Living in the UK, obviously football (soccer) is pretty hard to avoid and since I was about 7 I've supported Nottingham Forest, they're not my local team by any stretch but are based on from where my dad's side of my family are from (and for some reason my dad obviously beat my mum off when it came to influencing what team I called my own). I'm going to assume that 90% of the people reading this have no idea who they are, so here's a brief introduction.

"We were good, once". In 1979 and 1980 we won the European Cup (what is now the Champions' League), unfortunately I was minus 7 and minus 6 years old respectively this happened, so for me being a Forest supporter has been like being trapped on the train lines in a car with locked doors with the 14:23 express coimng through in a few minutes. The carnage and horror was almost inevitable but I couldn't get out, nor did I want to. Following a lower league team is masses more fun than following the Manchester Uniteds and Chelseas when it goes right, but probably hurts more when it goes wrong.

However, this weekend someone left the doors open, we could actually get promoted, albeit back to the second teir of the English leagues. I was convinced to go to the match by a friend who told me that if I didn't go and by some fluke we managed to get promotion I would regret. Some drinks later I agreed.

So we went. The jist of the day was we needed a better result than the team above us. We were 1-0 up inside 15 mins, the stress was off, we'd got the ball rolling, and my early nervousness had gone and the path to the lost voice had begun. We were 2-0 up soon enough, this is going pretty well, I might actually be able to enjoy this rather than quietly bricking it for the duration. 2-1 Uh-oh, not that I actually saw the goal as the stewards were trying to direct the disabled wheelchair using fans the way that you'd expect your trans-atlantic flight to be brought in to an airport. The bricking it was back. 3-1 one, nice goal, no more bricking it, back to the assorted shouting (the idea that soccer fans (probably the same for any sports fans in the world) 'sing' is ridiculous, one person may be singing, but the 28,000 others are more than tuneless enough to drown them out).

The score from the other important matches comes through. A strange disembodied cheer echoes round the ground. Nothing's happening yet the roar comes round three sides of the stadium like an aural Mexican Wave. The team above us are losing. We're on course. The shouting gets louder, the throat gets worse.

Half-time. Still bricking it a bit so spend the whole time standing up offering faux prayers to some sort of sporting lord, as every other Forest team - the Under 19's, reserves, Womens' side do their respective laps of honour.

And we're off again. We're not playing well by any stretch of the imagination. But we're playing well enough. Just. A lot of the half disappears into a stress filled haze. Watching the match infront of you, wondering whether any of the strange cheers and reactions from the other side of the ground are for goals in the other important matches. Nothing comes up on the scoreboards, we're safe so far. Oh Shit. Doncaster, the team above us who we need to better the result of have scored an equaliser. One more goal for them and we could score 80 and it would matter. More Shit. 3-2. Squeaky Bum Time.

According to my friend for a while I go very quiet at this point. The chants start up then peter out as chewed nails stop words from being formed correctly. My mind runs through every one of the possible scenarios and what they would mean, and what the reactions would be of the 28,000 other around me. The Police are also thinking the same thing, hoards emerge and ring the pitch, some oddly tying themselves to the advertising hoardings, like flourescent jacketed protesters.

Another oddly timed reaction. I look right to the guy with the mini-radio and earphones, he's cheering, and it's spreading. It's good? It's good. Doncaster have conceded again. More policemen emerge from heck-knows-where, some smiling so broadly you wonder if they're going join the pitch invasion they're gathering to try and stop.

Inside of 10 minutes to go. More faux prayers, more short lived chants, more bricking it. 3 minutes of injury time. 3 minutes more of all the above plus repeating 'blow the bloody whistle' over and over. And he does. Chaos. Joy. Noise. Joy. Hoards of fans dodge the policemen to make to the pitch some are rugby tacked to the ground, some rush forward in hoards figuring that some of them will make it through. Me personally, I didn't like the thought of the air holes the police dogs could give my ankle. The "singing" is louder than ever, the wieght lifted from collective shoulders. Promoted to the Championship. Get In!

Spent Sunday at The match between Sheffield Wednesday and Norwich. This is what we've earn't trips to 'big' teams and famous stadiums, although to be honest Hillsborough is in need of some TLC.

I'm still growling through a sore throat and the Forest shirt I'm the proud owner of is set to become part of my molecular structure until it smells so badly I can't bear it anymore.

This weekend is what sport is about. Why millions of people follow teams and players in dozens of sports. The kind of joy I had on Satuday. Roll on August.

Blame Dave_In_Indy for the title.....