5Live presenter Eleanor Oldroyd has written the following for Bulls News:
Growing up in a small town in rural South Shropshire had a lot of advantages, but access to top level football was not one of them. Beautiful countryside, in the shadow of the Clee Hill and not far from the Stiperstones, yes. Public transport links to league grounds, no.
For as long as I remember, I was into the game, staying up late to watch Match of the Day, collecting the 1970 World Cup coins, updating Shoot league ladders. But I didn't form any true allegiance to any particular club, and I didn’t get to my first live match until I was about 16. By that stage, we’d moved to Ledbury, and my younger brother, Andrew, had adopted Birmingham City as his team - a Bluenose teacher at his school was to blame, I think.
As I was his responsible big sister, my parents agreed that I could accompany him to matches - a train ride from Ledbury, followed by a terrifying walk down Digbeth to St Andrews. I loved the noise and the passion of our Saturday trips, watching Trevor Francis and Kenny Burns, the Wagon Wheels at half time (move over, Jasper Carrott), although I never considered myself a true Blues fan. Maybe it was something to do with the constant edge of menace - I remember once watching the notorious Zulu Firm lobbing chunks of masonry over a wall at the departing Leeds fans.
The low point came at an away game at Villa Park. Crammed into the tiny visiting supporters’ section, the terrace surges grew in intensity as the game went on, until I found myself clinging to a fence on a dividing wall. At 5 foot and a bit tall, I was just terrified that I’d be swept away.
I didn’t go to another First Division game for several years. Instead, I took the train in the opposite direction from Ledbury, and started going to Edgar Street. I can’t remember specific dates, fixtures, results - for me it was more about the joy of a Saturday afternoon on the terraces, the same noise and passion (at a slightly reduced volume), but without the underlying fear of violence. It may have been Fourth Division rather than First Division, the stands may have been crumbling, but the welcome was warm.
Once I moved to London to work, I started going out with an Arsenal supporter, and they became my club (it was 1989 - after that Micky Thomas goal at Anfield, I was hooked). I didn’t get to Edgar Street that often, but I always looked out for Hereford United’s results and felt - at a slightly less intense level - the same pleasure in success and gloom in adversity (and there was plenty of that) as the die-hard fans did. They were the closest I had to a home-town club.
When I came back to see my parents (by then living in Hereford), my Dad would point out their latest financial travails in the Hereford Times, and we would tut and shake our heads at their plight.
A few years ago, I was sent to cover a first round FA Cup game at Edgar Street for Radio 5 Live. It was the usual thing - echoes of Ronnie Radford, the club synonymous with giant killing, the parading of the bull - ticking off every on-air cliche.
I turned up with my broadcasting kit and made my way to the press box. The stands looked just the same as they had in the 80’s, and facilities for the media hadn’t moved on a huge amount, either. To file my updates and reports, I needed two things - an ISDN socket (like a phone point but better quality) and a power socket. Unfortunately the power was at the back of the box, and the ISDN point several rows in front. Stupidly, I hadn’t brought an extension lead with me.
The regulars from the local press watched the confusion of the spoilt, down from London reporter, with a certain amount of pleasure. “Huh - welcome to the real world!” said one. He then, sensing my exasperation, back tracked - “Oh, you’re a local really - you know what all this is about, don’t you?”
When the inevitable demise came for Hereford United, I felt truly sad for them. The fans who’d lived through the roller coaster years deserved better, but it was clear that hitting the bottom could only be followed by a meteoric rise. I’ve loved watching the way the supporters, having got their club back, have got stuck in, buying shirts, mugs and season tickets, but also cleaning, painting, and fundraising.
On the day of the first home game against FC United, I was at Wimbledon, presenting 5 Live’s coverage of Serena Williams against Garbine Muguruza in the Ladies’ Final. In between games on Centre Court, I was checking my Twitter feed for scores from Edgar Street. I might just have done a little fist pump when the winning goal went in.
It’s rare for me to allow myself to get excited about football in the middle of summer - in my view, July should be all about the Open, the Ashes, Wimbledon. And my heart definitely doesn't sing at the prospect of talking on air about multi-million pound signings of untried wingers by mega-rich clubs (and don’t get me started on FIFA scandals).
But two things have restored my faith in the game this year - the unfettered joy of England’s women’s team at the World Cup in Canada, and the rise from the ashes of Hereford FC.
I bought myself an HUST membership card for Christmas, and will be renewing when the time comes. I really hope to get to a game before the season is too old. I’ll probably persuade my teenage daughters to come with me.
Win or lose this season, I’ll be proud to call Hereford FC my home-town club again.