Ellafella

Love this ....... C STAND CSTAND CSTAND!!!   Check it out on 12:00, classic stuff! 

Great thread and well done EllaFella for starting it. My Baseball Ground experience started in 1967 (Millwall 3-3) although my memory of that day is pretty much gone (have to dig the programme out for a refresher). But general memories of the BBG then and in the 70s are just of tremendous excitement and anticipation (and yes it did involve the prospect of running into the away fans and what might ensue). I don't think I appreciated at the time what I was seeing on the pitch, too young maybe to take in that something really great and memorable and history-making was taking place. When they first spoke or relocating I, like a lot of people I guess, was very much against it, thinking somehow we could redevelop the BBG. But of course that idea was just silly and we moved on.
Someone has mentioned the 1976 semi-final and that, along withe the Leicester play-off, has always been very hard to take. Still not over 1976 when we got a kicking on and off the pitch. Great memories though and looking forward to Brentford tomorrow. COYR!

When I think back now to my childhood and going to those DCFC games at the Baseball Ground in the 70's ... The old guys I used to see ... All looooong gone I bet ... but they would've been around in the 40's watching our FA cup win ect ... 
 
I did'nt appreciate this then . 

I remember the "boys end" .. tucked away in the corner .. lol 
I remember watching Liverpool fans and Derby fans throwing back glass bottles on to each other whilst I was a little kid looking on in awe from the ley stand... it was like a hooligan tennis match 70's style lol 
I remember the game as a little kid when they had to bring out a tape measure to locate the penno spot .. V Citeh with Big Joe in goals ... guess who took the pen ??! lol lol 
I remember selling the RAM programme to punters walking up into the ley stand ... as a boy.. 
 
I remember watching Netzer and Breitner and Eusebio et al in the Euro games ... 
 
I remember the Franny Lee Norman Hunter punch up like it was yesterday ... lol 
 
 
 
 

forgot to mention the Fulham fixture , most of the Derby fans hugging the touchline waiting for the final whistle , crazy scenes , never seen anything like it , either then or now

Had a go at this but without much thought - what stands out from a quick review of the memory ? maybe those are the most pertinent (and not sure these are in chronological order) :
- first visit, night match v Hull , 3:2 to us I think in 1969
- Championship presentation at the BBG  on a sunday (? )  after we first won it 
- 4:1 win over Real Madrid, Oct 75 (?) , Charlie at his best
- Roger's incredible 5 against Luton. He should have had 8. 
- Beating the mighty Liverpool in the 80s - think it was 4 ;0 at half time.
- First match against Clough's Forest since their return. 0:0, incredible atmosphere, great game
- Appalling and shocking racism and hatred from Rams fans on the Popside when we played Ardiles and Villas' Spurs
- Running for cover with my old man  out of the Ossie End from rioting Man City fans. Having been a season ticket holder since the old Third Division days he never went to the BBG again. 
- Laughing with my mates when being hemmed in by thousands of fans both getting in to the ground (pop-side)  and coming out, with your feet hardly touching the ground. Little did we know how close to a Hillsborough-like catastrophe we were.
- Crammed into the Normanton terraces to see Norman Whiteside win it for Man U 
- Very similar scenario against Sheff Wed. Bobby Davison - what a hero. 
- Beating Lincoln 7;0 in the third division
- Promotion against Plymouth on the last day of the season
- Ditto against Palace, then the London media's darlings 
 
 

Ahhhhhh where to start. Read this post yesterday and decided to have a good think first.....
Opening match for me is 1970 freezing cold 4-4 draw with Law; Best n Charlton...Les Green in goal for us and Ive read in later years that this was the game that Peter Taylor decided Les had to go..... I dont remember this day in colour at all. Me and my grandad on the corporation bus from Breadsall Hilltop into town....my grandad with his park drives non filter smoking on the bus.... fish cake and batter bits on Shaftsbury Street for the first time but most certainly not the last.
Another one sticks crazy in the mind is the fog v Burnley..night game...Mark Patterson scores a screamer, goal of his career...then he breaks his leg, the fog descends and the game is called off. Poor lad cant even claim the goal.
Gazza kicking the buckets of water all over....
Penalty spot being re painted v Citeh..Big Joe Corrigan trying to argue the length with the ref....
In sheer awe of the class of David Nish.... Just about every game. 
Being REALLY REALLY glad that I never had to play v Mick Harford.
But I think the game that stays with me as one of the most amazing was a loss actually.... 89 or 90 Im sure... Derby 4 - Chelsea 6. And if my memory serves me correctly we were 1-4 down with 15 mins to go. Never for get that one.... 
Wouldnt sway my memories or supporting this club alongside you lot for owt.... its not being boring has it.
 

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...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?

my first experience of the BBG , was fight night , Franny versus Hunter , totally hooked after that (as was Hunter) other memories include being on the pop side when 33000 packed in the BBG , for a cup tie with Man Utd , and the pop side moving as one every time The Rams got the ball , the clough versus taylor fa cup tie and Mark Wright running from one side of the pitch to the other to sort out Trevor Putney of Norwich after a nasty skirmish with the Tin Man

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 remember sitting in the A stand for the last few seasons and made many good friends, especially my mate Paul from Belper and I come up from Brum,  we still sit  together now. 
There was one fellow in the A stand, a true English gentleman, but biased as hell. All match, every match he used to berate the ref with such classics as 'shows us your red shirt referee or put your glasses on referee or you bounder referee or you hound referee ', that was his favourite. But he never swore, until one match when the ref was having a shocker and he said after all the usual insults 'referee, refereeeeee, you're a, you're a, you're a............. You're a bastaaaaaaaaad!! 
Silence descended all around him and we all turned to look at him. Sheepishly and with a very red face, he said 'well, he is' we all fell about laughing.
 
Good times. 

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 managed to "get" a brick, an old wooden seat from the Osmaston End and the best thing was one of the single bulbs / lights out of one of the floodlights, its massive !

Is this the best memory ?
I

R.I.P. BBG

You can almost feel the hairs on the back of your neck start to tingle !!!