The Steel City derby 1993 between Sheffield United and Sheffield Wednesday was also a F.A.Cup Semi-Final at Wembley Satdium, so a massive day in the memories of all of Sheffield. Unfortunately, what happened would be remembered for events off the football pitch. Let’s hear the stories.
Sheffield United’s BBC Viewpoint
First we have Sheffield United Ex- Blades Business Crew member Steve, who told us..”Ah the Sheffield Derby at Wembley 1993. We knew it was going to be big. Not just another away day, not just another firm looking for a bit of bother. This was Sheffield United vs Wednesday at Wembley — FA Cup semi-final, city split right down the middle. We travelled in numbers I’d never seen before. Trains rammed, coaches full, lads driving through the night just to be there. By the time we hit London, it was already building — that edge in the air, the kind you only get on days like this. The night before, we took over a pub near Leicester Square. Four hundred of us easy, packed in tight, noise bouncing off the walls. Word went round that Wednesday might link with Chelsea. No one flinched at that. If anything, lads were up for it. But they never showed. Instead, it was the police surrounding us, tension bubbling, a few shoves, a few swings, and a handful nicked for nothing.”
Next morning was the real deal. We regrouped early and the numbers had grown — must’ve been six hundred of us by then. Proper turnout. We spotted Wednesday before the game near one of the approaches. Sixty or so, maybe more. Both sides clocked each other at the same time. That split second pause… then it went. No organisation, just instinct. We surged forward, they came back at us, bodies colliding hard. Fists flying, lads going down, getting dragged back up again. I got hold of one in blue, landed a couple before he slipped free. To my right one of ours took a crack and dropped, only to be hauled away by his mates. It didn’t last long. Police piled in quickly, too quickly for it to really take hold. They forced us apart, pushing both sides back, but you could feel it — it was always going to kick off again somewhere.
Inside Wembley Stadium
Inside the ground, though, everything changed for a moment. Mel Reece walked out before kick-off, clearly ill but determined, doing a lap of the pitch. And both ends — red and white, blue and white — stood and applauded. No messing, no shouting over it. Just respect. It cut through everything. For a few minutes, the rivalry didn’t matter. It reminded you there were bigger things than football. Then the match started, and it was back to business. Tight game, proper battle, but Wednesday edged it 2–1 after extra time. Could’ve been worse if not for Kelly, who pulled off save after save. Still, losing to them at Wembley hurt. Bad. But even after that, the day wasn’t done. We gathered outside again, mobbed up, moving down Wembley Way in numbers, still looking for them.
I climbed onto a wall just to take it all in — hundreds of us stretching back, proper sight. Wednesday had been held back by police, you could see them in the distance trying to regroup. A few of their lads edged forward but nothing came of it there. Too many police between us. Further down near the car park, though, it sparked again. Smaller numbers this time — twenty or thirty each. No build-up, just straight into it. Quick, sharp, messy. Punches landing, lads slipping on the tarmac, one getting shoved into a parked car. One of ours swung and missed, got clipped straight after and staggered back. Another lad stepped in, drove forward, and they started to give ground. It was turning in our favour when the police came in again, sirens and shouting, breaking it up before it could go any further.
And that should’ve been it. Another tear-up, nothing out of the ordinary for a day like that. But then the rumours started. Something had happened in the car park, separate from what we’d just been in. At first no one really knew, just bits being passed around. Then it got clearer. One of their older lads, a known face, had thrown a punch in an altercation. Just one punch — the kind you see all the time. But the bloke he hit went down badly, cracked his head, and that was it. Dead. Not a rival squaring up properly, not a full-on fight. Just a fan, caught up in it, with a condition no one knew about. The mood shifted instantly. Lads who’d been laughing minutes before just went quiet.
You don’t go to football for that. Trouble, yeah — it was part of it back then, whether people like it or not. But death? That’s different. That’s where it stops meaning anything. We later heard the lad who threw the punch was broken by it, and he ended up doing time. But none of that changes what happened. A man went to a football match and never came home. We’d gone to London in numbers, had our clashes, made our presence known. From the outside, it probably looked like just another big day. But anyone who was there remembers it differently. Not the fights, not the numbers — but how it ended. Because football’s meant to be about life, the buzz, the rivalry, the days you never forget. Not death.
Owl Crime Squad Viewpoint
Sheffield Wednesday Ex Owl Crime Squad member Alan told us…We knew what was coming long before we got to London. This wasn’t just another away trip — this was United at Wembley, FA Cup semi-final, city split in half and both sides desperate to prove something. We travelled in smaller numbers than them, but that never bothered us. It’s never just about numbers. It’s about who stands when it matters. We met up the night before in a couple of pubs tucked away from the main drag. Nothing flash, just our lot keeping it tight. Word filtered through that United had taken over somewhere central in big numbers. Typical. Let them have their sing-song. We weren’t interested in charging headfirst into a mob twice our size. We’d pick our moments. That was always the way with us — smarter, not louder.
The morning of the game, the tension was there straight away. Police everywhere, keeping groups apart, trying to stop anything building. We moved in smaller packs, drifting through side streets, keeping out of sight but always watching. We spotted a few of theirs early on — stragglers more than anything. One group of maybe ten turned the wrong corner and walked straight into us. That was their mistake. It was quick and controlled. No chaos, just a sudden burst — a couple dropped, a few scrambling away, and we were gone before the police even knew what had happened. No hanging about, no trying to prove a point. That was enough. You don’t need a full-scale war every time. Sometimes it’s about letting them know you’re there.
Closer to the ground, things got more tense. You could see them gathering in numbers, big mobs forming, singing and pushing forward. We stayed back, watching for openings, but the police had it locked down tight. Lines of officers, horses, vans — they weren’t taking any chances with this one. There was a moment near one of the approach roads where both sides came into view at the same time. You could feel it shift instantly. Shouting, gesturing, lads trying to break through. We edged forward, they did the same, and for a few seconds it looked like it was going to go off properly. Then the police surged in between, forcing everyone back. A few quick exchanges at the edges — a punch here, a shove there — but nothing sustained. It was frustration more than anything. Too many barriers, too many uniforms.
Inside the ground, though, everything paused. When Mel Reece came out before kick-off, you couldn’t ignore it. Even from our end, you could see how ill he was, but still doing that lap. And both sides stood. No messing, no trying to drown it out. Just applause. For a moment, all the build-up, all the needle, it didn’t matter. It reminded you that football wasn’t everything, no matter how much we acted like it was. Then the game kicked off and it snapped back into place. Tight match, proper scrap on the pitch as well as off it. When we got the winner in extra time, our end went off. Absolute limbs. Beating them at Wembley — it doesn’t get much better than that.
After The Game, real Trouble!
After the game, we were held back. Standard stuff. Police keeping us penned in while United were allowed to move off first. You could see them in the distance, massive mob heading down Wembley Way. Some of our lads were itching to get at them, but it wasn’t happening there. Eventually we were released in smaller groups, filtering out into the surrounding streets and car parks. That’s where things tend to open up. Less control, more chances. We linked up again not far from the car park and started moving through, keeping an eye out. It didn’t take long. A group of United lads appeared ahead, maybe twenty of them. No hesitation this time. Both sides went straight at it.
It was messy, tight space between parked cars, nowhere to move properly. Punches thrown, lads stumbling over kerbs, bodies slamming into metal. I saw one of theirs get caught clean and drop, his mates dragging him back. One of ours got clipped as well, went down hard but got back up just as quick. It lasted seconds more than minutes, but it felt longer in the moment. Then someone shouted police and it broke apart, both sides scattering in different directions. Standard ending. Or at least it should have been. We regrouped a short distance away, checking who was still about, who’d taken a knock, who’d gone missing. Just another clash, nothing out of the ordinary. Until the word started spreading.
At first it didn’t sound real. Someone said a lad had gone down bad in another incident nearby. Then more details came through. One of ours — an older face, someone who’d been around years — had thrown a punch in a separate altercation. Just a single punch, nothing unusual. But the bloke he hit went down awkwardly, hit his head, and never got back up. When it sank in, everything changed. The buzz from the win, the usual post-match noise — it all just drained away. No one celebrates something like that. Not really. You could see it in the faces around us. Quiet, shaken. Because that’s never the intention, no matter what anyone says.
We heard later the lad who threw the punch, Sonny, was devastated. Properly broken by it. And rightly so. It’s one thing having a go, standing your ground, all that — but that’s not what football’s meant to lead to. A man goes to watch a game and doesn’t come home. That’s the line. Always has been. We’d come down to London, had our moments, taken the win on the pitch and held our own off it. From the outside, it might’ve looked like just another big derby day. But for those of us there, that’s not what sticks. What sticks is how quickly it all changed. Because at the end of it all, football’s supposed to be about life — the highs, the rivalry, the memories. Not death.
We thank Steve and Alan for their recollections. It’s clear that both firms had massive mobs out for this game in London. So sad it ended this way.
Thanks for reading. Have you read our previous article? Cardiff vs Millwall 1999: Soul Crew and Bushwackers from Both Perspectives
Until the next time, bye for now.
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