2012-13 Uncovered: Wednesday 20th February - The Southend Chronicles III; Nirvana

   It's been a long time for Southend United.  Never been to Wembley for a cup final.  Apart from the comps they get from the FA every year.  83 years years since their only visit to what was then the Twin Towers.  An inauspicious 3-1 league defeat against a side using Wembley as a temporary home until ground improvements at their own place had been completed.

   Some would say the improvements still hadn't been finished, judging by the flimsy seats Southend fans encountered a couple of weeks ago.  Yep, the team who had beaten them at Wembley in their only appearance 83 years ago, now stood in their way from a long, long, long awaited return.  

   They may be the Leyton version rather than Clapton, but Orient could heap more misery on Southend's Wembley woes by stopping their bid for a first ever cup final appearance there.  One way or another, this was history in the making.  

   After getting that ticket in the South Lower, time hung heavy in the air.  In the distance, Victoria station briefly echoed to some Orient fans that had evidently drank a bit too much already.  The Plod, though, were already waiting for them.  Their visit to Southend would either be a short one or would involve holding cells only.

   In the end, I went home.  I had no need to, it was just something to do to keep out of the pub, killing some time.  Back to the Bay, a shower, fresh clothes, and back into the fresh, cold wind.  Almost an ill wind.   To counteract that, though, I was on the number 8 bus back to Roots Hall.  Having had Chinese noodles earlier,  was it a good luck portent?  Erm, no, it was just a f*****g bus after an unexceptional meal.

   Anyhow, I'd timed it well.  Less than half an hour to kick off.  As I wandered through the main gates, the Sky tv people hovered, trying to catch my eye, gagging for someone to ask their inane questions to.  'How do you think the game will go?', 'Are you excited about tonight?' 'Do you think you'll win?'  

   There's only one answer to all of these questions - "Forget about all that.  Richard Madeley, if you're watching, I hope your next dump is a hedgehog."  Not exactly relevant, true, but it would certainly liven up the cliched drivel that passes as football punditry.

   I instead stood by the programme stall until they trapped an unsuspecting woman, and wandered in.  I like the South Lower.  It does have the worst view of the ground, but often that's no bad thing.  But it also has a decent mix of people and ages.  There's generally banter with the odd bit of verbals, rather than constant swearing.  Most of all, though, it's the least populated part of Roots Hall so I can stretch out a bit.

   The ground was filling out nicely.  Blimey, even my section was becoming more and more populated.  Everyone around me was excited.  Me?  Not really.  The anticipation of watching a bit of history play out before my eyes was there.   But excitement was pushing it a bit.  

   I'd seen so much of Southend achieving in the past 10 years that this just seemed to be another chapter to the same story rather than a whole new one.  A couple of cup finals in Cardiff, a play-off final win, a League One title win, beating Man Utd, pulsating contests with Spurs and Chelsea, and all the while the ongoing saga of a chairman who can't afford to get a new ground built or afford to stay at Roots Hall.  

   Tonight would be more of the same.  Engrossing. enduring. at times compelling.  But the excitement of it all had waned.  I was more than happy, however, to be around people who were extremely excited by what awaited us.  The atmosphere pre-match, at least in the South Lower, crackled with anticipation.  One way or another, exciting or not, tonight will be something else.

   As the teams came out, you almost felt as if they were both already at Wembley.  The crowd raised the roof, perhaps more in relief that they were out on the pitch and that their agony of waiting was over.  Now it was simply the agony of getting through 90 minutes.  Or, if nerves weren't shredded enough by then, all the way through to penalties.

   After the kick-off, though, the whole of Roots Hall fell quiet, bar the beat of a drum and the odd chant.  If it was a quiet start on the pitch, it was twice as nervy around the stadium.  So much to win but yet so much to lose.

   Which is exactly what Southend United did after just seven minutes.  Attacking us in the South, Orient put in a cross from the left,  Shaun Batt gets to it, and bang, into the far post corner of the net.  There's two and half thousand supporters from Leyton in the North Bank and at last they make noise worthy of it.

   Ahead early on against a side a division below them, and ravaged by injury and suspension, the tie has swung heavily in favour of the East Londoners.  At least it's a clean, early blow, none of this waiting until the last minute to put us out.  Southend's gallant failure is now just a matter of time.  No ifs or buts about it.

   But ..... for whatever reason, Orient retreat back into their shells.  Sure, they seem more confident on the ball.  Yes, it appears they have more territory and possession.  But Smith hasn't had to make a save worthy of the name.  Southend, whilst not comfortable, are now coping.  The match is poor, which suits the Shrimpers at the moment.

   The crowd have been sucked into the drama of the moment rather than the prospect of what awaits them.  Roots Hall is subdued.  Very little chanting from either set of supporters.  You can see the anguish written all over everyone's faces.  Fear of losing has long since overtaken the prospect of winning.

   Paul Sturrock knows his stuff.  I remember fondly his playing days, putting the likes of the Old Firm and Barcelona to the sword, competing with the Germans in the World Cup Finals.  Vast experience of Football League management.  He knows the formation just ain't working.  Off comes a bewildered Woodyard after only 30 minutes.  Brave, so brave, that move.  On comes Big Bad Barry Corr.  Two up front now.  Let's see what happens.

   For the next half hour, the sum total of nothing does, bar those jailbard Bluebelles strutting their stuff at half time.  Southend have parity with possession now but created nothing.  Orient continued to play with an air of confidence but they own lack of creativity betrays them.  Jesus, this is intense.  And so tense.  Something must give at some point.  The O's appeal for a penalty, more in hope than expectation.  Nothing doing.

   From nothing doing, though, the Orient defence suddenly cracks.  Britt Assombalonga gets to Kevan Hurst's free-kick, it's nodded on and the ball is rammed home with a vengence.  Roots Hall erupts.  The noise is off the hook.  And another Sturrock masterstroke.  Big Bad Barry Corr.  What a substitution.  People of all ages, from 5 to about 75, begin to cheer, shout, scream, dance a little, even cry a bit.  Wembley beckons.

   Leyton Orient are suddenly looking a beaten team.  The players are arguing with each other.  Those passes which found their team mates easily are just going that vital inch or two awry.  You just begin to feel.  This is Southend United's time, it's their turn for a Wembley cup final.  They know.  And so, it seems, do their opponents, as 3 sides of Roots Hall begin to really believe again.

   Oh bollocks.

   We should have known better, really.  20 minutes left.  Cross.  Header.  Smith rooted to his line.  Goal.  Orient take a 2-1 lead on the night.  It's  2-2 on aggregate.  But advantage well and truly with the Brisbane Road outfit.  They have their tails up at a time when Southend bodies, as well as spirits, will be flagging.  With all those first team players out, surely the Shrimpers are on their way out.

   The away side seem to think so.  For the remainder of normal time, Leyton Orient pummel their hosts.  Play seems almost exclusively in the Southend half.  That lad Batt has put himself about all night for the O's.  He bangs in a shot that Smith saves well.  The next one, with five minutes left, crashes off the crossbar.  "Just a matter of time", an octogenrian nearby says mournfully.  "If it's not now, they'll get us in extra time."

   Strangely, I don't share his view.  I look around.  Both sets of fans are still almost paralysed with fear.  But I then look towards the pitch.  I see the Orient players looking upwards, shaking their heads.  They think that was their chance.  

   I think back through the season.  Just how many games have I been to for the radio where there's been last minute equalisers?  I've lost count.  I'm meant to be doing a full time summary for them tonight.  I smile to myself, relaxed, almost confident.  I say back to the senior citizen "Don't worry, there's another Southend goal left in this."  He eyes me doubtfully.  

   Fate, though.  Something you can't change.   As soon as I've uttered those words, as the clock straddles the border between normal and injury time, Kevan Hurst gets the ball on the left, at the byeline.  There doesn't seem any imminent danger.  But a swift turn and low centre across the six yard box changes everything.

   It was Southampton where Paul Sturrock endured possibly his unhappiest managerial experience.  Oh my, how karma works to even life's outrageous fortunes out.  In space, converging on goal, is the player who's been head and shoulders Southend United's best tonight.  Ben Reeves.  On loan.  From Southampton.

   The rest of the ground may be holding their breath but we in the South Lower know.  Trusting the gods of fate, I knew probably about a minute before this moment of all moments.  Reeves.  Goal.  2-2 on the night.  3-2 on aggregate.  Southend United are on their way to Wembley.

   The roofs are blown off by a tumult of sound.  It rumbles around Roots Hall, crashing around everyone, an unbroken wall of sound for a good 30 seconds.  After the celebration, everyone around me either scream or are in tears.  It's finally dawned of them.  It's too much to take in.  Southend United in a cup final at Wembley.  Do we dare to believe it's true?

   I do.  There's a nob-head who's run on the pitch, holding up play.  But for Orient, it's simply delaying the inevitable.  Hands are on their hips, heads down.  And that's just the North Bank.  The full time whistle may not yet have blown, but their time is up.  And they know it.

   Sure enough, the man in yellow blows for full time.  You just have to, don't you.  On the pitch.  You don't intend to, unless you're a kid.  But it's living in the moment, you want to run around somewhere, anywhere, screaming with joy, with relief.  It's football Nirvana.

   I breathlessly shout out a match report for the radio.  I have no idea how much of it made sense, let alone the accuracy of it.  It was just me and the moment.  And then realise, for the first time since I left home, in among thousands of delirious Shrimpers, I've got my Auchinleck Talbot scarf on.  I'd forgotten all about it.  Until tonight, Southend had drawn every game I'd worn this scarf to.  Karma.  It was meant to be.

   I meet Ken on the halfway line.  I can see he's shed a tear or two and his face is a picture of pure joy.  It lifts my own heart seeing someone as happy as that.  All those years of hard yakka watching awful football in awful weather, often supporting an awful team.  Tonight's for you, Ken, and all those who kept with Southend United in the bad times as well as good.

   

   Out come the team, once I've allowed Britt Assombalonga to get past me, into the directors box, and are greeted with mass hysteria.  Paul Sturrock soon arrives.  What a job he's done.  In spite of Ron Martin, in spite of players not being paid, in spite of the High Court visits, in spite of the farce of Fossetts Farm, he's somehow got this club into the play-offs and now to a Wembley cup final.  Extraordinary.

   Eventually, people slowly drift away, clinging onto every moment like a cherished heirloom, something to be passed to the grandchildren in years to come.  And, of course, Ed and Bri are on the pitch, kids in tow, with Eileen behaving by standing on the cinder track.  It still hasn't quite sunk in for them yet.  They still don't believe it.  But yes, Southend United are on their way to Wembley.

   I'm given a lift back to the Bay, and the talk turns excitedly to how much the tickets will be, whether we can get a block booking, because we want to take everyone with us.  Welcome to Dreamland, Southend United, we do hope you enjoy your six week stay of planning and then living the dream.

   Epic.  Absolutely epic.

   Johnstones Paint Trophy, Southern Area Final, 2nd Leg

   Southend United 2,  Leyton Orient 2

   (Southend United win 3-2 on aggregate, and play Crewe Alexandra in the Final.  At Wembley.  At last.)