Just a two short weeks ago the fat lady was waddling on stage and quietly warming up her vocal chords.
The game was looking all but up for Wednesday’s heroic automatic promotion bid under Dave Jones after we drifted four points behind the grunters with just three to play.
Then to many people’s surprise, not least our own, the optimistic predictions we made before the Carlisle game came true, which rather makes us wish we’d had the conviction to put some cash on it.
Not that last week’s games were plain sailing. The nerve jangling nature of our game was bad enough, but watching the final five minutes of the United/Stevenage clash was the football supporting equivalent of dangling your scrotum into a box of highly-strung wolverines: suspenseful, hazardous, and afterwards you wonder if it was all really worthwhile.
But that monumental pair of results flings us into Saturday’s curtain closer to this epic season as the bookie’s favourites to clamber out of league one at the expense of our porcular rivals.
Our opponents Wycombe are already down and are bringing next to zero fans, so cue 37,000 plus Owls filling all four sides of the old lady with a menagerie of inflatable’s, toilet rolls, flares, Milan masks, Liera head guards and other celebratory paraphernalia.
And this week has dragged like a Songs of Praise triple bill, because Wednesdayites everywhere are looking forward to what will, almost certainly, be one of the best days out in the past 20 years. A win and we are promoted back to the Championship.
But there is this, dark, evil, sniggering voice lurking at the bottom of our minds, the same one that keeps telling us that sniffing bicycle seats is a great idea, whispering that we may just mess it all up and head for the sphincter-tightening agony of the play-offs.
But surely bottling it is the Blades forte?
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