And we can sing just like our fathers

Twenty three points. York City finished twenty three points ahead of us. Seven wins and two draws ahead of us, if you will. And we absolutely demolished them. That’s just what Oldham do now. They just win play off matches. Emphatically.

The atmosphere, both in the city centre and at the ground, was bouncing. Let’s face it, the game was probably won before kick-off, when we out-sang the home fans and chanted “what the fucking hell is that” at their flag. And where the bloody hell did the balloons and beach balls come from? If you were watching on TV at home or at Boundary Park, I hope you could hear us singing for all of you.

The first half kind of reminded me of how visiting teams often set up at Boundary Park. It’s understandable when teams come to the Wembley of the North and try to stifle the game and frustrate us, but York adopting that tactic at home, in a knockout game, having finished second in the league, was very odd. I guess they watched the Halifax game and shat themselves.

Akinyemi had a shot well saved by Hudson 14 minutes in, but it was going wide anyway. It was about as close as they got to scoring. They scored 95 goals in the league this season, but they didn’t manage a shot on target against us. Shortly after, Kitching’s header from Ogle’s long throw (oh GOD I want one of them to pay off) was cleared off the line.

I’m going to say the same now about the opening goal as I did at the time: WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED? The keeper made a cat’s arse of playing the ball out from the back, Yoganathan intercepted it and played it to Garner, and in the form that he’s in, there was only one place it was going to end up. The North stand erupted, except for me, I was just stood in shock waiting for it to be disallowed for something, anything.

📷 Phill Smith

I had expected us to be up against it at York, but we were on the front foot for pretty much the whole game. Fondop made a great run half an hour in, and his shot from the edge of the box forced Male into a good save. My nerves hadn’t been as comprehensively settled as they had been in the Halifax game, but it was a better first half than I could have hoped for.

We came out all guns blazing in the second half, and we could start dreaming three minutes in. Pett headed the ball on to Fondop in the penalty area, he unselfishly played it back to Yoganathan, and his shot went through about 5 York players (nutmegging one of them) into the bottom far corner of the net. Never fall in love with a loan player, eh? Fucking get in.

📷 Phill Smith

“Now they are well in charge of this semi-final!” We certainly were two minutes later. Evans – superb at doing the less showy work in midfield once again – stopped a York attack and played it through the lines onto Pritchard’s run. He played it to Garner down the right, Garner played it back to Pritchard at the near post, and he buried it to book our place at Wembley. And paying DAZN subscribers all over the world were treated to the sight of Gaz’s tits. (I’m afraid that wasn’t the only treat he had in store for us. Good lord.)

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At this point, at 3-0 up, even I allowed myself to stop worrying. One of York’s few chances was foiled by Kitching running across Akinyemi and stop him from turning to place his shot. I couldn’t wait for the game to be over and for the celebrations to fully get underway. Where the fuck did seven minutes of injury time come from?

They passed quick enough, and it was glorious, beautiful pandemonium at the final whistle. Everyone here at Oldham Fan Media would like to remind you all that trespassing onto the pitch is a serious criminal offence, and we certainly do not condone running on the pitch and making a wanker sign at the stewards.

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Seriously, though, there’s a time and a place for restraint, and beating the shit out of our Yorkshire rivals at their own manor to reach our first Wembley final in 35 years is not it. The atmosphere at Tranmere and Leyton Orient was special, but this was something else entirely. It was amazing, and it was an utter privilege to be a part of it.

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It looks like the party in the dressing room was pretty decent, too. I’m so pleased that they were singing Yoganathan’s song, and I wholeheartedly approve of the music choice.

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Having established earlier in the day that the Saddle Inn near our guest house in Fulford was going to be open until midnight, we got a taxi back and were pleasantly surprised to find that we were far from the only ones. Huge shout out to Morgan, who was on her own behind the bar and probably wasn’t expecting twenty delirious Latics fans to pile into a pub a fair way out from the city centre at 10.30pm, but she did a great job facilitating our celebrations.

I had to raise a glass to my dad, who passed away twenty years ago. It was his birthday on Tuesday. And if he’d bothered to take me to Anfield when I was a kid, I’d have got the chance to go to Wembley a fuck of a lot sooner.

He had a theory that everyone in our family sees their team lose on their first trip to Wembley. He first went in 1971, when Arsenal beat Liverpool 2-1 in the FA Cup final. My brother’s first trip was in 1988, and he’s as sick of seeing Dave Beasant’s penalty save as I am of seeing M*rk H*ghes’ equaliser. My Evertonian sister made her first trip there the following year, and had to wait another six years to see Joe Royle bring the FA Cup back to Goodison.

You’ll be pleased to know that I watched England v Norway at the old Wembley (I only went to see Gunnar Halle), and I’ve been to three Challenge Cup finals at the new place. I deeply, sincerely hope that the curse is broken.

It has been a long, tough, grim 35 years. We knew that the halcyon days of the early 90s wouldn’t last forever, but we couldn’t have imagined just how far we’d fall in the subsequent three decades. If ever a group of supporters has earned their big day out, it’s us. 2025 seems to be the year of teams ending years of heartbreak, but it’s been more than that for us. We haven’t just been starved of success, we’ve had to fight for the very existence of our club. This time three years ago, I was preparing for us having to start afresh, and I thought the most likely situation we’d be in right now would be supporting a phoenix club in the North West Counties League.

Instead, we’re going to Wembley, and we’re 90 minutes away from getting back to where we belong in the Football League. Thank you, Frank, Judith, Su, Luke, and Darren. And thank you to all of you who kept the MF faith and wouldn’t let our club die.

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Southend will be tough opponents. They’ve been on a similar journey to us, and they seem to have a powerful, resilient, never-say-die team spirit. But we’ve just battered the team that finished 2nd with 96 points 3-0. Let them worry about us. Whatever will be, will be. Keep proving me wrong, Micky. KTMFF.

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Written by Arlene Finnigan