Originally posted by @Goatboy
And so they all should be, as we are of them!
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This weekâs Match Report for our final game of the season is going to be a bit more difficult to write than usual. I like to write them as soon as I get home in the evening whilst the events of the day are still fresh in my mind â but the cumilative effects of a long night of celebrations, p*mpeyâs hilarious and catastrophic last-gasp play-off disaster, and even more subsequent alcohol induced delirium, meant that by the time scraping myself out from under my covers late this morning arrived â most of the events of yesterday have become one hazy ecstatic blur.
Fortunately I had the prophetic wisdom to book myself a day off work today sometime previous. 
A good job too, as my head and emotions are still all over the place as I write. So this will be a report with a bit of a difference. Focussing not so much on the material facts, but rather, upon the feelings they evoke within us.
Isnât it funny, how a simple game of football, twenty-two blokes kicking a few stitched-together and pumped-up bits of leather around a green rectangle, with the aim of sticking it between three metal posts/bars and making a piece of white netting ripple â can inspire such intense fervour and passion, somewhere deep within us?!
But for all those of us who completely invest ourselves, our hopes, our dreams, it is about so much more than the basic mechanics of the game itself, no matter how wonderful a sport it may actually be, or how good those men representing us out there on that green rectangle are. It is about an almost tribal passion, when thousands of us who mostly wouldnât even recognise one-another on the street all come together as One, creating a spirit of unity, a unique feeling of belonging, and becoming a part of something greater than ourselves. It is a pure Religion, based not upon an unproven theoretical entity âsomewhere out thereâ â but on something actually tangible, and a spectacle of high octane drama that plays out in full living colour, right before our very eyes.
The emotion it inspires within us, the feeling of oneness that unites us, as thirty thousand plus bodies pack into our place of worship on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, sometimes the odd midweek evening prayer meeting, to experience the touch of that âholy spiritâ which graces us with its electrifying presense, as the passionate roar and hypnotic chanting of the frenzied crowd join together as one united mass of human energy, singing our praises and shouting our encouragement (and maybe the odd well placed swear word or two) to our gladiatorial heroes out there representing the object of our worship, our Beloved Southampton Football Club.
And so we arrived at St. Maryâs â our Cathedral of Dreams, this fine Sunday afternoon, incanting in our hearts the immortal words of Maxi Jazz â âThis is our Church. This is where we heal our hurtsâ. This is where we come together, to forget about all the other shit that might be going on in our lives, and by extention, our worlds â hoping and fervently desiring to be saved, to be set free from our troubles, to cast away our cares for ninety minutes of unbridled passion and earnestly expressed vocal support, to be touched by the grace of our gods, the delirium of footballing pentecostal tongues of fire from heaven, as we share in our communion together and experience the pure elation of celebrating our beautiful Saints, working their asses off, pouring in their blood sweat and tears, towards the aim of making our dreams come true, and firing us to glory.
Of course, it doesnât always work out like that. Especially not when Southampton FC is your god of choice. All too often over our lifetimes, instead what we have shared is mostly heartbreak, and disappointment. Maybe our footballing pastors and priests were simply not up for the task, or maybe there is only so far they can go, when representing a âlesser godâ such as ours. Maybe our faith simply wasnât strong enough?
But over the last few glorious years, the strength and glory of our god has been growing, and we as a passionate congregation have sensed ourselves drawing ever closer to the cusp of something approaching greatness. And this Sunday, with the help of fate conspiring in our favour again for a welcome change, and some of the so-called âgreater godsâ falling from grace â something very special was achieved.
We watched on transfixed, as an enthralling spiritual battle unfolded before us. Saint Sadio sending the St. Maryâs faithful into raptures by opening the scoring just before the break, lifting a well taken lofted effort over the stranded 'keeper, and into the back of the net. Despite us being in control for the most part, the men from the Crystal Palace never gave up, and certainly made a game of it, keeping our nerves on edge â until in the 61st minute â our Italian Saint Graziano of San Cesario di Lecce rose high into the air, and looped a powerful header into the far corner, just under the crossbar, to send the place incandescent with an erruption of passionate celebration, as saints went 2-0 in front!
Palace threatened a fightback, as he who âshits when he wantsâ rifled in a fantastic strike from the edge of the area to give the visitors hope and renewed attacking purpose â but that was effectively crushed when Saint Sadio slalomed between two defenders, to earn the penalty that St. Bertrand of Southwark dutifully buried deep and high to the 'keeperâs right, ripping into the back of the net, to set off the St. Maryâs celebrations.
With time running out, as St. Steven added the finishing touches to another wonderful display with a fiercely driven strike, and the news filtered through the crowd of a late Stoke winner at the Brittania Stadium, we knew that our dreams were all coming true â and another, successive European Tour had been achieved. Then the party atmosphere and celebrations could really begin, and begin in earnest. Celebrations that following the later witnessing of the Devils down the M27 being cast into the Lake of play-off failure Fire â took on an extra zest, that went on long into the night â as we joyfully drank in the glory of our highest top-flight finish in thirty-one years, achieving in the process a club-record Premier League points total.
Some people will simply never understand, and look on in puzzled bewilderment, at our exuberance and unbridled joy. We havenât âwon anythingâ, they will say. Others focussed only on the aforementioned underlying mechanics, wonât even be able to fathom why any of this means anything to us at all. Itâs just a few blokes kicking a bag of air around, afterall.
But to us it is something very special. As the world heads rapidly for hell in a handbasket â we have found something to believe in. Something that we can identify with, that brings us together, and offers us a sense of belonging that we cannot find anywhere else. âThis is our Church. This is where we heal our hurtsâ.
Our god may not be the greatest god within the heavenly realms â but it is our god, and we love our god with all of our hearts.
And finally, as all eyes now focus upon the âTheatre of Dreamsâ next Tuesday evening at 8pm, and we hope for one last favour from a local god down the road, until then my friends, enjoy feasting your eyes upon this:
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Thanks for the top match report, as always. Itâs a bit like a swearier Consortium11 piece, no bad thing. And briefer. Much much briefer.
Thanks Pap, it was an amazing day. One which will live long in the memory. Though Iâm not entirely sure what a âConsortium11 pieceâ means?
A brief search of the internet reveals the possibility of someone who writes about boxing on the Guardian and/or reddit, but doesnât really tell me a lot else, and brings up lots of articles about the 11 plus exam. Obviously I lean toward the former, but the significance of this is still lost on me. 