A moment of Carlisle United heaven that we'll always have

The back row, occupied by BBC Radio Cumbria’s team, has momentarily lost itself. Instead, the last days of Rome are playing out on those seats, off those seats.

Paul Newton, whose measured tones you normally hear reading bulletins and presenting shows, is howling to the heavens. Chris Lumsdon is celebrating with an expression somewhere between that of a proud father and a lottery winner. James Phillips’ decibels are so profound they disturb the local canine population. Again.

I’m afraid to say the News & Star is behaving just as badly a few feet below. Arms pumping, throat roaring, heart crashing. 877 games covering Carlisle United, and still not a shred of dignity.

I didn’t turn to my right to see how United’s own media personnel – the ones with the least obligation to see things down the middle – were taking it. Didn’t need to. Don’t imagine it was a case of just sitting there and typing, the job we were all there to do.

The area around the media section in the Pioneer Stand is a case of magnificent bedlam: supporters off their seats, limbs going like pistons, faces red, veins about to burst, and even before looking you knew this was going like a wave around Brunton Park: through the Pioneer, across the surging central section of the Warwick, into the Main Stand and through the Paddock.

Yes, the Paddock. That long length of concrete realism, that sacred old expanse of get-into-them and get-a-grip-man. It is momentarily connected to mains electricity.

In front of the terrace, where dark blue shirts have gathered in a merry cluster, there is a flash of lime green: a ballboy, cavorting from the direction of the Warwick, arms out, punching the air, arms back out, spinning on the spot. Too many Haribos, son. Or maybe not enough.

And this, all this, only lasts a couple of minutes, possibly less. But frankly, who cares? This is what you watch for, what you go for, what you think and worry and stress and support for.

Carlisle didn’t even win the sodding game. But we’ll still have that moment, when Moxon scored and things were bursting from 6,000+ bodies through the sheer joy of it…

Because it was Moxon, one of our own, the Denton Holme lad who was released, came back, lit the place up but had not, until Tuesday, fulfilled that goal-at-Brunton-Park dream – the one many of us had when booting a ball around as children.

Because it was such a big game. Because Carlisle hadn’t scored or won much lately. Because we’re good, we know we are, and if only we can find it again. Because it’s Simmo, the club-saver, the manager you’d trust with your last wish, and who, frankly, on earth would abuse this man or send him a letter having a go?

Because it’s a promotion push that needs a kick of momentum. Because it’s Stockport, who are very good too, and also very wealthy, and also right on terms with us points-wise, spirit-wise, support-wise.

Because it was late, and it was at the Warwick – full of those young fans who’ve made it their business to lift the place, to create a better environment for the day when it comes: the promotion that hasn’t yet happened in their lifetimes.

Stockport keeper Ben Hinchcliffe can't reach Owen Moxon's shot (Image: Barbara Abbott)

Because it was Tuesday in April at Brunton Park: a bright sunny day then a tense night which was always on the edge of something, a game of anti-climax then climax, of 0-1 then 1-1 then 2-1, of Mellish being Mellish, of Moxon being Moxon, of the lights on and everyone home; of the ground, and those in it, driving itself towards one of those rare occurrences when seams are torn, nobody feels sensible, pies are launched and you think: football. Bloody hell.

Don’t bother trying to keep a lid on that. And still don’t, even though Carlisle were 2-1 up for a painfully short time, even though they conceded an equaliser which slowed the place right back down (and credit to Stockport for that, as much as criticise United for it. They were another side who wouldn’t die).

The idea, at this stage of the season, is for the Blues to be promoted, or at least have a competent tilt at the play-offs. That’s what we’re here for, unexpectedly to a large degree, and that’s what we’re off to Barrow for, then back home for, then off to Sutton for.

Should Carlisle do it, a season of progress and positivity will be gloriously capped. Should they dip as far as eighth, regret will stalk the summer. Should they fail gallantly or succeed gallantly, we’ll appreciate what they did, how they made this a period when the possibilities went beyond just avoiding the National League and stopping us fretting about the very viability of Carlisle United.

Yet the game isn’t just about those things, rewarding as it would be to see Simmo, Moxon and the rest wearing medals. It’s also about moments – more so, really. It’s about going into an old football ground, making the normal connections you do, and at some stage receiving cause to absolutely lose your word I can’t publish here but you know what I mean.

In a campaign of hope and bubbling emotion, I would submit there hasn’t been a moment like the 83rd minute on Tuesday night, for feeling. A pass and a careful finish was all it took.

Silly game, isn’t it? May it never, ever change.