A 46-game League Two season, the sunny optimism of August, the trudge through deep winter before spring breaks and the promotion bolters break free, really is not meant to come down to this.
“It’s not happening,” the bloke behind me wails. And it is hard to argue: Bradfordian nerves have been wound taut all day, each misplaced pass and over-thought touch cranking the tension up another notch.
And then it happens. A long ball is hoisted into the penalty area, nodded back by a Fleetwood Town defender into the path of substitute George Lapslie. His shot is heading comfortably into the arms of goalkeeper Jay Lynch but it brushes off the feet of Antoni Sarcevic and begins spinning towards the goalline. From the top of Valley Parade’s towering Kop it feels like the clocks stop as a wrong-footed Lynch sets off to try and change destiny.
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It is absolute bedlam after the goal. Sarcevic wheels into the corner, buried under a sea of claret and amber bodies as an earthquake of euphoria detonates in the stands. Around me in block J, everyone is hugging, emitting the kind of high-pitched roars that crescendo into screams.
The goal sparked a pitch invasion, too. It is ill-advised – Bradford will likely face a sizeable EFL fine – but adds to the sense of chaos. Thick red pyro smoke fills the air and for a second I have a horrible fear, muscle memory from watching too much top-flight football, that the goal might not have stood. But this is the EFL and it is a VAR-free zone.
Bradford City fans were in a nervous mood ahead of the game (Photo: Getty)Graham Alexander and players celebrated with supporters at Valley Parade (Photo: Getty)Striker Calum Kavanagh was emotional when the smoke cleared (Photo: Getty)
When the smoke clears and the fans get off the pitch, there is a minute to play.
Now they actually win for the first time since February and they have to sit through arguably the most perfect, cinematic conclusion to a season in the 139 years that Valley Parade has been hosting sport.
A row down, a middle-aged man puffs out his cheeks when the team come out before the game to You’ll Never Walk Alone. During the minute’s silence his adult sons locked arms with him either side. One tenderly strokes the side of his head. You can only imagine what they have been through.
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They remember quietly here, with dignity and stoicism and manager Graham Alexander – one of the game’s good guys – said he had been seeing the number 56 “everywhere for the last month”.
On the drive to the ground Alexander had been ‘running through scenarios for what might happen”. This, he admitted, was right at the intersection of best and worst case scenarios.
When the dust had finally settled and fans began to float towards the exits, I got chatting to a lady who pulled a picture out of her bag. It was of her mum and dad, sitting together with wide smiles on their faces. She pointed to the seat he had sat in for nearly 50 years. “That was for him,” she said, her eyes moistening.
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