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In a state of ecstasy, want this night to last forever
- Arlene Finnigan
- Jun 7
- 8 min read
Thirty-four years. Thirty-four fucking years. The last time we won a trophy, the Soviet Union still existed, the Premier League didn’t, I was a year away from starting big school, and The Shoop Shoop Song was number one.
Our train down to London was packed and bouncing. We’re both of an age when having a big night out ahead of such a huge day isn’t a good idea, so we headed straight for Peckham en route to El Presidenté of OASIS’ gated compound to get an early(ish) night. It looks like we missed quite the party in Covent Garden.
We unfortunately also missed the podcast barbecue at Halliwell Towers, but maybe that wasn’t the worst thing. Thoughts and prayers, Andy.
It turns out watching Wadmin’s videos and listening to Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want by the Smiths isn’t the best way to get to sleep before the biggest game of your life. Turns out it’s a really good way to give yourself the resting heartbeat of a hummingbird.
To ease my nerves on the day, I had 5 people’s tickets to give to them, and 4 flags and a scarf to pass on, in a beer garden that had more people in it than some matches I’ve been to at Boundary Park. Thankfully Andy helped out by being a 6ft 3 bloke in a tangerine wig and acting as something of a beacon. It’s the same wig he wore on the protest against the Lemsagams when we marched to the ground carrying a coffin. Something redemptive about that.
📷 Saraan de Guise. "What do they look like, Jimmie?" "Dorks. They look like a couple of dorks."
Thankfully our friends Billy (who played in the fans’ game at Avro and hit the bar, and travelled over from Galway with his boys) and Saraan (whose dad played for Latics in the 1940s, and won the FA Amateur Cup at Wembley with Pegasus in 1951) and Rachel all found us, flags and scarves were distributed, and children were given Frank Rothwell ‘The Saviour’ stickers.
Yes it's me who keeps doing this.
If you bought a programme at the game, you’ll have seen the We Are Oldham piece written by me and Matt. My writing in a Wembley programme. That was the first lifelong dream come true of the day.
Despite the Athleticos’ best efforts, we couldn’t get a tifo done in time, so everyone took the DIY punk approach of bringing blue, white and tangerine balloons. Which lasted longer, and looked better.
It was, quite rightly, an unchanged starting line-up. It would have been nice to start how we did against Halifax, but Southend were always going to be tougher opponents. What a kick in the minge to start the game though.
Of all players to be that unlucky, Monthé deserved it the least. He was our best player of the season when he got injured, and he’s done as much as anyone to get us to Wembley despite being out for months. So it was just fucking cruel that, in trying to clear the ball, he got a toe to it and accidentally chipped Hudson.
It was the worst possible start, but it meant we were both in unchartered territory. We hadn’t conceded a goal in our two previous play off games, and Southend had come from behind in both of theirs. Game on, I guess.
For all that he’s our Blue Manny Mountain, Monthé is quite a sensitive soul, and the goal visibly knocked him. It looked like his head had gone a bit, and it took him a while to settle after.
It being the National League showpiece game, it was only fitting that the referee made some fucking shocking decisions. Not long after the goal, Miley absolutely wiped out Evans and could/should have been sent off, but that would have taken more courage in a Wembley final than most NL referees are capable of, and he only got a yellow.
We kept our heads, kept the pressure on and created chances. Kitching put a great ball into the box that Yoganathan headed wide, and Fondop screamed at him for not leaving the chance to him, but you couldn’t blame the kid for having a go. He’s more than earned it.
To continue one of the plot lines of the season, all NL referees fucking hate Mike Fondop. He was two-footed in the box in the last 5 minutes of the first half, their player didn’t get enough of the ball to justify the challenge, it was a stonewall penalty, nothing given.
Sweet suffering Jesus but I could have sworn Mikey scored just after that. I honestly thought his shot was going in when he was one-on-one with the keeper, but it was agonisingly wide.
Andy did his civic duty and went for a slash at the start of the second half, and Saraan moved seats because her seat was her unlucky number. You are all fucking welcome. Monthé was bundled over in the 6 yard box, and there was no way Garner was going to miss from the spot. First player to score in all three NL play off games? Completed it, mate. Cool as fuck, just to the right, get it down yer.
📷 Oldham Athletic
We kept the pressure up, the chances kept a-coming. 20 minutes in, their keeper made a great save from Fondop after Pett (what a fucking game he had BTW, just outstanding) played it into the box. Was it not to be a Fondop’s day?
Southend had their own (laughable, far weaker) penalty claim when Appiah-Forson fell over under pressure from Fondop. Never a pen, but given the luck Fondop has had all season with referees, I guess we should be grateful it went the right way.
Norwood had come on for Garner, and had the opportunity to earn his five grand a week in the 95th minute, when Fondop flicked the ball onto him, but it was a swing and a miss and a total airshot. AAAAARRRRRRRGH.
Extra time it was, then. ‘Please, God, literally anything but penalties’. Well, it looked like I was getting my wish within seconds. Hudson could only palm Scott-Morriss’ cross straight to Parillon, who headed Southend into the lead inside the post.
It was as bad as start as we had in normal time, and just as cruel. Other than that, Hudson was excellent. He made an excellent save from Walker at the near post to keep us in it.
However, it felt like, yet again, it wasn’t to be our day. I tried my best to make my peace with that in my head. It’s better to lose a Wembley final than to not make it to one at all. By definition, only a tiny number of teams can win things in any season.
But for fuck’s sake, can it not be our year just once in my fucking lifetime?
And then.....
We all need to put some respect on Jesurun Uchegbulam’s name. He’s young, he’s not the finished product, but his attitude is spot on and he shows flashes of brilliance. He played a long ball forward to Norwood, who timed his run perfectly, controlled the ball brilliantly with a defender either side of him, and holy shitting fuck, what a finish. This is, indeed, your house, James.
I might have accepted penalties at this point, having felt so dejected and deflated at 2-1 down. But then, two minutes later, Kian Harratt floated a cross into the box that evaded everyone – and which Fondop had the presence of mind to leave – and it sailed straight into the net. 3-2. Our favourite scoreline.
📷 Oldham Athletic
The West stand absolutely erupted. Oh God, the noise. No wonder I’ve still got no voice. I seem to remember just screaming “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!” over and over and over again.
Jesus, if our nerves were bad before, what were those last few minutes like? Hudson was superb. Rossiter was a little terrier. We defended like out lives depended on it.
And then..... It was all over. We out-Southended Southend. We’re the comeback kings now. And just like that, Oldham Athletic were a Football League club again.
📷 Oldham Athletic
I burst out laughing when they played Mickey by Toni Basil after the game. It was perfect. Oh Micky, you really are so fine. “Micky Mellon is not getting us out of this league”? What a fucking idiot. You were right, Micky, I was wrong, you are a football genius and I am a dickhead. You proved me wrong, and I could not be happier.
It was immense. It was emotional. Fondop did his triple fist-pump. Then did it again with the trophy. Frank and Judith danced on the pitch to We Are The Champions. Mellon gave Frank his medal (it’s often the most dour bastards who turn out to be the biggest softies, isn’t it?). And if you’re friends with me on Facebook and saw a video of me crying, no you fucking didn’t.
📷 Oldham Athletic
The party went on well into the night, and huge kudos to Tom Pett, who, at the age of 33 (NOT 34, sorry Tom), having covered every blade of grass on the Wembley pitch for 2 hours, was in Liquid Envy in the early hours of Monday morning, drinking out of the trophy. I don’t know if Kian Harratt was there. I heard he was last seen heading to Regent’s Park with a great big sack.
We had considered doing a bit of sightseeing in London on the Monday, but the priority became getting back to Boundary Park for the party. It was beautiful. Wine in the Rocky bar. Samm Hewitt and his sparkly kecks. Nessun Dorma. Reagan Ogle looking like the most Australian man alive.
The party continued well into the night, and I have nothing but respect for Dan Gardner’s unorthodox approach to trying to persuade the club to give him a new contract.
Whatever we go on to achieve as a club – and this is just the start, we won’t be waiting 34 years for another promotion – it’s hard to see how this can be topped. This was the turning point. This was us bouncing off the ocean floor, having plumbed the depths, and getting back to where we belong. Thank you, Frank. Thank you, Judith. Thank you, Su. Thank you, Luke. Thank you, Darren.
But most of all, thank YOU. Everyone who threw a tennis ball; everyone who ‘promoted their dislike of the club’; everyone who marched; everyone who took to the pitch in protest; everyone who made it clear that our club was worth saving and worth fighting for; everyone who sang in the car park when the Rothwells were unveiled as our new owners; everyone who cleared the rubbish out of what is now Bar 1895; everyone who endured Southend away and Aldershot away and Boston away; everyone who scared the shit out of Halifax and York: this is YOUR victory. This is vindication. This is redemption. This is what good looks like.
We're on our way, and we want as many people as possible to come along for the ride. OASF have launched a fundraiser to buy season tickets for people who can't afford them. Please consider donating if you can afford to.
I’ve shredded my vocal cords, I’ve done irreparable damage to my liver, I’ve cried all the water out of my body, and I’ve almost certainly taken ten years off my life. And given the chance, I’d do it all again, only harder and louder.
The motherfucking faith? We kept it. And then some.
See you all back in the Football League.
Written by Arlene Finnigan
Got something in my eye.