In my lifetime I have seen many teams be classed as Big games.
Spurs, Leeds, Forest, Everton and the Johnny-cum-lately's Manchester U, Arsenal and Chelsea.
My Father and Grandfather also had their opinions on what was considered a Big match.
For my Grandfather it was Sheffield U & W, Sunderland Portsmouth and Everton.
My Father will not budge from Everton, no matter who is having their turn on the cycle of fortune.
There has only ever been one consistent through the history of our club and even World War 1 & 2 couldn't stop the games against Everton.
I can no longer chat with my Granddad Peter, but from accounts from my Nan, the build up to a Derby match was horrendous for her.
Peter would start getting agitated when the fixture list came out and as the game got nearer, There would be a calm before the storm.
Weeks of quietness were followed by sleepless nights.
As the week arrived, he began to practise his pub debates on his Son, Daughter and Wife.
Rows with the wife over the cooking range often lead to Peter screaming "You don’t expect me to eat that do you" or "Bollocks, you don’t know what your talkin about, I'm off to the pub.
The pub debates/rows on St Mary's Road in Garston starting at The Queens or The Mona always ended at The Garston Hotel where after closing time on the eve of the game broke into The Bi-annual "Donnybrook"
After the game one half of Garston stayed in.
My Dad's understanding of Derbies started in School.
He was never going to follow in his fathers footsteps. He would be the first in our family not to let his blood reach boiling point every time the fixture came along.
70 years later he reminisces "I was 18 before I ever punched a bluenose RED"
Education had indeed taught him to hold his tongue. Sadly the same cannot be said for his fists.
I spoke to him yesterday and he is in the quiet mode.
He's not talking to the local butcher (a blue) he's at the stage where he just points out what he wants. Pork steaks the other day and when the butcher asked him how many, he proudly stuck both fingers up in his direction.
He will not get involved in the forthcoming banter around the streets of Woolton Village. He will bide his time and either walk into the butchers Monday with a bloody great grin or eat vegetable for a couple of weeks.
Me ?
I've got those bloody Albatrosses wings flapping in my stomach.
I've entered the quiet stage at home.
And the Ironed on grimace on my face when I go for a pint.
Saturday will be my make or break day.
Either I'll keep my calm exterior and let the blood boil on the inside or someone will light my touch paper and I'll go off like a firework.
I always try to keep my emotions bottled.
I'll tell myself, they are not worth the effort.
The voice in my head will be telling me, they're only the shite from across the park, don’t let them rattle you.
The other side of the brain will be saying "Bollocks, lamp the silly bugger"
The good natured wife of mine will save the day.
She'll calmly walk in the pub, ask if I'm ready and then turn to the nearest blue shite and tell him to FUCK OFF!
On the day I will have the same routine as every Derby Day.
I'll throw up after cleaning my teeth, walk in the kitchen, boil the kettle for a cuppa and then help myself to the first Stella of the day.
I'll feel cold and numb.
It's not a day for having a shower, it's a soak in the bath day.
You always think better while soaking in the bath.
"Torres will get a hat-trick"
If he scores them all in the first half I'll be able to relax until they get the ball.
The match will last either 90 seconds or 90 minutes, depending on how the game is going.
Wife breaks train of thought...
"Are we going out tonight" ?
"Depends" !
I don’t know why she asks me the same bloody question every Derby Day.
I suppose it's part of her match day ritual, as is the question "what are you wearing today" ?
What a stupid bloody question.
Sometimes I swear she does it just to gauge my mood before I leave home.
"That nice blue sweater your mum bought me is obviously my first choice love, but if you fuckin dare, I swear Ill throttle yer".
Truth is, the blue sweater bought for me by my mother in law is still in the bottom draw with the littlewoods £4.99 price tag on.
I mean 'Bloody Littlewoods' it was owned by the bluenose poison dwarf from across the park. If it ever sees the light of day it'll be bommie night.
After the game.
I'll either be "The old piss pot, in the middle of the pub dance floor, singing Poor Scouser Tommy" or the Right bag of dishevelled rags asleep in the corner of the pub dreaming about NEXT TIME.
Anyone else got family history with the longest running saga in our history ?
