We waited 26 years for this..and it was worth it

BILL LECKIE
Last Updated: 18th March 2013

WHERE do you start?

How do you take all the emotions we went through out there and describe them with mere words?

It’s like trying to scoop up the lava from an erupting volcano in your arms and pack it in a carrier bag.

First things first, it was an amazing game. Five great goals, the balance swinging this way and back that, an almighty siege at the death.

Frantic, breathless, dramatic stuff that would have graced any final, anywhere in the world.

And second thing seconds... we did it. St Mirren did not turn up for the first half hour, and we hung on for the last ten like a one-armed man dangling from a cliff with an itchy backside.

But we did it. Won silverware at Hampden for the first time in 26 years, gave a whole town a reason to party.

Gave my generation, brought up at Love Street with our dads, the chance to hug and dance with our own kids.

Mine were still in the queue for pies when Stevie Thompson ripped the second goal high into the net right after half-time.

They said they heard the roar then saw the ball go in two seconds later on the big screens around the concourse beneath the Main Stand.

They saw it together, though, and that is what matters.

They were back in time to see Conor Newton dance through and hammer the third.

We were all there in the final countdown, arms around each other’s waists like the spare men in a penalty shootout, praying for the whistle.

The release of tension when Craig Thomson finally blew it and pointed to the tunnel, the overwhelming sense of sheer joy — well, they truly were indescribable.

I just remember looking to the skies, clenched fists, sharing the moment with my dad.

Then my daughter Georgia had me in a vice-grip. Then her big brother Kenny was throwing his arms around us.

Everyone around us was grabbing anyone in black and white and squeezing them for dear life. It was wonderful.

And maybe it was even more so because of how good the game was.

Ever since we beat Dundee United back in ‘87, all anyone’s ever said about it is it was the worst two hours of football in history.

They are right too, because as spectacles go you would not have opened the curtains had the ’87 final been played in your back garden. But this had it all. This was theatre. It was about way more than just the 90 minutes, too.

We did the full hospitality thing, worrying we would be first there in the big lounge at the Feigydome because we had parked up by half ten, only to walk in and find the place already hoaching. The atmosphere in there was terrific — lentil soup, steak pie and bubbly, home-made black and white top hats and gallons of facepaint.

When we got on the buses to head for Hampden just after one, a brass band was playing Oh When The Saints.

The bus back was quiet, everyone drained from shouting and fretting.

But we knew the perfect pick-me-up... arriving back in Paisley to see the boys do the whole open-topped thing through the streets.

I had covered a parade like this for the local paper in 1987, my son had been there when we won the First Division in 2000. Now, the three of us were here. Proud does not start to describe it.

Thing is, so many mums and dads got the chance yesterday to share something this special with their kids.

For a club like St Mirren, it is a once in a generation celebration.

Would the Jambos have made as big a thing of it if they had won?

Maybe, maybe not... after all, it might have a bit ho-hum after the 5-1 homecoming swagger-thon last May.

But I’ll tell you this for damn sure. When it comes to how it must have felt to lose this one, we would haves been talking a dead heat of despair.

When we were one down going on four, our optimism was in our boots.

When Gary Teale scampered free and squared to Esmael Goncalves for the tap-in equaliser, the renewal of faith was all-consuming.

At 3-1, we were in dreamland and they were silent. At 3-2, they were ear-splitting and we were in shock.

Wee Danny Lennon’s coat-tails flew as he came down the track towards the 16,000 of us, windmilling his arms to get us up and shouting.

If we had lost another goal then, nah, don’t even go there. As for how we did not lose one in the chaos that was of penalty box won’t become clear until we watch the re-run in the hungover light of day and see just how close Hearts came so often.

Could we have lost it? Easily. Were we lucky? Not a chance.

Yes, we rode our luck — but you don’t beat Aberdeen away in the quarters, Celtic in the semis and then come from behind to turn over Hearts in the final without some red-hot seat of the pants action. In both our Hampden adventures, though, we have played some terrific football and delivered some genuine quality in among our half-dozen goals.

The choker is the League Cup has long since been dismissed as too down-market to justify a European place. But that is an argument for another day.

For now, all that matters is the emotion. The elation. The tears, the nostalgia, the photos on our phones and the memories in our heads.

The chance to do it all with family, to share it all with lifelong friends and ones you have made on the spot.