just how special the place was; a true theatre of football:
The date: 8th September 1979. A sultry sunny September Saturday of an Indian summer. Sweat, cig-smoke and the smell of alcohol-breath fused with hot-dog onions filled the Pop Side air. Arsenal were in town, a side replete with silky, star-studded names that dripped from the tongue like golden syrup: Pat Jennings, Liam Brady, Sammy Nelson-the bum-show-er, O’Leary, Hollins, Rix, Talbot, Stapleton and Alan Sunderland, all perm and moustachioed; the latter two had, in May, ripped the FA Cup from Man Utd in the final of the century. For Derby there was no longer a Gemmill, a Hector, a McFarland or Todd, or even a Charles George. In rapt contra-distinction we had a ring of Irish: Aiden McCafferey, Vic Morland, David Langan, Andy Crawford, and a liquorice-assortment of stalwarts like David Webb, Steve Powell and Steve Buckley, all honest triers but in truth it was thoroughbreds v also-rans, giant oak trees against mere saplings.  We did though have John Duncan, Scottish International all handsome and broad, and neat, and the winger called Gordon Hill, who had killed Rams at Hillsborough in the FA Cup semi just 3 years before. The Baseball Ground was synonymous with trench mud but even that was no more. But there wasn’t a blade of grass either. Instead the surface was 35 tonnes of hard golden sand; had the ref entered the arena carrying a beach-ball nobody would have batted an eye lid. In the pre-match kick-in, wisps of disturbed sand danced on the air. The first half was a foregone conclusion long before 45 mins was up with Arsenal commanding a 2-0 lead.
Then during the break, something strange began to occur. As sun and heat and alcohol combined, the Pop Side found its voice and songs of deep Derby irony began to fill the air...”You need SAND to hold a lit-tul bay-bee, you need SAND to wipe away a tear...” and “Mr SAND-Man,  bring me a dream (bung, bung, bung bung...”). At first, it was a mere ironic acceptance of the Derby team’s fate, but as the 2nd half kicked-off, with Rams attacking the Ossie End, what started to unfurl was a truly remarkable 45 mins. If only we could get one back. Suddenly, Buckley, with lump-hammer left peg, drove the ball at Jennings from 30 yards. The ball, zipped, and dipped, and hit the ground, leather travelling and bouncing on sand, and, smacked the back of the net with Jennings flapping on the floor; 1-2, Pop Side all erupting in Vesuvian delight, a deafening Derbyshire din of high decibel noise. The sound became a continuous stream; the sun, sand and black and white, wall-to-wall volume, a crescendo-ing cacophony of a collective consciousness was stirring the Rams to gargantuan efforts. Arsenal began to cower and fear took hold. I don’t remember Vic Moreland’s equaliser, but I do remember the rocket-propelled roar and the terrace surge as pure pandemonium broke out in the Pop Side. Now, with clock ticking down, 43 minutes had flashed by, we sung to kingdom come. Last minute, Langan...to Carter...Carter in the corner, crosses to Duncan and bullet-header...Jennings’s dustbin-lid sized hand parries...on to the post... and out for a corner....Ohhhhhhh! How we re-coiled....
But wait...Carter’s corner, inch perfect...Duncan again...bullet forehead, ball bulges onion-bag...Goallllllllllllll, the roar again...3-2...mayhem....Final Whistle....Oh fffffff...foot-balll!
As I walked from the ground, outside an Arsenal fan exclaimed, “Liam Brady walks on water, but he can’t run on sand!”. I’d been to the Baseball Ground many times before, but now as a 14 year old, I properly realised how the combination of the architecture – tight, compact stands that trapped the sound, sending it ping-ponging around the entire ground, the proximity of the pitch, and how the fanatical Rams fans, touched by the memory of magic, Real Madrid floodlit nights, - could all combine to fuel an energy that transmitted from the terraces to the men in white just yards away.
Outside, I watched as the Gooners’ team coach drove away...Pat Jennings saw me stare from his front window seat and tipped me a wink. Monday’s Daily Mail match report described how Arsenal bemoaned that Derby had transmitted the sound of the 16,429 fans through the PA system, in amplification. As if... It was just a special place; and I was there.
What's yourn?

I know we've done this before but its sort of compulsory when it pops up again!
First game 1970 v Everton who were Champions at the time. Walking up to the ground as a 10 year old with the crowds, the smell of cigarette smoke, walking past pubs with that old stale beer smell wafting through the doors, being scared when grown men are shouting and threatening each other across the street, coppers keeping order with clips round the ear.
Get into the ground, feel the buzz, the sheer excitement and electricity of thousands packed in like sardines, swaying and singing, being lifted up by complete strangers and passed down to the front to sit legs crossed at the side of the pitch.....
I remember playing Leicester at home after Clough and Taylor had been sacked/resigned in 1973, it was the first game i went to with mates rather than with an adult. I was on the Popside, i thought i was a proper grown up, its hard to explain, but  i was a skinny little lad who took confidence from being old enough to get the train into Derby, walk up to the ground and be part of the masses singing their hearts out every game. I turned from a timid lad to "one of the boys" at a school that was mainly Stoke fans. Never did get bullied or picked on after that point and have always worn my Rams colours/badges etc since. Still do now.
!974-75 season was unbelieveable, we took on every club with total football. Colin Boulton in goal (got to be the best ever English keeper not to get a cap), Toddy, Nish, Thomas and Peter Daniel (standing in for the injured Roy Mac) at the back, Bruce Rioch, Henry Newton and Archie Gemmill in midfield, Gladys, Zak, Big Rog and Frannie Lee smashing the goals in......went every game, home and away. The Vulcan Street Popside was the place to be back then. Away fans would try and "take" it,  never happened....Tottenham, West Ham, Man City, Arsenal.....all got a good kicking a few seconds after the initial gap opened up on an already packed terrace.....fair play to them, can't remember any other fans trying to take the Popside, How those gaps opened up is amazing but once the bloke with the cap (from Ilson), or the big Dutch lad, Johann, piled in, it was all over for the away lads who thought little Derby were an easy touch. This was 7 or 8 years before the DLF were even heard of.
We are the Derby, the Midlands we rule....
 
 

You're a prince @Ellafella  Best post I've read on this forum.