It has been 70 years since the club last won a domestic trophy and the release of ecstasy that has filtered through the city and surrounding towns in the two weeks since the club’s Carabao Cup win has been bewildering, emotional, and still hasn’t quite sunk in.
I was one of the hundreds of thousands who made the pilgrimage to the city centre to see the trophy paraded on an open-top bus.
It is almost beyond words what this club has put me through in the 20-plus years I have followed them. But all of a sudden, there was clarity to the heartbreak of relegation; there was purpose in my favourites departing long before their time; there was a calm among the craziness of the thousands.
(Image: Owen Humphreys) Each person, all with their own stories and history with this club. Each person, there for one singular purpose. We had won. For the first time in my life, we had won.
Scenes at St James’ were almost biblical as crowds upon crowds were illuminated by sunlight breaking through the alleyways of nearby high-rises.
(Image: The Northern Echo) The glistening rays danced on black and white stripes until they were cancelled out by rising plumes of smoke.
One black flare, and one white.
It was party time.
Chants were sung, beers were shared among friends, children sat atop their parents’ shoulders.
(Image: The Northern Echo) Lampposts were climbed. People who had climbed lampposts were climbed themselves.
Everyone wanted the optimal view of Eddie Howe’s immortal Mags.
(Image: The Northern Echo) And as the bus approached a guttural roar sprang forth. It was glorious, tinged with the pains of a collective who had known no success. This was our time. This was our moment.
Players blurred into one as the buses crawled down the road with the smallest glint of a sliver of silverware against the black bus sticking out.
It was hard not to think of those impressive words from the late and great Sir Bobby Robson on what a football club actually is.
“It’s the noise, the passion, the feeling of belonging, the pride in your city.
“It’s a small boy clambering up stadium steps for the very first time, gripping his father’s hand, gawping at that hallowed stretch of turf beneath him and, without being able to do a thing about it, falling in love.”
And, clambering up the steps of the stadium myself, I was at once a child again.
I had fallen in love all over again.
And the pain had been worth it.
(Image: The Northern Echo) The rest of the day at the Town Moor provided some fantastic moments.
It was all the better for not featuring club chairman Yasir Al-Rumayyan, who had taken centre stage at Wembley and left a sour taste by lifting the trophy ahead of some players. It was, and is, something many fans will be grappling with.
(Image: The Northern Echo) On the stage though, there were brilliant times. Alan Shearer basically admitting he had partied for the last two weeks, Ant and Dec’s giddiness at being up on stage with the team, and then Bruno Guimaraes being, well, Bruno.
There may well be some Ofcom complaints from certain Wearside postcodes as a result of Bruno’s antics on stage, but these were players who understood they were living legends.
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I just hope it won’t take as long as it has for Bob Moncur to see another trophy lifted by a Newcastle captain, otherwise Bruno will be 83 and still singing about Sandro Tonali eating spaghetti.
Something tells me this is just the start, though.
And I am ready for the emotions of the journey.