31 & Out.

There came a moment, about two minutes before the referee whistled time on our moment of history, when we finally realised. It had come to an end, inevitably with a whimper - inevitably with a performance which told of nothing of what had come before. Yet, we refused to let our voices be quietened. The party-spirit would not be dampened.

We could have been critical. We could have fallen silent. We could have clapped politely, acknowledging effort but little in the way of quality. We did none of those things. We remembered.

'31, 31 undefeated. 31, 31 I say....'

As it dawned on us that it was 31 & out, the chorus began to chirp. First, as a single voice, then as a gradual expression of acceptance, of pride, of everything that it has meant to us and everything that it will continue to mean.

'31 31 undefeated, playing football the Cobblers way!’

Then it kept going, and going and going. We had been defeated - finally - but we refused to lose the love transported to our lungs.

'31 31 UNDEFEATED....'

It was now a volcano of noise, erupting over the muted cheers of the home fans and overspilling into the street on the way home. They were still singing it in the pub, on the train. All the way back to Northampton. Moulton Lava, still bubbling.

I had a tear in my eye at the end of our 3-1 defeat to Chesterfield. It was maybe the same tear that wetted my face at the end of our FA Cup victory at Coventry when we were teetering on the brink, or the tear that recycled in my eyes once more as we lifted the league trophy gloriously to the skies after a tumultuous season of such highs and lows.

Not so much a sadness that our run had come to an end - it had to at some point - but a realisation of just what we've achieved along the way. How many times have you been taunted on the playground, mocked amongst many a friend for being a Cobblers fan? Whilst they hunt for glory, we hunt for misery, bonded by a mutual longing for despair. We were there when we laughed back. We were there when we turned good.

Thirty-one. THIRTY-BLOODY-ONE. Say it, it doesn't sound real. It doesn't sound humanly possible, not when you're used to seeing eleven bloody strangers stagger incompetently around a pitch. It was hard to believe, as it was happening, because it started against a backdrop of still-raw uncertainty, it continued with new-found spirit borne out of staring the darkness full in the face, and it seemed to just accelerate through the most fun time I can ever remember.

We may never do this again in our history. We may never be quite as good for quite as many games. We were approaching some of the all-time records - but whilst we can't quite match the famous Arsenal 'invincibles' - we can match anyone for sheer, filmic drama. They say Hollywood are going to make a film about Jamie Vardy's rise to the top. We may never reach the pictures, but the images will remain ingrained forever in our hearts & minds, the memories will live on as we pass them on to future generations.

‘Let me tell you son, about that Ricky Holmes goal at Stevenage. Let me tell you about how I tumbled down seats, down the steps, into the arms of the ecstasy all around me.'

We went from almost-oblivion to obliterating everything in our path. We would not be beaten, for so long that it sometimes felt like floating through a space full of surreal stars that shined only for us.

Soon, it’s time to rest out feet back on planet Earth. Soon, it’ll be time to digest, to groan & moan, to be bloody awful again. But for now, we are still steadily rising – no longer undefeated – but with a renewed purpose that we can learn a lot from where we’ve come from, what we’ve been through & how vibrantly we’ve supported along the way. I hope, whilst we may lose some of those feelings & maybe even the occasional match, that we can recognise that & move forward as a club with a belief that we can still improve, both on & off the pitch.

Besides, what better time to lose? We got that rare defeat out of our system. Just in time for United. Ironic because that is what we are these days, whilst they already seem divided by the arrival of even more ego.

Theatre of dreams? Pah! I had a dream that we went thirty-one games without defeat. I had a dream that I saw us win the league by thirteen points.

I had a dream that tonight is going to be a famous night…

Try aiming a little higher

Get a bloody grip of yourselves some of you.

Get a bloody grip.

We are Northampton Town, comfortable with our roots firmly planted on the ground with our weighty, well-made leather boots that will probably last a lifetime.

Yet last year from a factory familiar with toil & sweat, we started exporting something more beautiful around our division, we took over grounds with a new-found belief in learning how to reach for a new identity & stop looking to the bleak & melancholic history of everything that's gone & everything we lost along the way. We stood tall & grew together against a torrent of abuse, against those looking to grind us back into the dirt. Against those looking to destroy the past & the future.

Thankfully, it wasn't too late to boot those arseholes out & remarkably we even managed to pick up a decent Chairman in the scraps of what was burning, enraged by the flames we stoked ourselves into a frenzy of support & burning passion driven by our manager, driven by a desire to bond players & supporters as one in our hour of greatest need. We set ourselves on fire & we never stopped until the heat rose to the top. It was a bloody glorious sight.

I don't want to miss last season. It was horrible. It was terrifying. It was loopy. It was at times, allegedly, illegal. It was fun. It was mad. It was winning. It was Hollywood.

We need to take the script, make some alterations, accept that we have to delete some really good stuff out of necessity & move on to create a sequel. Yes, it's true, rarely are sequels better than the original but there is no point writing the review before we've seen it. Those are the dumbest critics.

The scene in which Chrissy Wilder left us was inevitable. The scene in which Ricky Holmes left us was inevitable. Even as they crept cruelly across our eyes, those cuts were still brutally final & painful for all involved in the creative process - when trying to develop something as good as the original is such a challenge.

We can still miss things, we can still look back on what's left us with fondness - that season of romance & rising from the ashes still so fresh in our beating hearts - but we absolutely must not pine for it, we must not ache for it, we must not believe we are nothing without those heroes, now sadly separated from that glue we felt might stick for good.

We need to learn as a football club to stop heralding that 'one season in a generation' as being some kind of qualified success, but instead yearn & strive for more sunny days. We cannot win every game, we cannot always create the unity from division that arose last time around, we cannot think we have the right to storm another division without some seriously hard work & improvement on every level.

We can however, continue to have some fun, after seasons upon seasons of treading stagnant water under the Cardoza regime, we have a new sense of purpose, a new face in Kelvin Thomas who seems to believe in a common sense approach to improving things for all of us, not with an airbrush but with a steady, firm hand that understands sometimes you first need a decent canvass to start painting a masterpiece.

HE EVEN PUT IN AN EXIT TO THE TOILETS IN THE WEST STAND FOR GOD'S SAKE. HALLEBLOODYJULAH! Now, finally, I can go for that warming piss in the chill of Mid-December without feeling in fear for my life in the impending crush.

We have a new manager too - someone who seems to have been an entirely sensible appointment - someone who exudes a calmness in the chaos that could have threatened to envelop us after Wilder's departure to his boyhood club. Rob Page has kept a club healthy in League One on limited resources twice now, a club in Port Vale who at least these days are similar in size to ourselves. He knew how to operate despite having a nutty owner creeping close behind him in the shadows, so now he has what seems like a totally sensible one the fit will only be smarter.

He is someone that has youth on his side, has international experience, has an eloquence & presence that can match his predecessor, has time to learn & adapt to his new surroundings. It's impossible to know whether one has picked the right candidate until a later date (Gary bloody Johnson anyone?!), but this date feels steady & assured & in no rush to get into the bedroom & create irreparable damage (Johnson!) to the loving dynamic that went before.

Sometimes relationships in that initial caress of chemistry are a beautiful blur of endless nights & days that seem to light up even the murkiest of souls, but the knowledge that something is too good to be true can still persist even in the midst of embrace. Today, when I look at the teamsheet - perhaps even more than missing our general off the pitch - I will miss our foot soldier on it.

Ricky Holmes could run & run & shoot the opposition down from anywhere, such was the magic within his weaponry. He almost-certainly will never quite have another season soaked in such searing sunlight, for as soon as he was transferred from medic to battefield in the blistering victory at Kenilworth Road, he entranced the oppposition with his dancing feet, leaving defenders dazed & hypnotized & fallen in a pool of their own tears; leaving us in heaven as we rose, finally above the clouds to the summit.

Something about him was almost celestial when he put on a Cobblers kit but despite the God-like collection of goals, we had to fall back to earth with a nasty bump. We may have lifted a trophy in adversity, but we weren't yet ready to hold on to superstars. His star shone so brightly that it was no surprise when he shot off down the road to Charlton, where he will probably never be quite the same again.

We must regather, reassess, reassure ourselves that even in the sadness of break-ups we can break our mould & continue this momentum surging through us. We cannot afford to & mope at the imperfect summer recruitment, or being ridiculed by no-hopers & non-leaguers in pre-season. There's a clue in the name. Pre-the-sodding-season.

We have not yet begun our attack on the real deal of the division above, so we must not panic, we must not judge too harshly, we must think back to the time after losing at Swansea when perhaps a majority wanted Wilder's head, or think to the horrible heartache of how we nearly had no club left to support. These are good times, these are fun times. We are still here, we have an owner who owns with authority, we have a fanbase united in a wettened appetite for more success, we have to adopt a wait-and-see approach rather than spitting our dummies out before we even know the score.

Please, please, please, let's try & give Rob Page a bloody chance. Let's learn from our mistakes & remember that England win all their flippin' friendlies sometimes but still limp out when the heat is on. It means nothing. It would be nice to not have injuries, it would be nice to sail smoothly through & romp this division too, but in all likelihood it ain't gonna happen. This is going to be a slog at times, it may even be a struggle. But it should still be a ball again, it should be a new-dawn with new-hope & new-stars, if we try aiming a little higher than the defeatism which has inflicted us in the past - maybe, just maybe, we can grow this fresh set of crops into something hearty & wholesome again.

Stop grieving, start believing. Bring on Fleetwood. Bring on football.