PHWEEEEEEET!
The final whistle was not just a sound. It was an explosion. It was a release. It was the single, beautiful, piercing note that confirmed the impossible.
Michael Sterling shot out of his seat in the director's box, his arms thrown wide, a raw, primal, inarticulate roar tearing from his throat. He was jumping. He was screaming. He was an eighteen-year-old kid who had just watched his tiny, patched-together team of misfits and miracles walk into the fortress of the league leaders and win.
Down below, the blue-and-white ocean of 30,000 Sheffield Wednesday fans was a vast, stunned, silent sea of disbelief.
They were just sitting there, their mouths open, staring at the pitch, unable to process the 2-1 scoreline.
But in the far, high corner, the 3,000 Barnsley fans were a volcano of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. They were tumbling over the seats, hugging strangers, their voices a single, unified, deafening roar of "BARNSLEY! BARNSLEY!"
