I was 10 years old and had been waiting patiently for about 18 months for my brother, who is 9 years older, to take me to my first match. Parking at the Fallowfield end of Yew Tree Rd, we walked up towards Maine Rd. Call it what you will, but the ‘enthusiastic’ nature of some football followers at this time just made the experience a little more edgy – the atmosphere, even against Coventry, was bubbling under, although from what I can recall there was no trouble. ‘Shall we get him a Programme?’ asked my brothers mate, and all the lads concurred this would be a good idea. Not knowing what a ‘programme’ was, I remember feeling a little deflated when I was handed a small A5 colour pamphlet. However it did have the mighty Mick McCarthy on the cover. The thing I really remember is how, amongst the modest terraced houses, sprung the mighty Kippax. As I paid my 50p, I pushed the heavy-duty turnstyle which appeared to be trying to resist my entry into a lifetime of broken dreams. I was in. Climbing to the top of the concrete steps and taking in that first view at the top of the Kippax, the pitch looked smaller, but the ground more majestic than anything I had seen. We lost 1-0.