The light drizzle glances off the skin, freshening the air of this new dawn. The Championship, that beguiling, gyrating chanteuse on the hazy horizon of our dreams is finally coming into a sharp focus.

Its manifest? Norwich, the city Steve Coogan chose to accentuate the parochialism of Alan Partridge. A city so cocooned in its own Englishness nobody has ever seen the need to build a motorway to get to it. It’s like going to an exotic strip club and finding yourself stuffing tenners into the thong of, well, Delia Smith. 

The Championship represents something of a hinterland. Cesar Menotti, the chain smoking manager of Argentina’s 1978 World Cup winning squad talked of left and right-wing football. A staunch socialist serving under a right-wing dictatorship, Menotti viewed right-wing football as a constant struggle, justifying victory via any means, fair or foul. Left-wing football was more collegiate with a sense of community bound by unspoken rules of fair-play.

Where League One is the last trading post of football’s Corinthian spirit, The Championship feels like the foothills towards the ultra-right-wing of the Premier League, which loads the dice to its advantage. The casual ramshackle of the lower leagues gives way in the Championship, there’s a dress code; we’ve had to invest in better floodlights, goal line technology and camera positions to accommodate our Sky overlords. We are considered minnows and yet we are owned by billionaires, and we perceive Norwich as failures because of their inability to maintain their Premier League status. We’re at the foothills of a different place.

And still, here we are. I remember the imposter syndrome of our previous promotions – arriving back in the Football League in 2010, the sense of being mesmerised by the sophistication of Rochdale, then in 2016 an eternal struggle against Chesterfield. Would we be similarly bewitched by the second tier?

On both previous occasions there was an anxiety, that we had to acclimatise fast so not to throw away what we’d worked for. Now, we seem to be above that plimsole line, to drop down again wouldn’t be a disaster. We can enjoy being in the pain cave, at least up to the point where it’s no longer fun and we start pointing fingers.

For now, we’re happy to enjoy the novelty, revel in the historical significance of our return from the wilderness. The result, well, that would be the result. Those of us who entertained a possible outcome would have accepted a defeat as long as the performance was dogged, a point would be a success, a win? Well.

Negotiating some chaotic parking, the nervous tension taking leave of our senses, we headed towards the stadium as the teams were revealed. Far from the procession of new faces we’ve seen throughout the summer, there were only two changes from the side that won at Wembley. Most notable, the inclusion of Sam Long, it’s all very well being Mr Oxford, but is this a time for sentiment?

Despite the upgrades, The Kassam retains its nonsense eccentricity, although in rarified company, there’s an ugly charm, it’s awful, but it’s our awful. The gaping open end is a constant reminder of what the last 25 years have been about. We haven’t come this far to come this far, as Jim Smith never said.

The teams arrive to a crescendo of noise. That Jim Smith banner unravels down the North Stand still looking fresh after Wembley. In the East Stand, a huge image of Des Buckingham appears looking like Che Guevara for the Waitrose generation. 

Flames shoot into the air as the PA pumps out math-rock titans Foals, yellow and blue fireworks ignite the sky. Who are we? Galatasaray? 

It’s rousing bedlam, but in the smoke haze there’s a sense that we might need to chill out a bit. For Norwich this game represents a means to an end, for us it seems to be an end in itself. We’ve arrived, but there’s still a game to play.

Obviously, we’re in yellow so Norwich choose to play in the colour of ambivalence. This hue of complacency is neither white nor any other recognisable tone. It seems an appropriate option as it’s clear from the off that they’re not in a rush to stamp any authority on the game. We, on the other hand, are animated and aggressive. Przemysław Płacheta, whose shock of blonde hair means he doesn’t look like he’s come from EFL Central Casting, makes some early gains.

Sitting in midfield is Will Vaulks, constantly alert, like a dad watching out for his kids at the soft play centre. The balance of control with the dynamic threat of Goodrham and Płacheta petrifies Norwich in own their half. 

The forensic tactical analysis of our play-off win means there’s no discomfort in the crowd, this controlling style sacrifices football’s traditional aesthetic, but it also gets results. We are happy for Mark Harris to chase the back four like he’s trying to catch an escaped guinea pig, even after he misses a sitter from two yards.

Despite the promising start the clock passes slowly, we have chances, but there’s a sense we might need to capitalise before Norwich finally wrestle control of the situation. 

After half-an-hour Harris chases a long ball, pressurising Grant Hanley who collapses like a fallen oak tree. It leaves Harris free with time to set himself; he cuts inside and scuffs a shot off the keeper. It takes an age to trickle in, when it finally reaches the net, a blissful disbelief engulfs the stadium. Harris wheels away, his face is impassive in the mayhem.

Weirdly, there’s no response from Norwich, the beast isn’t awake, Vaulks has two chances to extend the lead before half-time. Nobody dared dream of this.

The true test would surely come in the final third of the game, when the adrenaline fades giving way to fatigue. We would need to hold our advantage as a buffer for the inevitable onslaught to come.

As the witching hour approaches, Cameron Brannagan, looking comfortable in his new surrounds, has a shot deflected off the bar. Four minutes later the imperious Elliot Moore intercepts a threatening move and rolls the ball to Płacheta. Brannagan picks it up and finds Goodrham on the right who exchanges with Rodrigues before sensing a presence behind him. Instinctively Goodrham places the ball in the path of Sam Long whose driven cross is met by Brannagan who sweeps the ball beyond the statuesque keeper for 2-0. 

Its emphatic, its definitive, its absolute. Brannagan slides on his knees and absorbs the adulation, as he turns, there’s Long. A broad grin stretches across Brannagan’s face, normally so stoic, alpha and resolute, he offers a moment of boyish wonder. The two longest serving players at the club; everything he and Long have worked for have been for this.

The last half-hour isn’t nerve shredding, we aren’t dismantled, Bennett foils one shot, but otherwise it’s comfortable. The performance, the result, the atmosphere, the day feels complete and untainted. Afterwards Des Buckingham says there’ll be struggles ahead, but if we play our way then we will know why we’ve won and why we’ve lost. It’s been twenty-five years, but it feels like a new Oxford United is beginning to blossom.