Hereford: Sambas and survival

Words: Tom Reed

Images: Tom Reed

Shot on film and digital where stated.

In 1992, Hereford United went to Northampton Town and had four players sent off.

It was a record at the time, with one more dismissal for Hereford meaning match abandonment.

I was there at Northampton’s old County Ground, as an early September breeze blew across the Hotel End and I reached for the coins in the pocket of my Nike Air Jordan 6’s, to buy a hot-dog with onions.

We used to laugh at old men wearing Adidas Sambas but little did we know, one day, we’d be the old men wearing them.

One-by-one, the Hereford players received their marching orders, as their bald player-boss Greg Downs jinked between bodies like a military medic on a battle field.

It was the day the Bulls met the red-rag.

Northampton could only draw 1-1, despite having eleven men and Hereford having seven . I wondered if all matches would be like this, with Exocet tackles to achilles tendons and opposition players flicking us the double v-signs.

Hereford’s Sun-Valley sponsored kit is etched in my mind like the stud marks down Kevin Wilkin’s calves. I can see the chevrons when I blink.

Now, Northampton are in League 1 and Hereford in the National League North. The two team’s paths have diverged, much like the two elevens did in their approach in 1992.

On Saturday, it was the Hereford fans’ turn to stare into the middle distance, mouthing “what the fuck?” under the suddenly heavy tin roof of the Meadow End at Edgar Street, facing relegation to the Southern League.

©Tom Reed/ Terrace Edition. Hereford FC vs Peterborough Sports. On film

They’d gone one-nil up but conceded two quick goals against Peterborough Sports, to trail 1-2 with only minutes remaining.

The story of how Hereford United, football league stalwarts, became Hereford FC and dropped down the Non-League ranks is as complicated as you’d imagine.

No County city team like Hereford tumbles down the divisions, like piss down a terrace, without a drip-drip of disfunction.

For Hereford, the period on and before 2014 did it, with the club passed for the grand sum of two pounds to a man who the Guardian said had a “past conviction for lorry theft and had served time in prison”.

Hereford United was wound up the High Court that year with reported debts of over a million. The club famous for Ronnie Radford’s long-ranger in the FA Cup vs Newcastle now couldn’t see past the end of its nose for the continuation of football in the town on the Wales border.

In another twist of fate, the Supporters Trust movement, that had started at Northampton Town in 1992, stepped in to start a phoenix club that would be called Hereford FC, with the now fan-owned team starting in the Midland Football League Premier Division, in the ninth tier of English football.

Three consecutive league titles followed, as the well-backed Bulls were able to pull over 4,000 supporters for the big games against Salisbury and the like.

Although still a long way off the football league, Edgar Street remains a ground of high intention.

Yet, those ambitions are contrasted by a thoroughly old-school feel to the club and the town itself.

On the gorgeous train ride through the Malvern hills last Saturday from Birmingham New Street was a member of the London Bulls Hereford supporters group.

His yellow Sun Valley shirt caught the eye like the gleam of Greg Down’s pate in 1992 or the dark look in Richard Jones’s eyes as the crimson card was raised for the fourth time.

Maybe it was the strong April sun up commercial street in Hereford but the agricultural town felt more laid back than most.

You’re more likely to be hugged by one of the various religious preachers than tackled by any football lads here, if you keep your head down.

The famous Edgar Street floodlights appear higher than heaven and a Hereford United union flag was tied to a railing and flapped in the breeze.

An early kick-off meant the active fans of the “Bulls Battalion” group had to forgo pre-match pints to prepare their displays on the Meadow End for the relegation decider vs Peterborough Sports.

It was, in truth a chance to get onto England’s finest league standard curved terrace and take everything in.

©Tom Reed/ Terrace Edition. Meadow End. Edgar Street. On film.

The cow curva was about to become raucous so the lads took the time to hang their banners and make sure each turnstile had black and white balloons to hand out.

And this is where clubs like Hereford, who have clung on to their traditional football grounds have one over the big clubs in their super stadia.

The fans climb the art deco brick-worked stairs of the Meadow End and find their place on the terrace. The atmosphere grows and the kids mess around in the space between the steps and the playing surface.

In a time when society retreats to its sofa, pubs cinemas and theatres close, the football is one of England last great communal spaces, where people from different walks of life cross paths and find a space for each other behind the crush barriers.

As the match kicks-off, the old chant goes up commemorating how this club is really United.

“Hereford United, we all love you,

We’ll always support you and we’ll follow you through.

Our supporters are the best and they do their thing,

When the lads take to the field, this is what we’ll sing”.

The experience is uniquely British, with the supporters standing as one, like they would have done back in the day at one of the town’s large employers. Even the lad at the front geeing up the crowd looks more like a music hall warm-up act rather than a continental capo.

A white pyro goes on to the pitch, as black and white balloons bobble and seagulls dance on a thermal.

A passing truck beeps like a supporter with an air-horn, young lads take swear words for a test drive.

Hereford open the scoring on nine minutes, following a soft challenge far kinder than any they afforded those Cobblers players in the early 90’s.

©Tom Reed/ Terrace Edition. Len Weston stand. On film.

A draw would be enough probably, to stop up and retain that crucial National League North status and when Aaron Skinner slotted home the spot kick, it felt like a hefty starting gambit.

Any yet, nothing is ever a given at Hereford. The already relegated Peterborough Sports score a quick-fire double to make even the tightest fist grip harder on a black and white flagpole.

The half-time pints of Stowford’s cider don’t take anything off the edge of a nervy second period, where every ball is hard fought and even a hint of a poor first touch can lead to an opening.

Indeed, cruelty lies in the last minutes of English football games. Hereford’s relegation rivals, Curzon Ashton, scored a 99th minute equaliser at Alfreton Town but it was to mean nothing in the face of the forehead of Mikey Lane.

The Hereford striker lurked at the back stick and nodded home in the 82nd minute to secure a point for the Bulls which meant so much more.

While Curzon Ashton sunk to the floor, the Hereford faithful were fast over the sun baked surface, like a Grade 1 runner at the nearby racecourse with a full-time entry to the grass less an invasion and more a confirmation of home.

Focus will fall on just how Hereford, a club that pulled in 4,459 fans on the day, can fall so low as flirting with one of the divisions they had kissed goodbye to.

And yet, hopefully the summer will bring perspective, a club still owned in the majority by its supporters, turning a profit when so many are leadened with debts.

When Hereford do well, English football does well. This outpost of a sleepy football city, so far detached from the top table all you can eat buffet as to not warrant service from the media. The club is hand to mouth but it is family and the people smile when they are together on the Meadow End.

On the walk back to the station my Adidas Sambas rubbed, so I stopped at a bar that serves Veltins on tap and the sunshine poured like wine through my window.