True love

They say that sometimes what happens in life can take a while to sink in. I've considered that myself several times over the latter half of the season, with fans of many clubs talking to me about Leicester City, saying things like "You must be in dreamland right now" and "Do you think they can actually do it?". For the most part I've brushed such words off quite calmly, shrugging my shoulders like it's not really that big a deal - after all, I've enjoyed watching Leicester winning and leading a title push before; you go to the stadium, you see them win, you get a takeaway and come home happy. So what's really new? (The new bit is the fact it's the Premier League, yet somehow this gets lost.) I thought I might have had my day of revelation on that magnificent day against Everton, or the trophy parade yet, while I enjoyed both immensely, perhaps it still hadn't really sunk in.

Today however, just before the Wales match, I visited the mural around the back of Marks Electrical and had a couple of pictures taken. I wish I could find useful words to describe this, but let me just say for those who haven't been there: Go. It is outstanding, not just as a piece of artwork but as a lasting memorial to the miraculous season just passed. 12 players and the manager have been immortalised, and Wes Morgan in particular must be delighted with the outcome. The men are lined up like titans, almost deities, and I found myself simply standing there and both admiring them and reflecting upon their achievements for an inordinate amount of time.

After this, I watched Wales play Slovakia. This was a team that was not so dissimilar to us - the underdogs, the unfancied, a team of battlers fighting so that one or two star players could do the job at the other end of the pitch. It was a compelling watch, seeing these heroes fighting for every ball against a team who looked like they'd been plucked from a Slovakian prison a few weeks prior. I was excited when Bale scored, despite my vocal condemnation of the goalkeeping. I was gutted when Slovakia equalised. I was delighted when Robson-Kanu scuffed home from 12 or so yards after Wales had rode the storm. I found myself genuinely proud and happy for them. It was like the spirit of Leicester lived again.

Following this, I watched England. Yes, they were well on top in the first half, except they soiled themselves every time they got in the 18 yard box. The commentators and pundits were unanimous: England had been brilliant, they just hadn't scored. No they haven't, I thought, /they haven't scored/. They've been pretty, granted, but they didn't fight hard in the second half, bagged a goal through probably our most interested player from a free kick that shouldn't have been awarded in the first place, then crumbled right at the death to concede a rubbish goal to a frankly rubbish team. I didn't stay to check the after-match analysis but I can only imagine it contained more fawning over players like Sterling and Lallana who contributed very little in practical terms and more stating of the obvious over defensive fragility.

My mind turned to the Leicester team the season just gone. That back line would have rather died than concede that late goal. Mahrez and Albrighton wouldn't have paused, looked up, paused, scratched themselves then passed back the full back when they had space in front of them. Vardy, Okazaki, Kante and Drinkwater would have run to hell and back to keep up the pressure on their opponents, not just let them free in the second half. Only Dier and the full backs looked anything like what I want to cheer from my national team. (Thanks Tottenham.) Perhaps most damning of all: I found myself actually apathetic about the late goal. Late goals are supposed to be devastating; instead it barely even registered in my mind. It was like watching Portugal concede a late goal against Turkey, or whoever. It didn't matter. I don't remembering ever feeling like that about England before, even in friendlies. It should have ruined my day, but it didn't. Rather, I ended the day pondering whether I had any Welsh ancestry I could call upon for future rounds.

But all in all, everything together might have made me finally realise what's happened at Leicester, this band of misfits nurtured by Pearson and brought on masterfully by Ranieri to achieve the impossible. These men who had all fought to the death for each other, to claim glory for each other. This is what it means to love a team, and to love their story.