IT is a rare thing, and quite a treat, to get to a game in a non-professional capacity for someone in my trade, and as a lifelong Motherwell fan, even rarer yet to get along to a cup final involving my team in any capacity.

That’s why the holiday sheet was put in for Sunday, as I trooped along to Hampden with my old man and my wee boy in the hope of sharing a moment of history for our local team.

The day started with a good omen, as the pumped-up kids of the Motherwell Community Trust swept aside all before them on the pitches of Ravenscraig, not far from where the famous blue cooling tower once stood, including a comprehensive victory over a side in green and white hoops.

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If the first-team were as hyped up as these six-year-old Steelmen, they might just pull off the seemingly impossible task that lay before them at the national stadium.

Motherwell’s last League Cup final in 2005 is all a bit of a blur to me, partly because I have tried to block out the sheer horror of the dismantling at the hands of Rangers, and partly because I started my build-up to the match around 7am.

A fair bit older, and arguably at least a little bit wiser these days, I held off until around lunchtime to have my first refreshment of the day on Sunday, along with the customary two rolls and square sausage that befit such an occasion. Most of the pals who accompanied me to Hampden 12 years ago, and again in 2011 for the Scottish Cup final against Celtic, arrived to start the build-up, but this time with their own excited kids draped in claret and amber in tow. And there was a fair bit of illogical optimism building as we made the two-minute walk to Fir Park to hop on one of around 30 supporters’ buses that carried a chunk of the 12,000 or so Motherwell fans, along with their hopes and dreams, on the short drive to Hampden.

Fevered discussions of line-ups, formations, the need for a strong referee (cough) and the desire simply to avoid a real pumping ensued, with the overriding hope being that this team that Stephen Robinson has forged in such short order would do us proud.

They already had of course, with the win over Ross County away with 10 men, as well as the dismantling of Aberdeen at Fir Park and the defeat of Rangers at Hampden that got them here, more than enough to swell the chest of any ‘Well fan. We needn’t have worried.

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Arriving at the ground and getting in amongst the fans was like attending a school reunion, as handshakes and hugs were exchanged with old friends, and faces you might only know from seeing them at games over the years greeted like long-lost brothers nonetheless. Nerves, excitement, trepidation, it all hung thick in the air, as thoughts inevitably turned to those no longer with us to share in such events.

Perhaps it was someone who was with you at Hampden in 1991, like my dear old Papa. Or maybe it was an old pal that traipsed to Bayview with you on a freezing cold weeknight only to see us getting dumped out of this tournament on penalties to East Fife, or huddled with you on the wind-swept terrace of Gayfield only for the tie to get abandoned as waves sprayed over the leaky corrugated iron of the enclosure. All of the experiences you endure that make days like Sunday so special, and feeling somehow that the dearly departed haven’t been robbed of this reward, their presence drawing close as the green expanse of Hampden opens up before you.

Of course, the absence of one person in particular was keenly felt by all in attendance, and the heart warmed as the crowd rose as one to acclaim Phil O’Donnell as the 10th anniversary, unbelievably, of his tragic passing approaches.

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There were no such niceties on the field of course, with hearts in Motherwell mouths as Cedric Kipre crunched into Moussa Dembele early doors, and then outrage from the same supporters as the Celtic forward dished out similar treatment to Carl McHugh. To paraphrase Simon and Garfunkel, a fan truly sees what he wants to see, and disregards the rest.

At half-time, with Motherwell’s stoicism and Robinson’s gameplan stifling Celtic’s creativity and the score remaining goalless, the illogical hope had grown into a rather ridiculous certainty that this was our year.

Alas, it wasn’t to be. A game that had been bubbling into an exciting end-to-end contest after James Forrest’s opener was killed stone dead as Scott Sinclair hit the deck and referee Craig Thomson pointed to the spot, before flashing a red card in Kipre’s direction.

The atmosphere among the Motherwell support went as flat as the warm celebratory lager I had stashed on the bus for the journey home, just in case. But only momentarily.

Long before the final whistle, the claret and amber mass behind the west goal at Hampden had found its voice again, and the players who gave everything for the cause could be left in no doubt that their efforts were appreciated.

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Now, I am not one of those supporters of a provincial team who thinks such successes don’t mean a lot to fans of the bigger teams. I have enough close friends and family that follow Celtic to know that a fourth trophy on the spin for Brendan Rodgers was a big deal.

But as I watched the relatively muted celebrations, and saw Celtic fans drift into the chippies of Mount Florida on their way up the road, I couldn’t help but be struck by the routine nature of it all, and what the contrasting scenes might have been had Motherwell triumphed. I may not have been seen for a week.

So well done Celtic, as an ultimately deserved win kept the ‘Invincibles’ juggernaut rolling. Motherwell may never again get to a final in my lifetime, let alone win another trophy. But you know what? The thought occurred as 12,000 fans stood as one to hail their defeated heroes; I wouldn’t swap it for the world.