One thing that is hugely important is to remember where you have come from.
Nobody should live in the past, and it isn’t always easy to shake the cloak of previous events. Sometimes, it really pays to get some perspective, and with that in mind, I’d like to revisit one of the very worst days I have ever had at Sincil Bank. May 7th, 2011.
Two months prior, City won 2-0 against Southend. That put us on 45 points, 11 clear of the bottom two, but just ten from the top seven I came away from that game wondering if we might just sneak into the top seven. The naivety.
We picked up two points from the next 30. That meant, come May 7th, we were 22nd, two points clear of Barnet in the final relegation spot. All we needed to do was match their result, at home, against 14th-placed Aldershot with nothing to play for.
The afternoon began with hope (or hopelessness, as I recall), but ended in humiliation, heartbreak, and a silence that rang louder than any final whistle.
For nearly 8,000 supporters packed into Sincil Bank on that May afternoon, the task was agonisingly simple: win, and stay in the Football League. The Imps had home advantage, a passionate crowd, and their destiny in their own hands. But as the sun set on the 2010–11 season, a dismal defeat to Aldershot confirmed what many had feared for weeks: after 24 years, the Imps were relegated back to the non-league.
The stakes were high. Elsewhere, Barnet—who began the day below Lincoln—were hosting Port Vale. City just had to match or better their result. Instead, Barnet won. And Lincoln crumbled.
Steve Tilson’s side hadn’t won in 11 games, and it showed. Despite a bright start where Jamie Young denied Gavin McCallum and Ali Fuseini, the second half was a slow-motion disaster. First, Jamie Clapham’s mistimed tackle handed Danny Hylton a penalty, which he converted coolly on 56 minutes. Then came the hammer blows: two gutting goals from Luke Guttridge as the visitors tore through a crumbling defence.
By the time the final whistle sounded, large sections of the crowd had already filtered out. Not out of apathy, but anguish.
There was no great injustice here. This wasn’t one of those “we went down fighting” tales. In truth, it was a relegation long in the making. Lincoln had taken just two points from the previous 33 available. The side lacked belief, cohesion, and—most damningly—fight.
Aldershot were sharper, braver, more ruthless. Lincoln, even with players like 17-goal Ashley Grimes and veterans such as Clapham, looked lost. Grimes’ frustration boiled over in a confrontation with a fan; others sloped off the pitch without a glance at the stands. In the dugout, Steve Tilson looked beaten. He later admitted:
“We didn’t have the character to get back in the game… it’s over 46 games and we simply weren’t good enough.”
There were questions of selection and tactics. Why not go for broke? What was there to lose? Lincoln needed to win—but still played with caution. It felt, to many, like accepting fate rather than challenging it.
The post-match atmosphere was funereal. Not just because of the result, but what it symbolised. This wasn’t a bad season—it was the culmination of years of decline. From play-off heartbreaks to mid-table mediocrity, City had been edging towards the abyss for some time. Now, they had fallen in.
Keith Alexander’s name was on many lips that day. The great man, gone too soon just the year before, had built Lincoln into a team of identity and pride. That spirit felt lost. His legacy, built on hard work, unity and purpose, had been squandered.
Supporters came out in numbers that day—not out of hope, but duty. They knew what was at stake. They stood, they sang, they suffered. They deserved better. Lincoln’s supporters had been labelled a burden by some in the squad—suggesting the crowd made players nervous. But it wasn’t the fans who fell to pieces under pressure.
Relegation from the Football League is more than just a demotion. It’s a fracture in history. Players can move on. Managers get replaced. But for the club, the community, and the town, this was an existential blow, and one it took six years to recover from.
City’s squad disappeared without ceremony. Released, forgotten, discarded. Many left without ever really becoming “Imps”. A few, like Clapham, had fought—others will not be remembered fondly.
The following season would bring local derbies and new grounds—but it would also mean obscurity, uncertainty, and the long road back.
On 7 May 2011, Lincoln didn’t just lose a match. They lost their place in the 92. They lost momentum, identity, and the fragile faith of a city that had turned out in its thousands to believe one last time.
There were no tears on the pitch. But there were plenty in the stands.