Cod Almighty | Diary
Sitting on a cornflake waiting for the play-offs to come
8 May 2026
You're the same as me, right? Picturing yourself walking down Grimsby Road on Sunday afternoon and calling out the memories of the moments that led us here.
When the August sun shone on the latest debuts. When Artell laid out his latest work. When we hoped again for fresh heroes. When Pym was okay, good, even better. When the fans' chatter was of starting the season with a back three. When Rodgers lined up on the right of a four. When we stared, open-mouthed at his long frame charging up and down in front of the Findus, in and out of the light like a child's shadow play.
When Gardner came on late against Harrogate, flicked on for Kabia to level so late. When Grimsby's number nine climbed into our hearts and would refuse to leave. When the first cup run was born in the late summer sun. When Gardner looked set to make summer last all season long. When the sun set red over the Red Devils. When the heavens opened and we smiled and we smiled and we smiled.
When we blipped against Bristol and flew against the Franchise. When we took over Hillsborough. When Vernam scored again. When Vernam assisted again. When Vernam was still playing and playing, three months in and still playing. When the red cards spilt across Blundell green. When we played against nine two games in a row. When Walker made the ball fly like an eagle – twice! When Sweeney came inside. When Burns's flame grew. When Pym had holes in his hands, a broken messiah at the base of a team that couldn't win.
When we missed a penalty.
When we missed a penalty.
When we missed a penalty.
When we lost and we lost. When Brentford came and showed us what we're missing. When time yawned, stretched its mouth wide, swallowed us whole. When hope reached out blindly, used its fingers to try to write scorelines in thin air. When we dropped and dropped, places and faith and hope.
When the next cup run was the only light in long December nights. When home fixtures came one after the other, the teams a blast of names from the recent past. When Christmas came, we toasted the season, the iron man Vernam and Rodgers, who would be the best right-back in the league. When we told ourselves, maybe next year.
When Christmas cheered. When Vernam made that clearance! When Smith locked in, kung fu and all! When Andy Cook got that ball and scored those goals. When Turi grew a beard and never looked back. When Maldini murdered them. When Green ran and ran. When he picked up the team and ran some more, heading goals galore.
When clean sheets were the norm. When we matched our best. When we climbed and climbed, our grip sure, our strength clear. When even thick mud and wily Wolves couldn't knock us off our stride. When we completed the double over those famous names' pet project. When Staunton's left foot was Potter's wand. When we missed more penalties. When Burns hit his brick wall. When we slowed again. When we were always sure, always ready to go again. When Amaluzor took his chance to shine.
When we won.
When we won.
When we won.
When three players moved into double figures. When Kabia scored and scored, again and again. When, finally, a penalty was converted. When the hollow one's men shrank to boys. When we knew we were there. When it was no surprise at all. When even the saddest of us and the bitterest of them admitted it was earned. When we knew it was right. When we knew it was proper.
When we walk down Grimsby Road. When 20 years of waiting fall from our shoulders. When we march to claim a summer of celebration. When thousands of footsteps echo beneath the new leaves on the old trees. When the sun shines or the rain pours. When the snow comes for all we'll care. When the pints flow, the fish fries and the chips sparkle with salt diamonds. When the crowd's voices rise as one, filling the street, flying through the turnstiles, firing into the stands. When we're the black and white army.
When whatever will be will be.
When we're going to Wembley.