There were some complex mental gymnastics on show this week as we prepared for the climax of the season. Needing to win our games and hope that Charlton or West Brom lose theirs, we were assured several times that ‘stranger things have happened’ without anyone identifying a single time they have.

We speculated as to who would be on or off the beach, and whether that would make them relaxed enough or too relaxed to perform. We explored which players would or wouldn’t be playing for their contracts. We searched for answers when we were really looking for a portal into a future of our choosing.

Meanwhile, like Dr Spock, George Elek on the Dub ran the numbers – 

“[the bookmakers are] the most accurate assessment you’re going to get, because we were favourites against Wrexham last night, doesn’t mean we were going to beat Wrexham, as was shown by the game itself. But, you know, the likelihood of us winning that game is far more accurate, even if it didn’t come to pass…”

In other words, the most accurate assessment was wrong, but was still more accurate than the least accurate assessment, the fans, who were right. This overlooks that bookmakers aren’t predicting outcomes either; they’re conducting stupidity tests – ‘Give me £10 and I’ll give you £100 if the moon is made of cheese. What about £5000?’

The truth is, of all the times we’ve gone into the last game of the season needing favours from other teams, I can only think of it happening in 1992 at Tranmere, 2021 when we beat Burton and Portsmouth lost to Accrington and 2024 at Exeter. But they were one-off pressure games, we weren’t looking for a precise outcome from a four game block. There were at least as many times when the miracle didn’t happen.

We all have our own coping mechanisms, but reconfiguring our neural pathways to form new realities is complex and painful. It’s an introspective exploration of the soul, searching our hopes and fears and where our boundaries lie, then finding an answer and doubting it.

I’ve long accepted that relegation has been possible and concluded that if it was to come to pass, I just wanted the exit to be as painless as possible.

The teasing reveal of the season’s outcome began just as we were blessed with the first summer sun of the year. The smell of cut grass brought a freshness to the air, people wore shorts and shirt sleeves and strolled around lightly. Football people are the people of the gloaming, our mission is taken in an endless cold slated grey; the early signs of summer, with its colour and smells, offers a welcome balm.

Charlton had already taken the lead against Hull by the time we got to the stadium, the pre-match chatter made little reference to it. Hull’s equaliser brought an unwelcome edge, but it was hard to know whether we wanted them to get another, or for Charlton to finally put us out of our misery.

We were heading to the turnstiles as confirmation came through, but there was no more than a silent acknowledgement, mentally we’d moved on. We’ve pushed through those turnstiles to watch Arsenal and Manchester City, and Yeading and Salisbury City. Status means little. 

Inside the stadium, the mood was relaxed, we couldn’t have chosen a better companion to exit the division than Sheffield Wednesday. This was their final road trip and the relief that it was over was palpable. There was no angry toxicity, no goading of our plight, just a sense of acceptance and mutual respect. 

Tim Williams stood with his wife looking exhausted and drained. If mistakes have been made, and there certainly have, there can be little doubt of the effort the club has put into survival.

The game breezed by with an unfamiliar lightness, after a brisk five minutes, Stan Mills crossed to Will Lankshear whose deft flick guided the ball into the net. Twenty minutes later he showed what he can do when he doesn’t have a 6’ 7” centre-back superglued to his back, cutting inside to bend the ball into the top right-hand corner. It was a joy watching Lankshere untethered from the grind of survival, he’s lived every second of this season, his reward was a few minutes of absolute freedom.

The players played as the fans would want them to; there was a luminesence, but also commitment, they could have passed the ball amongst themselves until the final whistle, but this was a rare opportunity to enjoy the game, even if it was in the bleakest circumstances.

With a third of the game to go, Will Vaulks juggled and volleyed in, flip flopping and showboating in front of the East Stand, before Will Grainger bent in a consolation. As it hit the back of the net, a familiar feeling that we might throw it away came to me. Then I realised it didn’t matter, by the time I’d processed those intrusive thoughts, Miles Peart-Harris completed a clever move involving Lankshear and Mills to bring our biggest win the Championship for nearly 27 years.

At the final whistle we walked down to the front of the stand to watch the Sheffield Wednesday players heading down the tunnel. A closer quarters, the brutality of their season was evident; young men that have spent ten months being ritually humiliated because of the profligacy of a wealthy man. Erick Thohir was stood at the front of executive box, I hope he saw the reality of the power he holds in his hands. 

As with last season, the players emerged with the backroom staff, wives, girlfriends and children. There are eleven players on the pitch, but a village that makes it all happen from preparing the players to therapising them afterwards. In amongst them Greg Leigh, Tyler Goodrham and Shemmy Placheta, all of whom have slipped off the merry-go-round. Hidde Ter Avest’s baby dribbled a ball into the net to a raucous applause, the drummer from the Yellow Division struck up a rhythm and those who were still there sang out as loud as they had during the season.

The players stood in front of each stand having found a space of mutual acceptance with the fans. Nominally, this was an appreciation of the fans by the players, but it wasn’t that, it was the acknowledgement of a journey we’ve all taken. The times we’ve got it right; at Bristol City and Leicester, against Ipswich and Southampton, and the times when we got it wrong, but at least we tried. 

And along the way, there are the stories; Will Vaulks’ campaigning, Michal Helik and Shemmy Placheta nomadic journey to another country, Will Lankshear and Yunus Konak on the first steps to great things, Cameron Brannagan and Sam Long realising a dream.

For all the angsty computations before the game, the truth was simpler, it’s all a staging post in an infinite journey. It’s not about the outcome or result, in a world where so many things let you down, your football club, and the people in it, never will.