DAVID  ASHBRIDGE

I simply can't remember when I knew we'd be bottom of the League going into the final game. I know that I went to something like the last fourteen or fifteen games of the season, home and away - a record  for me in terms of seeing consecutive games. My memories are seldom fact-based or discernibly correct - they tend to be more to do with how I felt, I suppose. What I do remember is a terrible sinking feeling that came over me again and again as the final weeks drew on. Have you ever had that depressed feeling that hits you as soon as you wake up? And what does that feeling do next? Well, it toys with you, doesn't it - it hides away for a few seconds while you busy yourself with something, only to pop up again, catching you unawares and hitting you with a fresh wave of depression.

That last week was a terrible time. I felt helpless, wanting to change something, to make something happen, but being utterly unable to do anything about it. I kept looking at the League table, wondering whether Peterborough would have anything to play for against Scarborough, how far Plymouth would be bothered at our place, and so on. Going over all the possible permutations and theories simply led to my realizing time and time again that our destiny was not in our own hands.

I teach in a secondary school in Lancaster, a boys' school. There are pupils at the school who are fans of Manchester United and all the usual Premiership sides, but I have no interest in discussing football with glory seekers. Still, there are a lot of boys here who support their home town team, or their dad's team or whatever - Preston, Burnley, Blackpool or Blackburn. They all know who I support, and there's often a fair bit of ribbing going on - I dish it out, so the lads make sure that I take it as well. That week, though, I was having none of it. I remember losing it - and I mean losing it - with a couple of lads who dared to have a dig at me.

Having said all that, I have always been optimistic about Carlisle. I've rarely gone to a game thinking that we wouldn't win it. So, I suppose that there was always at least a flicker of hope. And more than that, I simply can not conceive of Carlisle being out of the League. It just doesn't seem possible. It's a bit like the notion of someone taking your home town, erasing it and saying it doesn't exist any more. Impossible.

I know some fans couldn't face going to the game - but I can't understand this. Did I hesitate about going? Not for a second.

At about half past one, I went to the Beehive with my brother, Andrew. We'd been trying to guess what kind of crowd there'd be at the match. I remember that Andrew though there would only be about five thousand. I thought there'd be a lot more more. Seeing how packed the Beehive was gave me a bit of a lift. I think Andrew was also buoyed up by this. Again, seeing all the fans in the Beehive, it seemed impossible that this could all end.

As for the match itself, I don't really remember when any of the key events happened, but I know that I was getting the information as soon as anyone: virtually every other person had a radio, or so it seemed. News spread very quickly, including the news of the Peterborough goal. Then Dobie's goal was disallowed - did that come next? - but it didn't bother me too much. I'm not sure why. Perhaps because I simply felt we'd make up for it by scoring again. As I said, I've always been confident about Carlisle's chances - albeit foolishly sometimes.

I vaguely remember my feelings when Plymouth scored. My tendency toward unfounded confidence didn't really allow me to go any further than thinking that their goal made it a bit more tricky for us: as long as there was time left, I couldn't believe that things wouldn't work out for us. How long was left when they scored? Half an hour or so? I just can't remember.

I kept thinking we'd do it. When Brightwell scored, this simply seemed to confirm that it would be fine. There was still plenty of time.

Then as time moved on, I suddenly felt terrible. It hit me. My assurance and calmness evaporated. In the last couple of minutes of normal time, I began to feel awful. It dawned on me for the first time that we were on our way out of the League. Not that it might happen, but that here and now I was witnessing the death of Carlisle United, the final moments of League football at Brunton Park and certainly the last League match I'd ever see. I felt strange.

I can't remember whether I heard the Scarborough final score over the tannoy or whether I heard from someone (my brother?) with a radio. I do remember there being a tannoy announcement, and I do remember everyone learning that there was quite a lot of injury time. When the four minutes of time added on was made known (five minutes, as it turned out, with that injury in stoppage time), there was a buzz around the crowd. We still had time to do it. A buzz? No, it was more than that. It was different than that. It was some kind of wave of desperation and possibility combined. Now our destiny was in our own hands. For the first time that day, for the first time in days, in fact, we could save ourselves. The whole game shrank into four minutes. No, that's not quite right: not just the game, but the whole season collapsed into those few minutes. Wait. That's not it either. This is it: everything Carlisle-related that I'd seen or felt or heard, everything I'd loved or hated or simply not cared about, since seeing my first match was all channelled into a handful of minutes. And then the next thing I knew, there were not minutes left, but seconds. No optimism now. No hope.

I remembered Carlisle playing in their old, all-blue shirts. I remembered saving up to buy my first scarf in 1974. I remembered Chris Balderstone re-taking that penalty against Pat Jennings, the ball hitting the net a yard or so in front of my face. I remembered times standing in the rain and the sleet, freezing, in the Waterworks End, my Dad refusing to go to a part of the ground that was covered. I remembered my betrayal of Carlisle when, due to lack of interest in anything at all as a fourteen or fifteen year old, I couldn't even be bothered to go to the Manchester United cup tie, never mind any League games. Then I remembered going to see that 3-1 victory away at Manchester City in 1984-5. I remembered going to Exeter, seeing a 0-0 draw and thinking I'd had a pretty good day out. A 4-1 win away at Peterborough, a 3-0 win away at Preston. I remembered it all. And here it was about to end. I couldn't stand still. I looked at my shoes. I looked at the pitch. I looked across at my brother. He looked sick. I couldn't see my own face, but I know I looked sick, too. I looked at my shoes. My feet were moving about. I couldn't stand still. I kept looking at my stupid feet. My stupid shoes. Boots. My stupid boots. I couldn't tell what was happening on the pitch. I knew it was over. I couldn't stand still. I could not stand still. I wanted to do something but there was nothing to do. I kept looking at my stupid boots. My stupid feet that would not stay still.

Then we got the corner. I'd been glancing at my watch now and then, trying to time things. Even with that injury (to Graham Anthony?) making matters more confusing, I knew there could only be seconds left. I remember Jimmy Glass running away from me, running away from the Warwick where I was standing. I said out loud, to no one in particular, 'What's that idiot going up there for? It's stupid.' You see, there was no point. It was over. We'd only scored from one corner all season - away at Rotherham. I'd seen that goal, but we wouldn't get another goal from a corner. Besides, goalkeepers don't score. I hate it when they run up the pitch, full of themselves, foolishly seeking glory. Useless. A stupid gesture. And now all the time was gone.

And then he scored. Jimmy Glass scored. I howled. I cried out like I'd never cried out before. It was crazy. Being hugged by a stranger on the Warwick. He needed a shave. His breath smelled of beer. I don't think I'd ever been hugged by a stranger before, and I don't think I ever will again. But at that time, for a few unbelievable seconds, I cared so much that I'd have held on to anyone.

The pitch was cleared and the game was about to restart. I was trying to cope with everything, trying to understand it. Were we safe now? How safe were we? What if Plymouth scored? I felt scared all of a sudden. I asked Andrew how long he though was left. He told me there was no time at all. He told me to look at the stewards - they were holding on to the corner flags, ready to leg it for the tunnel. I couldn't see this. I couldn't see anything. But then I managed to focus on the middle of the pitch. And then the referee restarted the game.  And I swear that as he did so he was already running for the tunnel, blowing the final whistle as he neared the touchline. I don't know whether that's the way it looks on video, but that's the way it looked to me, and still looks today.

On to the pitch. Meeting Nick and Andy. Nick had a camera. He got some bloke to take our photo while we stood in the goal in which Jimmy scored. I've never seen the photograph. Maybe some day.

After the team had been out on the main stand, and things were winding down, I spotted some young lads ripping up chunks of turf. I'd done the same when I was a kid, but we only took tiny scraps. This lot looked like they were going to re-do the whole of their dad's lawn. I told them off. Always the teacher - that job takes over your life; it's awful. To my surprise they stopped and walked away.

I don't remember much about the drive home. I was on my own, though, and I wanted to talk to somebody. Anybody. When you've seen something out of the ordinary - out of the ordinary? what an understatement - you're desperate to share it, aren't you. In that car on my own for more than an hour - it was
very frustrating. Still, a few minutes after I got in, my mate Ian rang me. He said, 'What was it like, then?' After all the shouting at the match, my voice was gone and I sounded terrible. Despite this, I tried to describe it to him. But how could anyone really capture that day?

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