Lincoln City Promotion: The Night Before The Morning After

It is the night before the morning after. I have been in from Reading for maybe 25 minutes. Cup of tea, stroke the dog, say goodnight to Fe, and then down to the laptop.

Why write now? Nobody will be up to read it, and those who are will be so drowned in champagne that the words will make less sense than normal. Why am I writing now, at ten to eleven, when I could be horizontal, dreaming of next season’s adventure? For the same reason the police take witness statements immediately after a crime: the quicker I get it down on (metaphorical) paper, the better I’ll remember it.

I think I’ll start at 79 minutes. City lead 1-0, and have done with comfort for much of the game. The first half had been functional; we got the job done, scored and played well. From a fan perspective, it was still an afternoon where a job needed doing. Watching Bolton and Stockport‘s score, it was 1-1 at half time, also conducive to us going up. There was slight jeopardy when Bolton went 1-0 up, and again after the break when Stockport went 2-1 up, but if we kept our nerve, stayed on point, we were going up.

As the half wore on, it felt like pressure was building. Reading gave us minimal cause for concern, showing a lack of firm attacking purpose, and we game-managed. Then, to my right, confirmation that Bolton had made it 2-2. With 11 minutes left, there needed to be three goals to swing the day away from us. Reading could still be playing now and not have their three goals, so it felt like that was the moment.

Is that a moment? A muttered scoreline travelling down your row? It’s not, but it would be enough. The atmosphere turned to celebratory, but Reading had a sting in the tail. Their only real threat had been long-range blasts, and when Lewis Wing got a chance to tee one up from range, 20 yards out, with a wall ten yards back, he did what he does well. 1-1, and yet we were still going up. It was odd conceding so late, but in truth, my eyes weren’t really on the game.

As soon as Bolton levelled, it was typing up, and my score changed in the headline. We knew, we’ve all known for weeks, but we knew today for certain. We never looked like we wouldn’t get at least a point, and those last 11 minutes felt a lot like Macclesfield in 2017. The game was being played out, somewhere, but it was secondary. The clock wasn’t keeping track of a game, it was counting down the moments to our release, our promotion.

Even Wing’s goal couldn’t stop the ticking of that clock, but it didn’t fizzle out with a whimper. Player of the Season in waiting, Conor McGrandles, did what he’s done all season, battled to win a ball. He’s turned and bamboozled four players in one before threading a pass to Jack Moylan. The rest will go down in Lincoln City history, as 1-1 turned into 2-1, and we had a goal to kick off our promotion celebrations. The contest, largely void of excitement in the second period, served up a bit of something to light the fireworks, a spark in the powder keg, the water poured over a Mogwai. The button got pressed, the net bulged, and the next hour blurred into this cacophony of joy.

Fair play to Reading, they handed over their yard for us to play promotion games in. I respect that, but I had to act fast. I was told John Helm and Sam Habergham would be interviewing pitchside, so I packed up and tagged on, hoping to get the interview. Instead, after a brief hold-up by a rather attentive steward, I found myself on the pitch.

Words are my thing, but finding words to describe what happened between 5 pm and 6 pm this evening feels hard. That’s not helpful, what with you reading my article, so I will try. Like you, I have a personal story around promotion. We all do. We all have friends who would have loved to have been there. Terry Ramm, Dave Mundin, Marcus Needham and Dave Pickwell all spring to mind without too much thinking for me, all people I classed as friends who I hope have been able to enjoy this somewhere else today.

Then there is my Dad. Yeah, I go on about it, but losing Dad has affected how I consume and enjoy my football. I always believed my Grandad, my Dad’s Dad, was the reason I supported Lincoln, but I’ve realised it isn’t just him. It’s both of them, but when Dad was here, it felt like it was for Grandad. Now Dad isn’t here, it’s my link to him as well. Every game recently, I’ve gone to the cemetery before to give him flowers (one from the garden today, I’m not made of money). Just before I went pitchside, I sent him a WhatsApp that will never see a double tick to tell him we’d done it. It’s stupid, but on the pitch, looking up at the stands, I could just imagine his face in that sea of 2,880, looking back.

The celebrations went on and I just forgot I was media. I could have had interviews, all the players were getting quizzed, but honestly, it was just too much. This is my job now, but in my eyes, I don’t work anymore. How can work be standing at the side of the stage watching the players who have performed one of football’s true fairytales enjoy their moment. How can it be work looking into a sea, neigh, an ocean of faces, each etched with their own private joy, their own secret journey being travelled and lived, all sharing this one moment in history? How the f*ck is that work?

My phone was like a county lines mobile on a Saturday night, it never stopped. The podcast team sent me pictures of myself, and tried spotting them. Occasionally, I noticed one of them and waved or fist pumped, but honestly, it was a whirl of emotion, so much going on all around and yet so little as well.

I didn’t want to leave. Slowly but surely, the singing stopped, the photos stopped, and the players filtered away. I wanted to stay on that Berkshire turf forever. A steward politely asked if I could move to the other side of the white line, and I stayed there, watching. I did a BBC Radio Lincolnshire interview (had to stifle a tear), and over the course of the hour, hugged Clive, Tom Shaw, Michael Skubala, Jez George and Bubs. Hell, I’d have hugged each and every one of you had you been on the pitch. Free hugs, right this way.

Time has now passed between finally admitting that I had no further place there as media, and that the players, staff and officials should be left to their own private celebrations. I’d had a front row seat to the greatest day in Lincoln City’s history, a statement I do not make lightly. This promotion is a fairytale. It’s a miracle. 17th in the budget table, 12 points clear with five games to play at the top of the table shouldn’t be. We shouldn’t be where we are. We’re usurpers, breaking myths about low budgets, smashing preconceptions about who can and can’t win. What you have witnessed this season is not just a battle against the odds, it’s a story that should be told to every young EFL supporter when they’re told their club cannot afford promotion.

You can. Anyone can, if you do it right.

The coming weeks will be full of analysis about how we did it (I’ll be all over that), about what next season holds. You’ll be bombarded with the title challenge we now face, and social media will be a flood of plaudits and warnings from bitter opponents about coming straight back down. The promotion story might have ended, but the Championship narrative has only just begun.

Whatever the stories, this moment can never be taken away. It is not just a moment in history, but a moment of history. Lincoln City have gained promotion to the Championship.

Savour it now. Close your eyes, pick one memory from today and just picture it, just for a few seconds. Remember the smells, the noise, the feelings. That’s yours. That’s your slice of the moment, that can never be taken away from you. You’ve read my story, and I’m sure you have yours.

This is what we’ve waited for, what our Dads and Grandads waited more than 60 years for. It’s real.

We are Lincoln City, and we’re going up again.