The 2015/16 season was a pretty forgettable one before the 21st May. A League Cup final defeat against Ross County was followed by a painful 120 minutes of Scottish Cup semi-final against Dundee United, missing out on automatic promotion from the Championship and then crashing out at the Falkirk Stadium just days before our second cup final appearance of the season – here we go again.
As we headed for the train after another failed attempt at promotion there was a sense of dread going into the cup final that weekend. What a disaster of a season we could be about to witness.
On the morning of the final London Road was packed with Hibs fans hunting for theirbuses. We jumped into the corner shop at the top of Easter Road for a paper, the message was simple – ‘Make History Boys’ – and bottle of juice before being joined by the rest of our group and filing onto the bus.
Latecomers were cursed and night-before preparations were compared before we eventually made our way towards the M8.
Some fans had been up all night with nerves, others were trying to keep their mind off the football and focus on an enjoyable day trip with family and friends.
As we made our way to Glasgow for an early start in the pub, every seat accounted for on the bus, we were doing anything to keep our minds off the game.
Still recoiling from the last-minute sucker punch in Falkirk meant we weren’t yet over considering another year in the second tier before attentions turned to the cup final.
Cup final days are about so much more than the football, they are about face paint and days out with family and friends, thinking of relatives who have passed since the last time we made this journey and hoping to do them proud this time.
As a Hibs fan the football is normally the worst 90 minutes of the day.
Arrival at the pub saw everyone scuttle into the bar to secure tables for family and friends and as the drinks kept arriving the familiar feeling of ‘what if’ started to creep into the conversation.
Hibs cult hero Jimmy Boco was in amongst the fans at the pub next to Celtic Park, a queue for a picture and a quick chat doing wonders for the pre-match nerves.
At 2pm it was time to get back on the bus for the short journey to Hampden Park, with hundreds of pints sunk between us you’d expect the bus to be loud and excited – not a Hibs bus on Scottish Cup final day, we were shiting ourselves.
Off the bus and on the way up to the national stadium we said our goodbyes and filtered into our groups of threes and fours to head to the turnstiles.
Given the mad rush that comes with cup finals, the Scottish especially, we ended up in the crap seats a mile behind the goals.
Within three minutes we were 1-0 up in the game, Anthony Stokes kept running as the Rangers defence kept retreating. After initial celebrations came a feeling of trepidation that we’d scored too early – what a long 87 minutes lay ahead.
Anthony Stokes scored again and David Gray did the rest as Hibs lifted the cup after 114 years.
What came next will only ever be fully understood by the Hibs fans who were there that day. Anyone seeking to bad mouth the actions of the majority of fans on the pitch simply doesn’t get it.
The weight lifted off Hibernian shoulders as the final whistle blew will never be matched and the fans who flooded onto the pitch just wanted to make sure it was real, to feel a part of the greatest day in the club’s history.
As Sunshine on Leith belted over the Hampden tannoy grown men were reduced to tears while unfortunate youngsters were given the idea that as a Hibs fan it’s always like this.
After so many Hampden disappointments fans were reluctant to climb the stairs to the exits, savouring every last second of the day that a lot of us thought might never come.
Walking out of the stadium we were met with the sight of friends embracing and swapping ‘I don’t f***ing believe it’ expressions, with the sun beaming down on a perfect day.
During a quick pit stop in the Asda we were bypassed by a fan waving the corner flag like the marshal at the end of the Formula 1 as he rushed towards the already-emptied beer aisle. On a day as ridiculous as Hibs winning the cup this didn’t seem out of the ordinary.
Back on the bus people who never drink were clutching whatever bottle they could get their hands on at the shops. As we set off for Edinburgh it was increasingly clear we’d picked up more people on the way home that we brought with us – standing all the way home without a second thought, nothing else mattered.
The bus pulled up at the top of Easter Road and we jumped off to begin the celebrations.
As the driver continued his journey to the end of his shift, one of my mates ran alongside it in jubilation, banging the side of the coach as it headed down Easter Road.
With such excitement he was unaware of the notable sections of pavement which jut out at each junction and in slow motion he made contact with the concrete and landed flat on his face, only to rise again with the irremovable smile still plastered to his face.
As the drinks flowed in the pub and the landlord struggled to wash the glasses as quick as he was pouring them, we masterminded a system allowing the barman to kept refilling our used glasses to save him the job.
We headed outside as fans who’d been home after the game made their way to Easter Road to join in the party. Pensioners danced on bins and youngsters were given their first taste of alcohol as fans holding the now famous ‘Time For Heroes’ banner danced in the streets.
The night ended with a long walk to the West End at some time after the pubs shut, trying to get in to anywhere that would let us continue into the night.
We got rejections as far as the Gillie Dhu where we were eventually let in, scarves tucked into our jeans and jackets zipped to the top.
As we ordered the round we sat next to a group on a large table in the middle of the ground floor bar – only for them to reveal their own hints of emerald green successfully hidden beneath their layers.
Whatever happens in the rest of our days as Hibs fans, nothing will ever come close to that day in May.
Hampden on the 21st of May. What a feeling, what a day.
The East Stand 