Brentford Football Club are my poison of choice. The Bees, a cornerstone of the local community, pride themselves on being a family club — one that punches above its weight but doesn't weigh a lot to begin with, which has given rise to its self-spun moniker "the Barcelona of the lower leagues".

Long lovable doormats, and one of the last remaining properly fan-owned clubs in the professional football pyramid, Brentford have undergone a bit of a cultural shift in the past two years. The club's shareholding masses (of which I was a member) agreed to relinquish control to a committed benefactor whose sights are set on transforming the Bees into a more prominent piece of the London football jigsaw.

Plans for a new stadium were drawn up, the wage bill was increased and, most importantly, a new manager was hired: One Uwe Rösler, a bald, brawny, disciplined, and yet remarkably silly — by any standards, but especially by those for a former East German international — tactician who has created a squad with mettle, guile and something rarely seen at Griffin Park: lots of talent.

The Bees have morphed from a club settling for mid-table mediocrity in League One into one pushing doggedly for promotion and scaring teams not only in our division, but much higher up the ladder — like Chelsea, who we were minutes away from beating in this year's FA Cup.

Saturday, though, was much more important than Chelsea. On Saturday we could have won automatic promotion to the Championship. The stage was set in Disney sports movie-like terms. Brentford versus Doncaster. Win and we go up. Lose or draw and we have to enter the play-offs and Doncaster would replace us as the team automatically promoted. All to play for; simple as that.

The game started brightly enough. We registered the first major chance of the match within minutes as Bradley Wright-Phillips – yes, half-brother of Shaun and son of Arsenal legend Ian Wright – flew into the area and dragged a left-footed effort across the face of goal, bruising the base of the right upright. From there, the game ebbed and flowed mostly in Doncaster's half, but dangerous chances were few and far between.

As the half-time whistle was blown, Brentford were much the better side, but the nerves were showing both on the pitch and in the stands, where the longest ever queue for the toilet had formed. In danger of missing the beginning of the second half, I jumped out of the line and back into my seat, risking potential disaster with a bladder full of Ribena and a heart stuffed with boyish dreams.

Then, came… well, nothing. Not a single real chance for either side during the next 45 minutes. A lot of horrible, clumsy challenges, some abysmal classic lower-division long-ball, and a ton of time wasting from Neil Sullivan, Doncaster's 43-year-old goalkeeper who once stood between the sticks at Stamford Bridge and White Hart Lane.

Hopes were waning, fears were slowly solidifying into concrete blocks of reality and heads dropped in tune with spirits as the Bees faithful reckoned that we would once again fall short – once again come so close, but not far enough, as we had done so many times before, including this year against Chelsea. Heartbreak was our middle name and glorious failure was our game.

Then, in the fifth minute of stoppage time, we were awarded a penalty. As if we've already won promotion, the crowd erupted. Grown men in silly red-and-white striped shirts lost their shit. I had an awkward moment with a teenage boy next to me. We were not quite sure whether or not to hug, so we just sort of grabbed each other's arms and yelled really loudly.

Up stepped Kevin O'Connor, the club's captain and longest-serving active player by a country mile — a fairytale ending to this season that wouldn't pass an intern's desk in Hollywood because of the "cheese factor".

But, as "King Kev" approached the ball, he found it already in the hands of Marcello Trotta, an on-loan striker from local rivals (in the loosest sense) Fulham. As O'Connor pleaded for the ball — and the crowd with him — it became clear that he was not going to get it. And, at this point I knew we had lost.

I cannot explain the feeling, but I knew this wasn't going to end well. Trotta has scored some big goals since arriving at Brentford, but his poor discipline and work rate have not gone unnoticed. The 20-year-old Italian has starkly stood apart from the side Rösler has put together, which has succeeded more than anything because of an unflappable "one for all" mentality. But, Trotta ended up with the ball. He placed it on the spot. Stepped back. Ran up. And the rest is history.

As the ball crashed against the bar, and Doncaster clear their lines in the ensuing scramble, Billy Paynter astutely situated himself into a cherry-picking position that is rarely seen outside of elementary school blacktop basketball courts. Standing at the halfway line ready for the clearance, Paynter had the entire field in front of him. As Brentford players sink to their knees, shirts pulled over their heads, tears in their eyes, backs on the Griffin Park turf, Paynter raced down the wing, slotted the ball across the face of goal to James Coppinger who scored in an empty net in front of jubilant, flare-wielding Donny fans in the double-decker away end.

1-0 Doncaster. Not only are they promoted, but that goal makes them league champions after results elsewhere go their way. From ultimate high to ultimate low for one side; from ultimate low to ultimate high for another. And that is football.

The moment was heartbreaking. Even more heartbreaking, though, were the reactions of fans around me who had been following the team for decades. Not shock, not disbelief, just horror in resignation. Yet again the bubble had burst at the final hurdle. All day there had been anxiety that disappointment would yet again fall upon the Brentford faithful. And it did, in the cruelest of ways.

The older woman next to me was in tears. I had to get up and leave as the final whistle sounded and incensed Brentford supporters rushed the pitch, hurtling themselves on to the field without seemingly having a logical reason for doing so. It's that horrible moment where everyone cares so much about something that they stop actually caring about themselves and what they're doing. It became depressing and hooligany, so I left.

Not long after exiting the stadium – in a particularly meditative state that only comes during a long walk back to the train with a cheeseburger in hand – I realised this was about more than just heartbreak.

This was a profoundly resonant example of the circularity and remarkable nature of football. I am disappointed at the outcome, yes, but this is why we go to football in the first place. This sport has been described, at its most entertaining, as theatre – but it's better than that.

It is an unpredictable, emotionally taxing, life-affirming event that one experiences in the company of others, both friends and strangers alike, which bonds its captive audience with an energy that vibrates the soul. Some might call that ridiculous or hyperbolic, but those people have never seen their team throw it all away in the last minute of a season, or win the title on the final roll of the dice.

So, as I hopped back on the Piccadilly Line for the long journey home, somewhere in my somberness was a small, quiet rejoice. Because I knew that no matter how old I get or how many games I see, this game will always surprise and always amaze. It will never ever stop being special. It will never get old.

As we headed for the tunnel near Hammersmith, I wondered if my stomach ache had been caused by the emotional weight of the football, when, in fact, I knew it was very likely induced by the questionable hamburger meat. But it doesn't really matter; we've grown used to aches. They're part of the rich fabric of life when you're a football fan. And so are the smiles. Plus, we still have the play-offs.

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