I think my worst memory was watching us go down in 2001. I was only 11 and it felt like mine, my brothers and all our mate's hopes had been trodden into the playground tarmac by the few mouthy reds who went to our school (St. Mary's, Denton). Conversely, I don't think I felt such a symposium exhilaration as I did the season after under Keegan, I have a very vivid, almost lurid, memory of being in a pub in Failsworth with my dad and our kid watching Huckerby score the hundredth goal (I think it was our hundredth: just because I remember my dad telling me afterwards) of the campaign and we battered Barnsley cricket score (i think) and sealing promotion! I never thought I'd feel as enraptured by anything like that ever again. Even at 12!
And then, of course, came Sergio's stoppage time screamer! How everything seemed to melt and fade away, like Dali's clocks. And there was nothing, no past, present or future. Just that one perfect moment suspended in its own, kind of, celestial, sublime, anachronistic plane of existence. Where nothing mattered, except that goal and the awesome waves of joy radiating from it. It didn't just represent a scoreline, did it? It wasn't just a premier league title or trophy. It elevated itself into the realms of concept. The concept of being a Manchester City fan. The agony bursting into ecstasy. Not just solipsistically speaking, either. It was the knowledge that we, as blues, were all feeling it together. Me, my mum, my dad, my brother. Your mum, your dad, your brother. My mates, your mates. You. Everyone.
Does that dull the blade when happenstance conspires to cut us? Does it make it easier to maintain the grace of nonchalance?
Does it bollocks.
Do I throw temporary temper tantrums when we don't win?
Of course.
Would I have it any other way?
Would I fuck.