So Close...

Oh, the tension! I didn’t intend to set off quite as early as I do, but I’m just so nervous I can’t sit at home any longer. I had all the anxiety dreams last night, from the one where Ian Sharps scores in the first minute and we’re trying to hang on to the lead for the rest of the game, to the one where we’re wandering round Harrow looking for the pre-match pub. Most bizarrely, and having nothing at all to do with Rotherham, is one about a professional assassin who’s been contracted to off various footballers. His latest target is Liverpool’s Lucas, who he lures to a formal dinner. He waits till Lucas closes his eyes and bows his head to say grace, then shoots him in the top of the head. If the people who make all those howlingly mad Jason Statham thrillers are reading this, my subconscious is available for storyline meetings for a reasonable fee...

The District Line is out, so it’s a bus to Canning Town. From the conversations around me, various people are en route to Wembley, but they don’t appear to be Dagenham fans – rather, they’re Hammers going for the day out. They all seem to be meeting in pubs at Baker Street or near the ground – which is why we’ve chosen to go further afield, as it’ll be quieter.

At Finchley Road, I bump into the Maxfields, Sally looking infinitely more relaxed than Rob. There are a few Dagenham fans on the tube, the genuine article this time, so we all wish each other luck. They get off at Wembley Park while we continue on to Harrow-on-the-Hill.

Walking away from the station, we spot Jenny and the Ketton family waiting to cross the road, so we join their merry band. The route towards the Castle pub is actually alarmingly similar to the one in my dream, but we manage to find it without too many problems. I’ve never been to this part of Harrow before, and it’s beautiful. There’s actually a gap between a couple of the school buildings that if you look through, you have the most incredible view across London, Wembley prominent in the foreground. There are a few grumbles about the distance from the station to the pub, but it’s worth it once we get there.

Some London Millers are already colonising the beer garden, including the entire Kirkland family (no idea who’ll be listening to the commentary in the car park today...) and my brother. Gradually, the biggest turn-out of our merry organisation I’ve seen in one place gathers, all in various stages of anticipation – and this doesn’t include various people, including Steves Exley and Ducker and Phil Kyte, who don’t make it all the way out to Harrow for whatever reason. Apologies to anyone who gets left off the list, but this is everyone I spot in the pre-match session. There are the regulars and semi-regulars: Tim, Ian Armitage and Steven, the South Norwood Gentlemen’s Rambling Association, Clarkey (along with Stephanie, James and Laura), Steve Czajewski, Brad, Julia, Joy and Frances. There are those we haven’t seen for a while: Q, who’s been working on his music career in Bristol; Chas, who’s been bothering the penguins in the South Atlantic; Diamond and Phil (but no Nigel, who’s unwell). Still others have brought along non-Miller chums to be part of the festivities: Toddy is with Graham and Brown, who’s still only one person. They’re wearing their Drewe Broughton tribute sweatbands, which makes me realise what a trendsetter I am. And Tom Coley is here, along with Scotty and two of his Watford-supporting mates from Bournemouth, still getting over the night before.

I didn’t bring the flag, as it breaks Wembley’s strict size policy, but Tom has his, and he lines us up for photos with it. Everyone’s in high spirits. Toddy regales us with some of his choicest anecdotes, including the time we played King’s Lynn in the FA Cup and they set off a flare down the Railway End. ‘I mean, where do you get flares in the first place?’ he asks. ‘Apart from Clarkey’s wardrobe, of course...’

At the bar, Chris Turner gets talking to the Beeb’s Mark ‘Chappers’ Chapman, who’s not covering the game today but has just come for a quiet pint with his missus as it’s one of his local pubs. At least we’re all out in the garden, rather than ruining his Sunday lunch with Miller-age.

We’ve arranged to meet my dad, Gordon and his son-in-law, another Rob, outside the turnstiles, so we make a move, along with Jenny and her party. Walking back through Harrow, my brother notices a hydrant cover in the pavement, made by Guest and Chrimes. This, of course, is the firm whose former premises are the site of our new stadium, so of course Robert is convinced that’s an omen. At the tube, we spot Tim’s wife, Effie, and Ian Chaplain. Somehow, Ian Armitage has wangled them all seats in the corporate section, so hopefully they’ll all be on their best behaviour...

Wembley Way is heaving with red-and-white. We don’t know whether all the Dagenham fans have gone in early to soak up the atmosphere, but it does seem to be mostly Rotherham fans heading for the stadium. Everyone’s in high spirits: flags are being waved and faces painted.

We find my dad without problems and head inside. Thanks to the whims of the Ticketmaster system, our seats are on the front row. There’s the occasional whiff of drains, though that stops once the game kicks off and everyone takes their places in the stadium, but we couldn’t have a better view. As we arrive, so do the Chuckle Brothers – their image, flashed up on the jumbo screens, gets one of the biggest cheers of the day. We’re alongside a group with a baby who can’t be more than six months old. It’s very warm where we are – anyone sitting here for the Cardiff v Blackpool game last weekend would have fried – but fortunately the baby seems to be sleeping peacefully, for the time being.

The heat intensifies as the players emerge from the tunnel, as some bright spark has decided to greet their appearance with flames (on our side of the pitch, at least. Fireworks are going off on the far side.) The teams are introduced to the dignitaries, we sing the National Anthem and away we go.

We start more brightly than Dagenham, but there’s no sign of my first-minute Sharps goal. We come agonisingly close, though, with a Ryan Taylor has an effort that really has mad Welsh keeper Tony Roberts scrambling to get anywhere near it. Taylor’s obviously in the mood, as it’s not long before Roberts has to save his header. At the other end, Don makes one really good save, then a second from a free kick that he must have seen really late. Just as we’re starting to think he’s having the kind of performance that means it’s going to be our afternoon, the Daggers take the lead. Paul Benson is given too much space and time, and curls a shot past Don. The commotion is enough to wake the baby at the side of us.

Incredibly, we’re level within a minute. From the kick-off, we get a throw-in. The ball goes to Ellison, who picks out Ryan Taylor with a cross. This time his header isn’t saved. Everyone goes mad with joy, including Taylor, who flings himself into the arms of teeny tiny Stephen Brogan, suited and booted among the non-playing squad members.

Dagenham go ahead again about ten minutes into the second half. This time it’s Danny Green, who my mum identified as their danger man when she saw us play them in March, who scores from the edge of the box. Still we won’t be beaten. Nicky Law puts in a cross and Ryan Taylor has time to compose himself and shoot past Roberts. This time, he hurtles towards the Rotherham fans behind the goal, pulling off his shirt and vest as he does. He earns a yellow card for his pains, but he probably thinks it was worth it, as was far too warm to have a vest on in the first place!

Alf has been having a quiet game, by his standards, and when he does find himself with the ball at his face and Taylor in space, he passes unselfishly. Unfortunately, the fairytale isn’t completed, as Roberts saves the shot.

The game takes its last, cruel twist when a Dagenham corner isn’t cleared and Nurse’s shot is deflected in off a defending leg. We do everything to get back into the game. Danny Harrison hits the bar. Ronnie brings on Marshall and Bell-Baggie, and in the four added minutes we have Dagenham hanging on, as Fenton’s header is just over the bar.

As the Dagenham players celebrate the final whistle, poor old Don is absolutely dejected, and when the players do a semi-circle of honour to applaud the crowd for their support, we’re close enough to see that he’s been crying his eyes out. He’s not the only one...

We stay to applaud Dagenham as they’re presented with the trophy, because you have to show class in defeat, then we make our way back to Harrow. The mood of the Rotherham fans leaving the stadium is down, but not out. We played well; we just didn’t have that little bit of good fortune when it mattered. And while everyone was talking before the game about fighting off bids for Alf, it’s Ryan Taylor who’s put a couple of noughts on his value.

As you’d expect, the numbers are somewhat depleted. Indeed, it’s just me, Jenny and the Kettons, Rob and Sally, the South Norwood Gentlemen and my bro. Ian Armitage joins us; Tim, who’s such a bad loser he won’t even watch the highlights on The Football League Show unless we win a game has gone off to sulk over dinner somewhere in Harrow. Ian has a swift pint with us, then wends his way. The rest of us have another drink, then my bro heads off to the end of the line to pick up his car while everyone else plans a trip into town. I say my farewells to them all at Finchley Road. Ted, along with his sister and niece, has gone to see Punishment Of Luxury (don’t ask...) and I’ll have the house to myself for a nice bath and some quiet reflection on what could have been.

And so we bid farewell to another long, strange season. As ever, the things that stand out in my mind aren’t necessarily the obvious ones. Andy Warrington, utterly devastated after the final whistle at Wembley; Drewe Broughton making sweet, sweet love to the touchline at Gigg Lane (well, that’s what it looked like from our angle, anyway); Simon Callow, beating a hasty retreat from the train at Luton; Boomer the dog giving me the eye at Vale Park; seeing us win at Barnet for the first time this century; monsoon season arriving in the second half against Crewe. Oh, and Su Pollard. Just for being Su Pollard.

And when the season starts again, seemingly only five minutes after the last one ended, I’ll be in a household which is now 50 per cent non-league, and I’ll still have the crazy, optimistic feeling that, this time, we’re going up...