Don’t be daft. I’m a Cardiff fan. I’m used to losing. And so today’s defeat was just another day at the office, albeit a bigger and posher one. Strangely, nobody thought to ask if I would cry if we won. Perhaps it’s because nobody believed we actually would. But if you must shed a tear or two in public, there would have been no better place than on a Saturday afternoon after an unrepeatable adventure at – and apologies here to Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium – the finest sport venue in the land.
Sadly, of course, the waterworks stayed dry in my corner of Wembley as the final whistle blew. I’m the sort of fan who hates – literally hates – almost every moment of big, crucial games, and I was in agony throughout the 90 minutes. But once the pain fades, you look back and realise there was much more pleasure than could ever be expected. It’s difficult to explain why a grown man would even contemplate weeping like a desolate child without getting all Nick Hornby-esque.
