Reflections. I go way back. 1965 Baseball Ground my first ever match, Cardiff City the visitors.
A grey and black programme on cheap sepia coloured paper and that was when it was new. I was Eight, we won 1-0 if my memory doesn't fail me, a young Ron Webster playing in midfield scored, I think.
I do remember my first hero, a mass of fairish hair, not the biggest but he stood head and shoulders for me over the others, Alan Durban was his name.
I was hooked. Just there, just then.
Over the years, good times and bad.
Two Titles, beating Chelsea 3-1 after being a goal down in the Football League Cup, Dave MacKay scoring a cracker, the European Nights, the fun of the Division Three days; all these good times and many more.
Even the bad days, under Docherty, when playing crib in the front room of the Vine had more appeal — leaving it late to sprint to the ground, five or six pints of Bass sloshing in your stomach as you ran — you were never sick just more staggered by the continual ripping apart of a great team.
The Colin Murphy wandering lonely as a cloud years, incomprehensible in writing and on the pitch — what were we doing. But a least Murphy was an honest bumbler.
Watching Heroes manage, some better than others Roy McFarland, Colin Todd, John Gregory. Some better than others is perhaps an understatement.
Through thick and thin I was there, stronger than a marriage. From the stuck in the mud days, the days on the beach when the BBG resembled Skeggy with the tide out, to the green and pleasant land of Pride Park now the iPro.
Every game in our "Worst Team In History Season” we applauded every goal, ours and theirs longer than the opposition too. Gallows Humour got us through "Let's Pretend We've Scored A Goal”.
The days when you don't let the 90 minutes in the middle spoil the day. They have been frequent.
Will I always be there? I'd love to answer yes but I have a problem.
I have a confession.
For the first time, yesterday I didn't really care anymore.
Yes we started brightly. Yes we had the ball in the back of the net within seconds of the kickoff, a fluttering flag denying the goal.
Yes our new boys looked sharp, Ikechi Anya added pace and uncertainty, Matej Vydra some nice touches, James Wilson less so. Yes we had some penalty claims turned down.
But then.
Then Newcastle scored, a corner, poor defending, turning your back on the ball, a cracking volley by Yoan Gouffran, under the keeper, through the man on the line, a great goal.
But it's how you react isn't it?
We needed to up our game; we needed to get back into the game. We didn't, the Toon killed the game, they kept possession, we chased of a fashion. That fashion isn't today's we let them play, we never got close.
In Sels, the Geordies have a goalkeeper who couldn't even hold warm up shots from the coach, anybody watching that, anybody doing their homework would tell their team to "shoot, shoot, shoot and follow the rebound up”.
It was late in the second half before we had our first serious shot and the keeper indeed showed his failings by fisting the ball awkwardly. We didn't capitalise on a basic weakness.
We deserved to lose, the second goal down to taking a central defender off and bringing a forward on, a brave but ultimately pointless move.
Back tracking slightly. Our response to going behind was for players to hide, for players not to make the runs so vital for successful football, for players not to look for the ball, to let others do the work.
It's not every player, some Keogh, Christie, Bryson, Olsson gave their all but others didn't.
In short we didn't play for each other, for the team, for the fans.
And when a significant proportion of those selected don't care then why should I?
No matter that the football isn't great, that the style is one dimensional, that we create little. I'm old enough to have seen all that, got over it and carried on.
Yesterday, the feeling was the players collectively didn't care, enough.
And if they don't care, why should I?
Heartbreaking really!