***
There’s an infectious buzz around the stadium. Nausea, sensation and apprehension fill the air. A legion of dreamers are debating, daring and dreading.
Then it begins. For some the butterflies explode; a draw will do Forest, just don’t let these bastards have their moment again. Others are knocked back by their own bloodcurdling roar and nothing but a win will do.
Before anybody can make sense of it, Radoslaw Majewski crashes the ball into the top corner and a violent ecstasy sweeps the stadium. The bed-wetters are already thinking about Chris Cohen’s impossibly early strike last season, most are crushing into the aisles in delusional joy.
The swamp of Derby supporters is still, save for the dissenting V-signs of those who cannot stomach the scenes.
Every Derby attack threatens to spoil the mood, every fleeting Commons touch triggers unspeakable fury.
And then it’s two, and it’s chaos and it doesn’t make sense. But it’s brilliant.
***
What followed defies satisfactory explanation. Derby looked to have scored, but their detestable celebrations were drowned out by City Ground jeers. Relief.
Tyson broke clean through and seemed to have shuffled off path, but the ball squirmed over the line and at that moment I was within spitting distance of optimum happiness.
The third goal seemed to bring guarantees. It seemed to confirm the result and rubber stamp the evening’s beer-soaked celebrations.
I was happy for half-time to never end. The first 45 had been among the best in living memory and the second half was only ever going to be awkward. I just had no idea how much.
The early goal that rolled over the line had everybody longing to avoid the drama and tension that seemed increasingly inevitable. The second squirming deflection sent us into meltdown.
I had little faith in our reeling defence, and I was alarmed by the sudden inability to string two passes in sequence. For a long time I had almost accepted an equaliser as inevitable, but I still dreaded it with everything I had.
The volcanic roar that followed Billy’s appeal for support dragged us over the line, and sheer grit hauled us through nine excruciating minutes of stoppage time.
The full-time whistle triggered relief akin to the promotion against Yeovil. I lingered in the stands with thousands of others to exalt in every precious moment of their dismay.
The wonderful thing about football is that it incredibly fickle. Derby had their moment in the sun last season – but it’s gone, it’s over, it’s a statistic.
All any one of them will be able to think about is the beautiful sight of Nathan Tyson sauntering by with his Forest corner flag, a subversive smirk stretching ear-to-ear.
The mêlée that followed showed the intensity of the occasion. The lifting of the Brian Clough Trophy showed that we are, finally, back on top of the old tussle.
The Forest fans who had the privilege of strolling back to their cars with hearts pounding and throats aching have been blessed with memories that will last a lifetime. Or at least until January 30...
Robert William Savage, how was it for you?
***
Ratings – is there any point? The only thing I can remember in any significant detail is launching myself into a writhing mass of red shirts after 58 seconds of this ridiculous, and stunning, afternoon.
