It’s 11.2 miles between Wembley and the Lane.

Some people took the Tube. Some took buses. A number of fans walked. It’s really not that far.

Wait. Let’s go back.

The entire block of Wimbledon supporters stayed for almost two hours after the final whistle. They saw everything. The team collapsing with relief in a giant pile. Their now-famous strike tandem kissing in the center circle (an iconic Time Magazine image for certain). The walk up to the Royal Box. Bald John Green receiving the Cup from the Duke of Cambridge and lifting it in triumph. It was almost too much.

Eventually the stewards kick you out. That’s when everyone started heading south.

No one person decided to have everyone go back to the Lane. We all just came to the same realization, independently. No one wanted to go home. Or maybe home was precisely where we wanted to be.

Soon before they ran out of champagne the team heard that everyone was heading back to the grounds. They felt it too. They started getting dressed.

The people who work for the club are also fans. And owners. As soon as enough people on payroll showed up, the gates were let open. The floodlights were switched on. Everyone just filtered in. No big party or ruckus. It was where we needed to be.

Hetty Jenkins made it, finally. She started hugging everyone she could. Like an act of devotion. As she moved from one friend to the next she reached into her bag and grabbed handfuls of glitter to throw into the air. She was laughing. We were laughing. There weren’t words anymore.

A love so deep you don’t know what to do with your hands.

More and more and more people came. It wasn’t just the diehards and Supporters Trust members now. There was a call that went out that was deeper than that. If you felt it, and showed up, it was proof enough that you belonged.

We stood around for hours. Laughing. Crying. Singing.

The singing took a while to warm up, but then it hit a stride and soon it was a massive choir.

If you were there that night, it’s because you were meant to be there. Like the club itself, like Wimbledon FC before it.

We all came home the long way ‘round.

It was almost ten o’clock when the team arrived. They parked the bus outside and walked through the gates and onto the pitch. The crowd cheered as they cleared a path to the center. There was no stage, no air blowers shooting confetti. It was just us. Together.

The team moved as a giant organism through the crowd, linking hands and arms. None of them wanted to let go of each other. Summer and the business of football and the realities of life in League One would soon pull them in different directions, but tonight was tonight and no one wanted to let go.

And they sang with us. The songs we sang for them all season.

Someone switched on the public address and brought out a wireless mic to the team. The manager took it first. He was wearing his tie as a karate headband. He babbled something about some infinities being larger than other infinities. No one understood, but it sounded nice, and it sounded right enough.

Bald John Green took the microphone next.

“It’s one of those things,” he said. “No one tells you what it really feels like. I wish I could’ve taken you all up the stairs with me. When I was in college a friend told me that life isn’t defined by the outstanding and dramatic moments but by the spaces in between. And maybe she was right. But space is big. It has to include the big moments too. And I know that football is just a shout into the void and that oblivion is inevitable, but right now, right now, we’re here. I have all of you, and this team, and this Cup, and most importantly I have you, John.”

He started crying. His husband grabbed him. You probably grabbed on to someone nearby too. After a few seconds he composed himself and took the mic one last time. His voice wobbled just enough so you’d know he was telling the truth.

“This… this field of grass… in the beating heart of South London… THIS is the place where dreams come true… THIS is the place where anything is possible.”

And we stayed out on the pitch all through the night, singing.