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Right, here we go. It’s 10:30 and I’m pulling into Forge Road with Ella and little Lucy in the back. The air’s buzzing and I can already see the ticket queues snaking along the stadium wall - hundreds of folk, scarves up, braving the chill for this. Nearly 4,000 expected today, a club record by miles.
My stomach’s doing flips, but I’m grinning like an idiot. This is the FA Cup Second Round, against League One Reading, seven divisions above us and the BBC’s got us on Match of the Day Live. First time on telly. My Bransay Athletic on the bloody BBC. Who’d have thought it?
As we park, I spot chairman Josh Lloyd striding toward the entrance, all smiles, shaking hands with fans. I hop out, give him a nod. “Josh, mate, look at this crowd!” He laughs, clapping me on the shoulder. “Callum, you’ve got the island buzzing. Make us proud, yeah?” I tell him we’ll give it everything, but inside, I’m thinking, ‘Don’t let it be a hammering.’ Ella’s got Lucy on her hip, whispering to her about her dad’s big day and I’m just soaking it in. This is for them, for Bransay, for every soul who’s backed us from the North Northumberland League to here.
Inside, the lads are in the dressing room, half-joking, half-nervous. Németh’s lacing his boots, Tioffo’s got his headphones on, Halabi’s chatting up Burrows about some daft bet. I catch Markell Edmondson’s eye - he’s calm, focused, our rock. I tell them to get warmed up, keep it loose.
The BBC correspondent, some chap named Dan, catches me in the tunnel for the pre-match interview. Cameras rolling, mic in my face and I’m trying not to sound like a starstruck kid.
“Callum, what a moment for Bransay Athletic. Talk us through this FA Cup run.”
I take a breath. “It’s been unreal, Dan. We’ve knocked out Newark & Sherwood, Grimsby Borough, Trafford, Wroxham, West Didsbury, Altrincham and Dorking Wanderers - teams we had no right beating on paper.
“But these lads, they’ve got heart. I’m so proud of them, not just for this run, but for what we’ve built. Nine years ago, we were in the North Northumberland League, playing in front of 30 fans at Level 18. Now we’re in the Northern Division One, hosting a League One side. It’s a fairy tale, but it’s one we’ve grafted for.
“The island’s alive today - those queues outside, we’ve had to hire extra staff for the ticket office. Nearly 4,000 in Forge Road, our biggest ever. For Bransay, a place this small, having a Football League club here? It’s massive. Reading are a class outfit, physical, technical, levels above us. We’ll press, stay compact and try hit them on the break. We’ve got nothing to lose, so we’ll play with pride and hopefully give the fans something to shout about.”
Back in the dressing room, it’s time for the team talk. The lads are looking at me, some fidgeting, some steely-eyed. I keep it simple. “Lads, listen up. You’ve already done the impossible. It’s the FA Cup Second Round, on the BBC, against Reading.
“You’ve made history. The pressure’s off - go out there, enjoy it, play for each other, for the island, for your families. We don’t roll over. Press them, fight for every ball and let’s show the country and the world what we’re made of. Let’s make them work for anything they get and if we nick something, Forge Road’ll erupt. Come on!” They’re clapping, shouting, fired up but loose. I catch Németh’s grin - good, they’re ready.
The whistle goes at 12:30 and the crowd’s roar hits me like a wall. Reading start sharp, their size and pace obvious. In the 9th minute, Kimaree Somersall’s throw-in out right finds Dalmar Shineton. He skips past Burrows - too much space, lad - and swings in a cross. Kelvin Ehibhatiomhan, their 6’3” beast, rises at the far post and heads it down, under Daly’s dive. 1-0. Bugger. I knew it was coming, but my gut’s sinking. Please, don’t let this turn into a rout. Keep your heads, lads, don’t let it get embarrassing.
In the 15th, another throw-in down their right. Somersall to Shineton again, then to Tom Askey, who crosses for Ehibhatiomhan. Over the bar this time - thank Christ. I’m on the touchline, urging Burrows to stay tighter, but Reading’s wingers are rapid.
In the 24th, we’ve got a throw in our half. Ouattara takes it, gives it to Halabi, who volleys to Gordon. He finds Tioffo at the halfway line, who pings it to Burrows out left. Burrows fires a first-time ball for Németh to chase down the left side of the box. My heart’s racing - go on, lad! Németh pulls it back, plays to Burrows for a cross, but Maxim Dekker clears it. Reading counter, Ehibhatiomhan’s running through our defence, Alan Matthews finds him, tries a square ball, but Byrne’s there to clear - hero! It falls to Shineton on the edge and his shot skims the bar, hitting the net’s roof. Too close. I’m pacing, muttering, “Hold it together, lads.”
In the 38th, Reading’s free kick in their half starts another move. Charlie Penman to Somersall, to Shineton, who shrugs off Burrows. They play it about - Somersall, Carter Pinnington, Askey - then switch to the left. Dekker finds Caspar Astles, who plays toward Craig Williams.
Edmondson knocks Williams off the ball, gives it to Daly, who hoofs it up. Penman wins the header, Pinnington dribbles into our half, finds Shineton. He’s off again, down the right, hits the byline and crosses to the back post. Ehibhatiomhan heads in, same as the first. 2-0. My heart sinks. Gutted. We’re done. No way back from this. Just keep it respectable.
In the 42nd, we try to respond. Edmondson’s free kick on the halfway line goes short to Halabi, but Askey intercepts Gordon’s pass, gives it to Williams, then Matthews. Astles sprints down the left, shoots across goal, just wide. I’m relieved but tense. Daly’s goal kick is nodded down by Gordon to Tioffo, but Askey cuts out the pass to Németh. Matthews gets it, plays Williams down the left into the box and Edmondson brings him down. Ref points to the spot. I’m fuming - He dived, you blind bastard! - but the lads are arguing too, no use. In the 44th, Ehibhatiomhan slots the penalty down the middle, Daly dives left. 3-0. Half-time whistle. We’re out. Three-nil to a League One side before the break. This could get ugly.
At half-time, the dressing room’s quiet. Edmondson’s raging about Williams’ dive, says it was barely a touch. I pull him aside, calm him down. “Lads, look at me. Reading are class - physically, technically, they’re levels above. That’s no shame. You’ve done Bransay proud just by getting here. Second half, go out and give these fans something to cheer. Play for pride, for the island. Don’t let them walk over us. Keep fighting, give it everything.” They nod, heads up, ready to scrap.
Second half starts steady, no big chances. Reading control it, but we’re battling. In the 64th, Ehibhatiomhan gets it at halfway, lays it to Shineton, who finds Askey. Askey’s low pass finds Callum Leigh in the box, his shot deflects off Edmondson for a corner.
Astles’ corner is headed out by Halabi, but Ehibhatiomhan nods it to Leigh, alone on the edge. Leigh digs it out to Astles, who crosses again. Edmondson wins the header, but it falls to Pinnington, who dinks it up and volleys into the far right corner. 4-0. Oh no, please, not a thrashing. Don’t let it be seven or eight. Hold on, lads.
In the 70th, we win a corner. Ouattara swings it in, Halabi runs to the near post and bundles it home with his head! 4-1! I throw my arms up, Forge Road explodes. Halabi doesn’t even celebrate, just grabs the ball and sprints back for kick-off. That’s my boy!
Something to cheer, at least. In the 77th, Reading’s throw-in deep in our half sees Dekker aim for Astles, but Culbert muscles him off, hoofing it long. Tioffo controls it, despite Penman’s tight marking and plays back to Halabi, who finds Tioffo again. Tioffo turns inside, hits a high ball to Gordon, with Burrows bombing down the left. Gordon plays Burrows, who takes one touch into the box and fizzes a low ball to Németh, free in the six-yard box. He blasts it in! 4-2! The crowd’s going mental. Halabi’s in the net, grabbing the ball again. Bloody hell, lads, you’re not giving up, are you?
In the 80th, Daly’s goal kick goes awry, straight to Astles out left. He darts toward the box, but Culbert’s tackle is a belter, forcing Astles wide. It goes back to Dekker, who crosses to Shineton at the back post, but Byrne’s header is immense, clearing it. Trae Briscoe tries to head it back, but Burrows volleys it out to Smith, who beats Dekker in the air to nod to Tioffo just past the halfway line. Tioffo plays to Culbert, who hoofs it for Tioffo’s run - a long-range one-two! Tioffo’s running into the box, lays it to Németh arriving in the six-yard box and it’s in! 4-3! I’m losing it, screaming, but trying to stay calm. Comeback on? No way, surely not. Eighty minutes, 4-3 against Reading!?
In the 87th, we get a dangerous free kick out left. Evans swings it in, Shineton clears but Tioffo chases it down the right, hits a poor hip-height cross. Askey stops Smith, Dekker clears and Leigh battles Edmondson in the air. Edmondson wins it, heads it to Burrows, who takes one touch from 30 yards and drives it low into the bottom left. Danny Quin can’t get down in time. 4-4! I’m on the pitch, hugging the lads, fans spilling over, chaos everywhere. The ref flashes me a yellow when I get back to the touchline - worth every second. 4-4! From 4-0 down! You can’t write this!
In the 93rd, Pinnington clears a long ball to Askey, who sends Leigh down the right. His low cross to Ehibhatiomhan is deflected by Burrows. I’m holding my breath - No penalty, please. Edmondson shoves Ehibhatiomhan down, no whistle - payback for that Williams dive! Astles gets to the byline, drives a low cross, Daly parries, but it falls to Jack Whittaker with an open goal. Edmondson throws himself at it, blocks it for a corner!
Forge Road’s deafening, loudest I’ve ever heard it. Whittaker’s corner in the 94th is outswinging, Dekker meets it, but it lands on the net’s roof. The crowd roars like we’ve just scored a winner. Daly boots it long and the whistle goes. 4-4. We’re still in the cup! We’re going to the Madejski!
Fans flood the pitch, mobbing me, Edmondson, Culbert, Halabi, Németh, Burrows. Hugs, kisses, roars ringing in my ears. I see a BBC reporter trying to get through, but no chance, mate - not today. Up in the stands, Josh Lloyd’s hugging everyone, overjoyed. Ella’s got Lucy, waving and I’m just standing here, heart pounding, thinking, This is Bransay. We’re not done yet.
