Sleeping with the enemy (Part Three)
28/03/03 | by Ivan Murfin

November 20, 2002, an envelope arrives. It contains two half-season tickets. Possessions that would be guarded with fanatical passion and periodically thrust into the faces of certain members of the family, or the ‘herd’ as they would come to be known.

In later weeks they would form an integral part of an almost obsessive routine prior to a match: put the Forest shirt on (yes, it became first and foremost on the Christmas wish list), check tickets, put shoes on, check tickets, find wallet, check tickets, get mobile, check tickets, get into car, check tickets, and so on... How many of you get halfway to the ground and have an unbearable need to check you have those bloody tickets?! The same mentality some of us have with regards passports and airline tickets, well the season ticket comes just as high up on my list.

The first match was undoubtedly a big affair. Pompey, the league leaders and our adversary at the first match of the season, which we all know the outcome.

The outcome of the home match was almost equal to that, with Forest playing below their standard and offering Pompey a victory that at other times they wouldn't have even dreamed of.
Not a great start for my comeback; least of all to get back home facing a herd of sheep-shaggers gloating over the fact, even though they themselves had gone down to the Royals.

The following game did not do anything to resolve the disappointment of Pompey. Walsall at home; the bogie team. One was beginning to wonder if I had brought some sort of Jonah to the team - he’s a curse he is!

It was now becoming a two-way thing. If the Reds had a bad result I could only hope that the Sheep would follow suit. Given their total demise this season there have not been many occasions where I had to worry.

It became a battle within the family, but as Forest maintained their position within the top six - albeit to by the back door way on some occasions due to favourable results from other contenders - the prideless pussies began to languish. There was talk of just a couple of wins and they would force their way back into play-off contention, but to my delight in all my smugness this was never going to happen. The fact that I had to listen day in day out to their ramblings of their day to day experiences, put up with seeing Dreby clothing all over the house (the wife actually looks like something off a Ribena advert when wearing that gross purple track suit), would have been even harder to bear had they actually been playing well!

So one half-season ticket and all to show was one loss and one draw, the feeling of bringing bad luck to the CG was to prevail. Still the atmosphere in the Upper Bridgeford was proving to be a consolation. And it would get better.

The next game against Coventry was to convince me that my return to the fold wearing the Garibaldi Red was probably one of my more inspirational decisions, but it was to begin with a near disaster.

The morning of the game I had followed my usual pre match warm up of switching my attention between Soccer AM on TV and the Forest Forum on my laptop, unceremoniously sprawled out over the floor with my self struggling for comfort for the best view of both.

It was when I stood up that I realised that due to sitting on my leg I had lost all feeling and duly crashed straight back down to the floor. A disgusting cracking noise from my foot and the pain suggested that something serious had occurred. So serious, that the next hour or so was spent crawling around on my hands and knees.

Though I was sure the injury was serious, my first thoughts were towards the game and getting ready. After numerous arguments with the ‘herd’, it was with great relief that I drove away from home towards Nottingham for the game.

The game itself was inspiring, the Forest I remembered from glories past. The 1-1 draw, as Harty said, was the most one-sided affair that most had ever witnessed. Forest, playing to their strengths, passing along the floor with precision and relentlessness. Watching Reidy bought back all the memories of a certain god-like image we used to adore - John Robertson - and the whole team displayed the same qualities that were preached by the Messiah - Brian Clough.

The atmosphere was brilliant although the immense pain in my foot curtailed over excitement and limited my activity during the match. It was a struggle to walk from the car and even bigger struggle to get back.

Next day I went to the hospital, I had broken a bone in my foot and was to spend the next 4 weeks in plaster. The Doctor, who suggested I had certainly not helped it by going to the match, seemed mystified. He did not seem to understand the passion and dedication that prevailed in my decision to go to the game, although he admitted he had no interest nor knowledge of football. You know, as soon as I saw, I knew he was a Sheep-shagger.

Four weeks in plaster, still there was one thing to look forward to... March 19, 2003!!