A close fought game sees a rather limited and timid Sheffield United side fail to defend a lead and on the receiving end of some rather decent City attacking play.

Report by Steve Weatherill.

For supporters of a certain vintage this is the most spine-tingling fixture of them all.

Sheffield United. Serious rivals. Seriously evil rivals.

I know, I know, there's plenty of room for debate. Our city looks East, out to the deep sea, and the economic and cultural context of matches against Grimsby makes them strong contenders as our 'true' derby fixture. Then again the intensity of games against Leeds runs deep and sour, though we have to concede it's not really reciprocated. For us, as with most, maybe all, other Yorkshire clubs contempt for Leeds United is driven in part by perennial footballing chicanery but also by the media's witless embrace of that vile town's self-positioning as the 'capital' of the county, a relentless exercise in steepling West Yorkshire arrogance. Sheffield Wednesday too have brought us moments of confrontation to savour.

But in my experience nothing quite replicates the feeling of entering a war zone that accompanied games, home and away, in the ground and outside it, with Sheffield United back in the mad bad 1970s and 1980s.

[How many war zones you been in then Steve? Yeah, OK, shuddup, just roll with it OK?]

It wasn't like that yesterday though. Tame, considering.

Not that I am pining for the hot breath of history. The dominant unfolding narrative of games against the Blades way back when was that (a) we'd outplay them (b) they would benefit from outrageously generous refereeing decisions and/or they would enjoy slices of good fortune on an industrial scale. It wasn't like that yesterday either. We were the better side. Marginally. But older fans, fully expecting the unwelcome sight of an invented penalty or a wicked deflection to win the points for the visitors as the clock ticked down, will have been pleasantly surprised at how the game simply petered out.

A point against poor opposition? Be content. It was Sheffield United we were playing, after all.

Waiting for the clocks to go back were:

Myhill
Ricketts Turner Brown Delaney
Garcia Ashbee Livermore Hughes
Windass Campbell

Ashbee returns to replace the suspended Marney but otherwise our manager is clearly intent on bringing stability to both formation and personnel. 4-4-2. And though neither Garcia nor Hughes would have much basis for complaint were they dropped, Mr Brown is promoting consistency in selection. Keep it simple. I don't complain at all.

The first half was rotten.

Fast-paced opening. Tall ungainly opponents. Hughes lightweight and careless in possession.

15 minutes in, nothing much has happened, and the game is dying.

On 18 Campbell has a shot which is saved rather unconvincingly by Bennett, but an offside flag is fluttering anyway. On 24 a slick turn by Campbell, a cross, Windass is under pressure from giants and heads over the bar.

We're only playing in snatches though. It's frustratingly poor. We were ruthlessly incisive on Monday night, but doing it with consistency is the target. Maybe that's just not do-able in this extraordinarily even Division?

On 26 Garcia dives with embarrassingly theatrical deception and is hugely fortunate that referee Mason hands his adversary a yellow card when the simulating Australian is due one himself. Livermore whips in a fine free-kick, punched out at the back-post by Bennett for a corner which Hughes wastes. A few minutes later a free-kick from the left is glanced wide by Delaney's soaring bonce.

In between Hughes wasted a few more things.

C'mon, we can do better than this. But a feeling of disappointment that the Barnsley-crushing flow and elan had vanished from our football was tipped into a much darker mood. Sheffield United suddenly find far too much space in midfield, Stead sprints into the inside right channel and is provided with a perfect pass, Myhill hurtles off his line and then stops dead as if horrified at how exposed he is, and Stead expertly whisks a low shot past him.

1-0 up, the visitors did not deserve that, not at all. But that's how it's always worked as far as Sheffield United are concerned. Their support - maybe 2,500 of them, all horrible, needless to add - celebrates with a certain sense of amazement.

O dear, we are flat now. The game is sunk into grey autumnal lethargy. Ten dull minutes separate us from the 'plus 2' board and though the added period includes a nice move involving Garcia, Ricketts and Campbell down the right and then a hopelessly wild shot by Hughes, the feeling at half-time is doleful. A very stuffy first-half.

And a similarly sullen beginning to the second.

Now, what we need here is some arch stupidity from our opponents. Step forward dopey brute Michael Tonge who, deep inside his own penalty area, duly commits a ludicrously unrefined tackle on Frazier Campbell, scything our boy to the turf without even a hint of engagement with the ball. It's so obvious you laugh as much as appeal for the spot-kick, and referee Mason has no doubt (for there is no doubt).

Windass D nervelessly spots the ball, boots it into the corner of the net away from which the hapless Bennett is diving.

One each, game on.

At last.

And now the inadequacy of the opposition is laid bare as glimpses of the football that punished Barnsley emerges. On 55 a glorious move sees Windass setting up the advancing Ashbee for a shot from the edge of the box - Bennett saves with his fingertips. On 66 a breathtaking backheel by Turner provides Hughes with space to whisk a fine cross on to Campbell's forehead - the defence is ragged and clueless but Campbell makes inadequate connection and the ball spins away sadly wide. On 70 Delaney, marauding deep inside Sheffield territory, contrives an overhead kick, Deano nods the ball on into the middle of the box where Garcia, eight yards out and in front of goal, heads firmly against the crossbar.

That was our best chance of a winning goal.

Aside from a couple of corners on 68 sandwiching a Myhill save in a goalmouth stramash, the Blades are groping for a way back into a game that is fast slipping away from them.

Let us, however, show some respect for the manager of our illustrious opponents. Bryan Robson - for it is he! - was one of the finest midfielders of his generation, it says here in the English press, and frequently played as many as ten minutes in a row before succumbing to injury. His tactical insight is widely rated as scarcely inferior, if inferior at all, to that of a piece of cheese. A large piece, one that is ripe enough to clench its fist quite a lot and shout 'Come on lads' in a threatening manner that those green of judgement might mistake for leadership. You'd imagine that when Neil Warnock left Sheffield United at the end of last season an application for the job from Bryan Robson would be treated at Bramall Lane in much the same way as an e-mail informing the club that Mr Sunday Owelumu of the Royal Bank of Nigeria has twenty million dollars that he would like to deposit in your account, if only you would send him your account details. And yet here's Robbo, back prowling the touch-line, trying to look intense but succeeding only in looking baffled. Still, he earns his corn on the training pitch, I'm sure. Danny Webber - a powerful and skilful forward last time the Blades came visiting Hull, now imaginatively converted into a bewildered young man mooching around out of position. Matthew Kilgallon - not quite good enough before Captain Marvel got hold of him, now even further away from being quite good enough. Ah, the list goes on, but frankly it would be demeaning to the other 20-odd thousand people in the ground were I to allocate still more of this report to the attributes of this Man of Football to whom I look up perhaps more than all others - Sir Bryan Robson, future manager of England.

We're into the last ten minutes of the match now. Livermore is off, Okocha on. Then McPhee replaces Campbell, and Featherstone comes on for Garcia (so Hughes is pushed out to the right side). But the buzz has gone from our play. Okocha is plainly not fit and can offer only a couple of gloriously deft touches. He can't run. In fact, it's Delaney who provides the key contribution of the closing stages as Stead gets the better of Wayne Brown - a few weeks since anyone did that - and slides in a wicked low cross, only to despair as the Lion of Cork intervenes in front of his own net and dismisses the danger with summary ease. Ballplaying defensive colossus.

It's raining now. And it's grey. There are 4 added minutes but neither side displays any sense of urgency.

Point apiece. 'Bout right.

HULL CITY (4-4-2): Myhill; Ricketts, Turner, Brown, Delaney; Garcia, Livermore, Ashbee, Hughes; Windass, Campbell.  Subs: Okocha (for Livermore, 72), McPhee (for Campbell, 77), Featherstone (for Garcia, 83), Dawson, Duke.

Goals: Windass 54 (pen)

Booked: Livermore

Sent Off: None

SHEFFIELD UNITED: Bennett, Bardsley, Cahill, Kilgallon, Naysmith, A Quinn, Tonge, Armstrong, Stead, Beattie, Webber.  Subs: Gerrard, Morgan, Montgomery, Sharp, S Quinn.

Goals: Stead 35

Booked: Cahill, Stead, Tonge

Sent Off: None

REFEREE:  L Mason

ATTENDANCE: 20,185