Ever since promotion, away games have felt like Elton John’s farewell tour. I’ve always assumed it’ll come to an end at some point so we need to take the opportunities when we can.

Last season, I went to Elland Road for the first time, simply to have the legitimate right to use the sentence ‘I’ve been to Elland Road’. Leicester City was this year’s equivalent; a stadium that, barring a fortuitous cup draw, we’d never have an opportunity to visit again. 

I woke up on Saturday with a prevailing sense of serenity, as solid as we’ve been against Bristol City and QPR, we’re not only five points adrift of safety, we’re five points adrift of third bottom. Closing that kind of gap to one team is difficult, to two is near-on impossible. 

I’d plotted the day in my usual way; for no good reason, we wanted to arrive an hour before kick-off. I rounded the journey up from 1 hour and 45 minutes to two hours. I needed stop off at the services because Northampton has a Leon. This would take 20 minutes, so I added another hour. 

With so much float in the schedule we arrived in Leicester unreasonably early. We meandered past Welford Road, the 25,000 capacity home of the Leicester Tigers. Given the struggles we’ve got getting one stadium, imagine the apoplexy Oxford council officials would have if it had to accommodate two.

We got to the King Power super early and decided to wander around the ground; draped over each section is a graphic depicting Leicester’s role of honour. There’s the 2016 title win, the 2021 FA Cup, the three League Cups. At the back is a car park full of the players’ Ludicrous Cars, here there are a couple of Charity Shields, a League One title, a women’s second tier title from 2021. It’s like someone had a good idea but hadn’t thought it through. Still, it’s a reminder that outside a handful of dominant clubs in the modern age Leicester are the most successful club in the country.

They’re doing a reverse Oxford. Outwardly we look like a lower league side but are enjoying a period of outsized success. They look like they belong in the Premier League but are gradually slipping out of its range.

Neither club wants this; we have a new stadium coming; have invested in players and appointed Gary Rowett, billed as someone who should be out of our reach. Such rapid development has come at a price, lately, we’ve looked disjointed; Rowett seemed to look down on us, the stadium is years off and the success of new players has been patchy. Development is quick, progress is slow.

Leicester too are looking disjointed, the role of honour and the Ludicrous Cars aside, they sit in mid-table and face a points deduction.

Matt Bloomfield’s selection looked bold, Ben Davies returned from his exile as an ethereal presence in the squad , Brian De Keersmaecker was dropped and Mark Harris replaced Will Lankshear. The mood amongst the fans was puzzled, but accepting, we had to try something.

As the game got under way, it was clear something changed in us. McDonnell crashed around, unsettling the centre of the pitch allowing others to pick up stray balls. Spencer and Currie put pressure from either side. The mangling in midfield occupied Leicester’s creative players and protected our back three. Peart-Harris and Mills gave us a route out if we needed it.

We were tenacious and full of energy, pushing them back, snapping at their heels and most importantly, picking at their insecurities. After four minutes, Peart-Harris launched a long throw into the box, Ciaron Brown benefitted from the extra layer of hair lacquer he’d applied as the ball skimmed off the top of his head into the space behind. From the back post Sam Long snuck in and snapped the ball home.   

‘Just four minutes gone’ shouted my daughter through the incredulous noise. ‘Just 86 minutes to go’ I thought quietly. Such is the innocence of youth and the purgatory of experience. 

The response didn’t come, Leicester were flat and clueless, when we pressed they conceded. A disallowed goal from Peart-Harris was greeted with little controversy in the stands, though it should have been given.

At half-time, the roar of approval from the away end was laced with the boos of the otherwise silent home fans.

As the second half progressed we finally started to retreat, they pressed but didn’t threaten. Perhaps they were waiting for a mistake, but they created little to force one. As we edged onto seventy minutes, they gained more territory, but shots and crosses were wayward, their passing pedestrian. For all the pressure, they carried little threat.

The siege was set as a wayward shot cannoned into the air, Peart-Harris won the ball and laid it off to De Keersmaecker. The Belgian played it first time, catapulting the ball into the path of Mark Harris with half the pitch to run into.

Then, the world inverted, the King Power evaporated and a silence descended. 3,000 Oxford fans found themselves in the cavernous chambers of Harris’ soul. He’s equally loved and maligned. Loved for his infectious personality, his League One goals, his merciless, disciplined, tactical display in the Play-Off final and equally committed post-match celebrations. He’s maligned for his lack of Championship goals, his preposterous misses and his pedestrian pressing. Our hearts want him to go to the World Cup, our heads wouldn’t take him. 

These thoughts floated around the chamber, haunting his advance on the Leicester goal. We were 3,000 trapped souls, suspended in silence, unable to will him on. He looked up to see the great plain in front of him, he looked back to see nobody, it was all him. We desperately wanted him to succeed not for the goal or the lead and the game, but for him and how we want to feel about him.

He slowed up to take stock, Rodrigues Pereira closed in, we let out a silent scream for him to release his shot and end the voiceless inferno. Instead, he feinted left to go round the keeper, his was touch heavy forcing him onto his weaker foot. Harris was on the cusp, was this the beginning of something or the end it? He wrapped his foot around the ball, guiding it towards the goal and into the net, the eternal question about everything had been answered. The stadium reconstructed, the noise returned, the away end detonated into collective rapture, Harris absorbed the eruption apparently without emotion. 

Now it was about staying focussed, they were crushed and maligned, we had options to keep things fresh. A tidy reply from Fatawu with six minutes to go made the final moments uncomfortable, but the shrill of the final whistle released an exhilarating barrage of noise.

In the centre of the pitch the players squared up to each other, the frustration of failure consuming the Leicester players. The Oxford players rallied, still together. Through the crowds of shoving and pushing ran Matt Bloomfield, towards the away end, fist shaking in pure triumph. A manager with something to prove, at a club who need to prove something. Somehow we feel more complete, more together.

The table looks kinder, two points adrift with teams around us still to come to the Kassam. The win hasn’t made the task any easier, but it’s equipped us for the fight. It’s still only January, the farewell tour may yet be extended.