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.
