It all seemed very surreal, sat up in the gods watching the Imps kicking a ball about. The atmosphere was odd, loud at times but also dampened by being so spread out. Complicated songs weren’t ever going to take off, so we got a few ‘We are Imps’ out and the occasional ‘Come on Lincoln’. We were there, playing at Wembley. we’d finally done it.

Then we scored.

Suddenly, in an instant we weren’t just at Wembley on this wonderful day out, we weren’t soaking up the atmosphere and going home with a phone full of pictures, we were winning in the Checkatrade Trophy cup final. For the first time during the whole weekend, it dawned on me we might actually win the bloody thing.

I’ll cover the match later, but the next ninety minutes were, for me, just like beating Exeter the week before or losing to Aldershot in 2011. It was me watching something that matters so much unfold before my eyes with no ability to intervene. Lincoln City is a huge part of my life, aside from my home, fiancée and family probably the most important. I bleed red and white, I live it every single day. I write every single day for you now, but it goes way back, back to when I used to cut out pictures of players from magazines and put one of our players at the top with some slogan or other. It comes from standing with my Dad, eager to impress, memorising all of the 1987 relegated player’s names so I sounded knowledgeable in conversation. It comes from missing a friends wedding to be at Southport in the Conference, from crying when we went down, it comes from believing that my identity, my place in the world is with Lincoln City. Ask anyone about me and they’ll probably tell you, first and foremost, I’m a Lincoln City fan. With that comes the everlasting pain of 90 minutes football, 90 minutes in which your life, your hopes and your dreams are placed in the hands of other people.

Luckily, the ‘other people’ in which my current life dreams are placed aren’t a bad side, and it turns out we did win the trophy after all. Towards the end I could feel my pulse racing, my hands clasped together tighter and tighter with ever passing second. where the referee got five minutes from I’ll never know (30 seconds per sub, five made is two and a half, where were the other stoppages?). I do know they were five minutes I couldn’t stand. I confess, I went to the loo. Genuinely, my nerves were shot and I spent two minutes out of sight of the game, making it back to my seat for the final sixty seconds before the whistle blew and we won our second piece of silverware inside twelve months.

What do you possibly write about the next half hour? Watching the team celebrate on the pitch, watching the away end empty before their team had even got their losers medals, then waiting as Luke Waterfall led the sides up the steps, into the Royal Box and finally lifting the trophy above his head. 134 years of waiting for the big win, almost a century of Wembley finals and finally, here we were. Sure, I got a bit teary, who didn’t? My Dad did, that’s for sure and why not.

Danny and Nicky Cowley now join Bill Anderson in becoming the most decorated Imps managers ever, Bill won two titles in 1947/48 and 1951/52. Colin Murphy technically has two, although perhaps the GMVC Shield isn’t as illustrious as his GMVC title win the year before. Well, DC and NC now have a title and a proper cup to their name. Not bad for just under two year’s work, is it?

I didn’t want to leave, we stuck around and watched the celebrations on the pitch for as long as I thought we’d get away with. With each passing second it became more real, more believable. I’d never given thought to us actually beating Shrewsbury, third in League One and seemingly prepped for promotion. I truly thought Jon Nolan, the happy-go-lucky scouse, would put us to the sword with a cruel twist of irony. By the time Luke lifted that silver trophy, I forgotten the sullen little sod had even been on the pitch. Football isn’t about that, not in those extreme moments. If you’re thinking about how other teams , players or even fans feel right at that moment, you’re missing the point.

I got ratty as we finally came away from the ground because I didn’t want to go home. I’ve sung the song ‘don’t want to go home’ to the Sloop John B tune for years, but yesterday I lived it. I wanted to stay in London, I wanted to celebrate with whoever I could. It hurt even more seeing people’s photos with the team and the trophy as we were stuck waiting to get out of Stanmore, over an hour after we left the ground. Getting 40,000 odd people out of London via one tube station and a couple of access roads is never going to be easy and for some reason I struggled to appreciate the win, I felt resentment we had to go. It’s perhaps selfish, but I felt the same when I got an early taxi home after Macclesfield last season. Football gives you so few paybacks that when they happen, I want them to last forever.

You’ll remember the singing in the Green Man, the look on familiar faces on the way into the ground and the tears in their eyes on the way out.

Of course it will, sat here at my desk a day later it’s beginning to sink in properly. Now the pomp and ceremony has finished, we can let it settle in with our other great memories, ferment slowly so any of the negatives are faded and all the good things made better and brighter with time. That is the beauty of a memory, especially one with such success behind it. You won’t remember being cold and wet walking to the ground, paying seven quid for a burger and chips or Shrewsbury hitting the bar. Unless you’re incredibly bitter, you won’t remember a voice asking who our big centre forward was and seeing it came from an Imps ‘fan’, or being asked to sit down when we scored. You’ll remember the goal, how good the expensive food tasted and how bright the fireworks were from the celebrations. You’ll remember the singing in the Green Man, the look on familiar faces on the way into the ground and the tears in their eyes on the way out.

With each passing hour, day or even year, those memories will get brighter and the rain will fade. By the time DC and NC are England managers, Ethan Ampadu is the world’s greatest defender and we’re an established Championship club, we might even forget this competition was ever controversial in the first place.

Maybe.

IN MEMORY OF GEOFF HUTCHINSON, WE FINALLY DID IT GRANDAD x