So many emotions, so many heartaches, but finally after a lifetime of semi final disappointments my team has made it to the grand finale of Scottish football.
As a fan I’ve seen it all from penalty heartache to being ripped apart by a rampant Motherwell, but as the final whistle went none of it mattered, all was forgotten. Life was different as football conjured up some of its best magic to to reward the frugal, the wee team.
The match against Aberdeen was a good advert for Scottish football and if truth be told I was surprised by Willie Collum and his handling of the match, he was actually alright.
Fearing the worst as McGinn’s shot rolled past Mannus, my thoughts wheeled back to a soggy afternoon at Tynecastlle and how we were picked apart.
Should I have been so fearful? Of course, as Aberdeen’s goal had alarming similarities to that day. My mood though was buoyed as we rallied and had some good possession but with only one clear cut chance the fear of Aberdeen’s pace was always there.
At the start of the second half my hope was restored and belief re-ignited as we start brightly, as both teams had their chances my heart rate quickened. As Stevie May shot past Langfield I roared and felt myself for the first time grasping the notion that we might do it. Up and down my emotions went, hope lifting me up as we attacked and years of hurt hauling me back down to earth as the Dons attacked.
As time wore on, we eventually took the lead and it then dawned on me how close we were, generations of pain sitting on the edge of oblivion, about to be washed away in a sea of euphoria. As the fourth official raised his board it signalled the longest two minutes of my life each second was minute, each minute an hour as I waited for the gods of footballing fate to dish out their cruel twist.
Then it happened, the dream became a reality and as Saints around the world roared in celebration I sat back in my seat in the most honest moment of disbelief at what I had just witnessed. Shock, joy and pride at what my wee team had done.