Sunderland has often felt like a thankless task, a cross to bear, something to be endured. A load handed down by my father to carry, handed in turn to my own son. Following Sunderland has often felt like a thankless task, a cross to bear, something to be endured. A load handed down by my father to carry, handed in turn to my own son. Since I first went to Roker Park as a six-year-old, I’ve not had an equally momentous occasion to regale to anyone who will listen. I started to wonder whether it would ever happen. As a 15-year-old, I was at Wembley to see David Corner try and shepherd the ball out for a goal kick, only to allow a cross for Norwich’s goal. Then I watched Clive Walker miss a penalty right in front of me and that was that. There have been numerous times when I’ve thought this might just be our time. Wembley again in 1992, this time in the FA Cup Final. Wembley again in 1998 - what a game. Mickey Gray this time missing his penalty and another nearly moment. Along the way we’ve had some superb times and a number of highs and lows, but the last few years have seen an upward trajectory that is seemingly endless. From the moment Alex Neil was appointed and guided us through the play-offs out of League One, we’ve been heading in the right direction again. The second time I’ve seen us in the third tier took longer to get out of, but at least when we got out it was at the right end of the table. Tony Mowbray arrived and consolidated us after Neil abandoned us for Stoke City. A couple of interims (yes, I’m including Michael Beale in that) and an unknown Frenchman arrived to guide our ship. This is where our story takes off. By now KLD had been in charge a few years and was already showing his ruthless streak. Was I excited by his arrival? Yes, definitely, but even a few years in I was still wondering if it was as good as I’d hoped. Having endured these false dawns over the years as the club passed through Drumaville, Short and Donald, I remained sceptical. No need to worry, it turns out. A blip at the end of the season turned out to be a tactical masterstroke. The games against Coventry - first leg and I’m in bits watching on TV. Isidor at the death and I’m jumping up and down in the living room, upsetting the dogs and annoying the neighbours. Second leg and it’s looking like we might just “do a Sunderland” again. But no. In what must be the greatest football moment of my lifetime, Enzo slings in a corner and Ballard somehow contorts his body to head it home. 121:59 - forever embedded in my memory. A mate of mine sorts tickets for Wembley. Yet again I’m reminded of the lady on Netflix saying, “Why is it never us?” I’ve never seen us win at Wembley, but in that moment of the greatest event I’ve ever witnessed I wish I could find her and tell her it’s all fine. It is us. Finally. Give her a cuddle, dance up and down with more random strangers who have all been through the same distress I have. It’s us! I’m there with my wife, my dad and my 26-year-old son, the same one I’ve saddled with supporting Sunderland, just as my dad did to me. But it’s worth the pain for this moment in time. Remembering that day, 24th May, my 55th birthday, I cry again writing this down. Never to be repeated, it will never be this good again. But I don’t care. I have my moment. Or so I