I've been going since 1967, with grandads, uncles, aunties, brothers, cousins and mates, but since the move to the new stadium, just me with my two young sons. All of us had season tickets for all those years. I've seen lots of highs and many more lows (the lows spanning 35 long years), made worse by the other lot over the road winning/cheating/fluking their way to success. But that day in May was our turn. Nothing was going to stop us, not even typical City.
Everton's late equaliser at old toilet was celebrated in the pub on the way to Wolves by all the City fans as it put the league back into our hands. Vinny's header confirmed it as united didn't even have an effort on target. We had good as won it as we celebrated joyously at Newcastle. It was a glorious sunny day for the QPR game as me and my two teenage sons made our way to the ground by public transport, as I wasn't driving this time as we'd surely be celebrating in town after the game. Me, my two sons 13 and 15, took our seats in the East stand. This was our time.
The joy in my two lads faces when Zabba scored was a joy to behold. They had both endured a bad five years up until that day. Their Mum, my wife, had died of cancer five years earlier and then my youngest was diagnosed with leukaemia just a year after that. He survived over three years of painful treatment and chemotherapy and had recently been diagnosed in remission. Throughout those hard five years it was watching City that gave us a release, bonded us, gave us all quality time. gave us something to look forward to and distract us when we needed distracting. So this game was payback for lots of reasons. We had deserved it.
At 2-1 down I immediately looked at my two teenage sons. They were turned into young boys. I'll never forget the look of pain and upset on my youngest's face. I couldn't do anything to help or ease that suffering. Nothing. Hopelessness and deep despair. We equalised and none of us celebrated. We knew it was too late. This was to be our day, payback, and I can't describe the low we were all feeling. There was the odd tear slowly shed by all three of us; we couldn't hide it. Then, well we all know what happened, and it happened in slow motion. The release. The joy. Limbs. Screams. Primeval. Guttural. I managed to pump my fists in the direction of my auntie, uncle and cousin sat in another part of the stand. They did the same to me. The final whistle. Relief. Tears. Payback complete.
We made our way into town, mates joining us on the way. Town was a bit of a let down to be honest. Yes, plenty of joyous Blues everywhere, but far too many pubs had shut "on Police instructions". It didn't spoil the evening though. Relief. Joy. Payback. That feeling will never be repeated by any football fan. It would take one's team yo yo-ing in three divisions for 35 years whilst their hated neighbours were arrogantly winning what seemed at the time to be the lot. Then to claw back an 8 point deficit at the end of the season to pip them on goal difference (due to a 6.1 away win) in the last minute of the last game will not happen again. And that ladies and gentlemen is why VAR is wrong, even if it was implemented fairly, seemlessly and decisions made quickly. But boy was the ride worth it! And we're still on that ride, riding high. Enjoy it.