It felt like he’d been walking for miles.
The hot sun beat down on his exposed scalp, as sweat dripped from his forehead.
Behind him, nine grown men stood side by side, their arms resting on each other’s shoulders. Their faces stony in expression, hoping for the best.
Despite the deafening noise around him, everything was silent in his head. The walk, which had lasted no more than 15 seconds, had been the longest of his life, yet he refused to let the poignance of the moment weigh him down.
He was focused on just one thing.
He picked it up and then placed it down. Stepping back, he closed his eyes and took one final breath.
Then, he hit it…
So, here we are. The final FMD. Top of the league and a place in the FA Cup final secured, an unbelievable run of form had put Ipswich within two games of an unprecedented double.
Win against Blackburn and the Championship title was ours. Lose and we’d settle for the play-offs, as long as rivals Middlesbrough and Fulham bettered our result.
No sooner had I settled down for the biggest match of the season so far and we were behind. Still, plenty of time to go…
It was fitting that FMD icon and goal machine Dave McGoldrick popped up before half-time to level. If it stayed at 1-1, I knew we’d be up. But after the break, Jordan Rhodes restored Rovers’ lead. With 25 minutes to go, a loose ball in the box fell to Daryl Murphy. Just finish it, I beg you. Somehow, the big Irishman blazed it wide. It was then I started to doubt whether it would be our day.
Even more so when Rhodes made it three. Game over.
To make matters worse, Middlesbrough were winning and Fulham drawing. Enough to put both into the Premier League.
90 minutes arrived. That was it then. My mood immediately deteriorated just thinking of the play-offs. All that work, all these bloomin’ words. For what?
But hang on a minute. A scoreline flickered on the top-right-hand of my screen before disappearing out of sight. What did it say? I could have sworn Fulham was on there. To be honest I had wanted them to score. I’d rather finish third on points, not goal difference.
Shut. The. Front. Door. And while you’re at it, shut the back one too. Norwich have scored. Fulham are losing. In the 91st minute, Fulham have conceded. We’re into second. I can’t believe it. My game finishes and I don’t care, I’m straight on the ‘Latest Scores’ tab, craving closure.
And there it is, Norwich have actually won. Our arch enemy, who fill our Suffolk bodies with rage and hatred have actually got us promoted. I’ll never harm a canary again, not that I have before… And I certainly won’t send any more hate mail to Delia Smith. You have my word, Delia.
With automatic promotion sealed, we couldn’t possibly win the FA Cup too, I pondered out loud. To no-one.
I was awarded Manager of the Year, although dealt with a double blow ahead of our big day out in London, Jack Grealish and Tommy Smith were both unavailable through injury.
I didn’t really care though. The fact we’d got promoted when even a play-off push seemed wishful thinking, made me glad I’d done this diary. And perhaps I’d also made it worth reading for the three of you still scrolling.
With Wembley waiting, I had to don a special kind of attire. Opting for a flavour of Pep Guardiola mixed with some Tony Pulis chic, it was time to lead the troops out at the home of football.
Sticking to the 3-5-2 that had galvanised our season, opponents Liverpool chose to rest a few of their big names in order to make it a game. Aww, how nice of them.
Dogged in defence, the first-half flew by with barely a chance. I was more than happy. A passionate, rousing team-talk telling the boys to keep it up ensured spirits were high for the second 45.
Those blessed injuries weren’t helping though, Ryan Mason and Jack Collison both limped off before the hour, Jay Tabb and Chelsea loanee Lewis Baker replacing them. Despite the changes, we remained solid.
Minutes continued to pass by, still no goal. Penalties sounded good to me.
With time-up and highlights at a premium, extra time arrived. Still, we comfortably defended anything Jerome Sinclair and Rickie Lambert threw at us.
With three minutes to go, Dean Gerken made an incredible stop to deny Raheem Sterling. It could be our day, you know?
Penalties to settle it.
Of course, Steven Gerrard steps up first to ram it home. Baker, with penalty taking of 19, is first for us. He blazes it high and wide. Bottled it. Sinclair notches but so does Tokelo Rantie. 2-1. Alberto Moreno squeezes his inside the post to make it 3-1. And who’s next for Town?
Conor FLIPPING Sammon.
He takes the slow stroll to the penalty area. It felt like he’d been walking for miles.
The hot sun beat down on his exposed scalp, as sweat dripped from his forehead.
Behind him, nine grown men stood side by side, their arms resting on each other’s shoulders. Their faces stony in expression, hoping for the best.
Despite the deafening noise around him, everything was silent in his head. The walk, which had lasted no more than 15 seconds, had been the longest of his life, yet he refused to let the poignance of the moment weigh him down.
He was focused on just one thing.
He picked it up and then placed it down. Stepping back, he closed his eyes and took one final breath.
Then, he hit it…
Against the bar.
His last kick in an Ipswich shirt, forever remembered as the moment he lost us the FA Cup. Classic Baldie. Jordan Henderson stroked his penalty in to seal a 4-1 success and ensure Stevie G lifted the trophy on his farewell appearance as a Red.
At least we’re in Europe though. And of course, the Premier League awaits.
The FMD may indeed return to follow the next chapter in Ipswich history.
Then again, I do have a life…
