The club of eternal purgatory ascend to football heaven. Seventeen years of despondency at Tottenham Hotspur, 41 in Europe, are over. Nearly men no more, with victory over Manchester United a gory, gory season gave way to a glory, glory night.
Ange Postecoglou, indicted in the court of public opinion long ago, relentlessly mocked for declaring he always wins something in his second season at a club, could barely contain his emotions. A man from 10,000 miles away who instantly understood what it meant to be Spurs.
On the streets of Bilbao, they sang his name and catapulted him into an unlikely pantheon alongside Bill Nicholson and Keith Burkinshaw, the only other managers to win Tottenham European silverware.
That Europa League trophy will glimmer with light, at the end of these darkest of days. In the kind of delicious euphoria that feels like a dream, every desperate incantation echoed around a sea of navy and white. Known to its locals as the Cathedral, for 90 minutes San Mames became an unlikely temple of Hotspur hope and decades of prayers were finally answered.
Until Brennan Johnson bundled in one of the most chaotic goals you are likely to see in a European final it was, in a nutshell, what you would expect of a game between the Premier League’s 17th and 16th best sides. Bruno Fernandes ceding the ball, the awkward rebound off Luke Shaw, the scrambling hands of Andre Onana.
It was not until Johnson reeled away that a stunned United could fully grasp what had happened. There was even a delicious split second between goal and celebration, the tens of thousands of Spurs fans behind the goal gasping the collective intake of breath before daring to move.
Posterity may be kind to Tottenham, forgetting the misery it took to get here this season. Nobody will remember Dominic Solanke’s missed chance, through on goal after a tearaway with Destiny Udogie. Guglielmo Vicario will not talk about the impossible Micky van de Ven clearance to save a certain goal and save his blushes, only the marvellous stop from Alejandro Garnacho as United cranked up the pressure. Ange-ball? Not a bit of it.
At full time, Son Heung-min, a player who has given everything for the past decade, sunk to his knees. The young substitute Archie Gray could barely believe the scene he had walked into.
Curses have been lifted, hexes banished. As for United, this will go down as another footnote in a hellish campaign. Amad Diallo has two feet like little paintbrushes but it was all in vain, with Rasmus Hojlund pouring petrol on his canvas.
To think, Tottenham did it without their own two best creators, James Maddison and Dejan Kulusevski. It is beyond the wildest dreams of what anyone thought possible of this beleaguered group.
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What they have achieved is eternal, It will live in Lilywhite hearts forever. Yes, they have silenced their naysayers, for whom their trophy drought was a perennial source of amusement. It is not about that. The victory belongs to Tottenham Hotspur alone.
Each moment felt like an hour which Spurs could not afford to let slip, not knowing when such a chance would come again. Cristian Romero and Van de Ven battled with every limb.
For the thousands of Tottenham supporters who descended on Bilbao, who on some days must have wondered why they do it – the early trains, late coaches home, thousands of pounds spent, half the time feeling miserable and fearful the rest of it, shedding tears at a big patch of grass with 22 men running around on it: this is what it is all for.
There are generations of fans knitted together by a love of this club who have never witnessed a moment like this. There will be tattoos of Tottenham Gods inked and babies named Brennan. It simply does not get any better.
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