Oh well. All the best south London parties last three minutes. Everyone knows that.
Bermondsey had been a spring-like place at kick-off, soft May sunlight dappling the magnificent municipal incinerator tower at the Cold Blow Lane end. The Den was sold out, as it always is these days.
And the job for Millwall was clear enough. The playoff spot was guaranteed. You’re going home with that. But a better result at home to Oxford than Ipswich at home to QPR would mean Millwall could gain promotion to the Premier League before the day was out, to the top tier for the first time in 36 years, and basically get to paint south London blue for the next three months.
The ground was up before kick-off, the air crackling with that very distinct electricity. The usual playlist echoed around the corrugated stands. Let ’em come. No one likes us. Your dad’s a nonce. We fear no foe – except, it turns out, for news of an Ipswich goal after three minutes against a QPR team already playing in sliders and pieces of snorkel equipment.
The moment passed with just a flicker around the ground. The sun kept shining. The trains kept trundling past the empty corners of the stands. Alex Neil’s face appeared in Stalinist close up, a grimace on the big screen. This is the beauty of sport: 87 minutes still to run. Play on, play on. Smile when your heart is breaking.
