Cod Almighty | Diary

This is how it happens

15 May 2015

Retro Diary writes: Grimsby Road is deserted. A crisp packet blows down Suggitt's Lane and over the railway lines. Everyone has gone. Somewhere, a long way away, a huge black and white flag slowly unfurls. What a weekend; what a weekend this is to write a weekend diary; to be a Diary. Possibly, possibly, the last non-League diary of our lives. Are you sitting comfortably? Here goes…

Last night, I had a dream. A dream that Town won promotion to the Football League.

In 2016.

WTF?

Before we even set off for Wembley, would we take that? Or not?

I think we would. We'll all still be here, and surely we can't make the same stupid mistakes again. And then there's 2017, and every other year. There will be as many opportunities to get promoted from this league as there are years. We have no control over anything that occurs on that pitch on Sunday; we can only watch, helpless. But the clock doesn't stop ticking, and it will all come around again, different, perhaps better than before.

What we do have control over on Sunday is how we respond to whatever happens. If we do win, we should win graciously – our opponents, especially these opponents, are very much like ourselves, and they will be aggrieved. Lose graciously, because all it means is that our time is not now. It really isn't the end of the world. It's a pisser, but nobody dies.

The minute Bristol Rovers were relegated on the last day of last season our hearts sank, because we knew what it meant. Since then, every last thing has gone precisely according to expectations, and now, on the threshold of the very last game, the season is still panning out exactly as predicted. Bristol Rovers are in our way. This, right now, is where we need the prediction to go wrong; in that great red bowl, where echoes abound.

Forget that they're better than us. Forget they came second. Forget that we haven't scored against them in two games. Forget that the last time we were one game from promotion we finished up getting relegated. Forget that Brentford are about to show that it's possible to lose in the play-offs eight times in a row. Forget that Bristol's fans will outnumber us. Forget that the fourth division, which used to be considered failure, now seems an impossible fantasy. Forget we've got to contend with an ego-crazed ref who hates us. Forget about the ticket mafia getting rich at our expense.

Forget all that. That ball will be guided inexpertly, and nervously, around the Wembley pitch by Conference footballers – it could go anywhere. There will be a strong element of chance. We need the charity of the gods, just for one, measly, short, trifling spring afternoon. Please.

And we'll be there. Getting on for twenty thousand people who nearly all went to the same nine rough-arsed schools under the huge skies of north Lincolnshire's freezing outmarsh, gathered on a single artificial hillside in balmy, distant London. As a concept, that's both bonkers and beautiful. We'll remember it all our lives. That, on its own, is a kind of victory.

Synchronise watches and hang on.

See you on the other side. UTM.