The Magic of the Cup: Wrexham vs Brentford

So it’s 8.30 on a December Saturday morning and I’m stood on Mold Road getting soaked waiting for a bus to Brentford. Normally people would question your sanity if they saw you doing such a thing, but today I’m surrounded by hundreds of other Wrexham folk decked out in red all set for a four hour coach trip to West London. Only the magic of the FA Cup could get anyone excited for that kind of trip and it was with butterflies in my stomach that I boarded one of Shropshire’s finest coaches. Facing a team who lie mid-table two leagues above you is normally a daunting task, but Brentford’s poor home record coupled with Wrexham’s impeccable away form had left even the most pessimistic fan thinking we had a sniff at causing a cup upset.

The journey itself started off uneventfully enough as me and my friend Ed talked of our impeccable form watching Wrexham on the road (three wins, one draw, no losses) and soaked up the atmosphere on the coach as it meandered through Shropshire. We’d set off in plenty of time so there was even time for a stop at Warwick services for a greasy breakfast bap. So far, so good I thought. However, I hadn’t bargained for what happened less than half an hour later.

It all started with a groan at the back of the bus as a teenage lad stumbled in the direction of the toilet covering his mouth. His friend, who had abandoned the scene told us that the poor fella was feeling a bit queasy after a couple of cans of Strongbow causing much amusement to everyone around. However, the humour soon died out when after ten minutes of the lad barricading himself in there the most ungodly smell known to man engulfed the bus. Scarves were pulled over noses and some choice curses directed towards the toilet as a brave soul hammered on the door to get him out of there. Needless to say everyone bolted off the bus the second we got to our destination, and like most embarrassing stories everyone on the other buses somehow already knew of our plight. The lad in question wasn’t going to live this one down.

Brentford’s fresh air revived our senses as the hundreds of Wrexham fans who travelled down by car, bus and train poured into the town’s pubs. There was slight sense of the bizarre about the place; for a start the pub we chose had astro turf in the beer garden and as we sat down to drink a green parrot flew over the skyline. Owing to the town’s close proximity to Heathrow there are also some pretty low flying planes about. Griffin Park itself is an interesting ground, crammed between terraced streets and the only one in the country with a pub on every corner. We reached the stadium with half an hour to spare before kick off so we grabbed a hot dog and joined the throng of Wrexham fans already filling the two tiered away stand.

By the time kick off arrived the 731 strong away following was buzzing and it seemed to rub off on the players too. In the first 20 minutes Wrexham enjoyed the majority of possession and Adrian Cieslewicz went agonisingly close to putting us in front. Both on and off the pitch Brentford seemed frustrated, perhaps more than slightly worried at the prospect slipping on an FA Cup banana skin at home.

Sure enough, the magic moment finally came on the stroke of 33 mins when Lee Fowler’s free kick was headed out of the box by a Brentford defender. It only fell as far as Jamie Tolley on the edge of the 18 yard box who hit the ball first time and sent it rocketing into the far right hand corner of the net making the entire away stand erupt. The rest of the half flew by as the reds tested Brentford a few more times; Nat Knight Percival went closest to getting a second with an overhead kick.

At half time I didn’t dare let myself start thinking of the third round draw and a possible fixture against a Premier League team and it was with good reason. Brentford came out second half like a team who had been given a good telling off and Wrexham’s backs were against the wall for the majority of the second half. We struggled to keep hold of the ball and the crosses and shots just seemed to keep flying in, but to their credit there was a Wrexham player there at every turn to smack the ball away frantically. I can’t think of 45 minutes of football that passed by that slowly, my head was in my hands practically hiding for long periods and my finger nails annihilated.

By some miracle and with a little help from Joslain Mayebi’s comical time wasting tactics we reached the magical 90 minute mark, but even then we weren’t spared as the fourth official put the board up for four minutes of added time. I let out an audible groan as the home side mounted one last attack launching the ball high into the area. It was headed on goalwards and a Brentford striker looked certain to turn the ball into the net, when out of knowhere Mark Creighton, known affectionately as the Beast, launched it as far away as he could.

The ball eventually found its way into touch and an anxious Uwe Rösler in The Brentford dugout tried to hurry the throw in, but the referee finally brought the whistle to his lips sending 700 Wrexham fans into orbit. The players came over to applaud the travelling faithful as a chorus of “We shall not be moved” rang out over Griffin Park in a scene that only the FA Cup can produce. With the Wrexham Supporters Trust finally taking over the club earlier in the week it felt like a fairytale that was meant to be and we spilled out of the stadium with chants of Wrexham till I die ringing through the street.

I won’t ruin the mood with a dull account of the journey home, but I’m happy to report that it didn’t involve any more toilet related incidents.