In my later years I’ve become a seasoned crier – not just at football, but in the full, messy, human sprawl of life. Films, family moments, unexpected kindness, the odd existential wobble… they can all set me off. Sure, I’ve shed a tear or two at matches over the years, but I’m not the sort of bloke who dissolves into a puddle because a train is late at Derby. My emotional plumbing has standards.
But what happened after the 2025/26 EFL2 Playoff Final at Wembley was something else entirely. This wasn’t misty eyed sentimentality. This was a seismic, full body emotional event – a tidal wave that crashed through me with such force it left aftershocks rumbling for days. Even for a man who’s no stranger to a cathartic cry, this was different. And I needed to understand why.
Being a Notts County fan means living in a permanent state of emotional whiplash. Highs that scrape the heavens, lows that tunnel into the earth’s core. And as the season wound its way toward the playoffs – again – the familiar dread crept in.
Having to settle for the lottery of the playoffs after being there or thereabouts for automatic promotion felt like déjà vu wearing steel-toecap boots. Would this be another “Spursy” moment – as Notts County legend Mark Stallard would say – flattering to deceive, then folding under pressure like we did against AFC Wimbledon the previous season?
And then there was Chesterfield. Our nemesis. The team still haunted by the 2022/23 National League play off final under the famous arch. Facing them again in the semi-final felt like fate was having a giggle at my expense. Even the incredible result over the Spireites didn’t soothe the knot in my stomach.
Playoff finals don’t do calm. They offer only two doors: blinding light or dramatic darkness. No middle ground. No emotional seatbelt.
Then came Salford City – the Beckham blessed, Class of ’92 sprinkled, documentary ready franchise in waiting. The pundits were salivating. The narrative was written. The Ammies were supposed to rise; we were expected to applaud politely.
As a Reading based Notts season ticket holder who attends every game, home and away (bar holidays), and who is in need of separate psychological help, I’m usually bullish enough to predict a County win against Real Madrid. But this time? Nothing. I couldn’t tempt fate. I couldn’t jinx it.
When I bumped into Mark Stallard on Olympic Way, he asked how I was feeling. “I’d rather be at the dentist,” I said. He laughed – that deep, knowing, ex striker laugh – because he understood.
And then… Notts County produced the performance of the season. No – the performance of a generation. We didn’t just beat Salford. We undid them. We dismantled the hype, the headlines, the Beckham glossed destiny. 3–0 flattered them. At the final whistle, I recorded my vlog, buzzing, ready to party like a man half my age with twice my liver function.
But then I stepped outside of Wembley and something inside me cracked open. I cried. Not polite tears. Not misty eyed nostalgia. Visceral, shaking, limb heavy tears. My body ached. My legs turned to wet cardboard. The idea of celebrating evaporated like Salford’s dreams as their fans streamed out early. My emotional and physical systems were wrestling like two cage fighters on a sugar crash. I was spent. Utterly, cosmically spent.
So, what actually happened to me? Turns out, my body wasn’t just reacting to football. It was reacting to biology, evolution, and neurochemistry – the same forces that once helped cavemen survive sabre toothed tigers and now help Notts fans survive playoff finals.
Here’s the breakdown:
1. The Adrenaline Dump
For hours – days, even – my body had been pumping out adrenaline like a faulty tap. Adrenaline sharpens focus, tightens muscles, and raises heart rate. It’s your internal “brace yourself” alarm. When the final whistle blew, the threat vanished. My body hit the brakes. Hard. Cue: shaking, crying, exhaustion, jelly legs.
2. The Cortisol Crash
Cortisol is the stress hormone. Playoffs = cortisol buffet. When the danger passes, cortisol levels plummet. This sudden drop can cause:
• tears
• nausea
• fatigue
• emotional flooding
• the desire to lie down in a dark room with a cold flannel
3. Dopamine Overload
Dopamine is the reward chemical. It spikes when something good happens – especially something unexpected. A 3–0 Wembley win after years of heartbreak? That’s a dopamine tsunami. But dopamine is a diva. It gives you euphoria and then it leaves you empty, trembling, and wondering what just happened.
4. Limbic Release
The limbic system is the emotional command centre of the brain. It stores trauma, joy, fear, and memory – all the stuff football messes with. When something monumental happens, the limbic system can “uncork” years of stored emotion. Hence:
• crying
• shaking
• feeling like you’ve been hit by a bus
• observable trembling
• the sudden urge to hug strangers
5. The Underdog Effect
Humans are wired to root for underdogs. When the underdog wins, the brain releases oxytocin, the bonding hormone. It’s the same chemical released during childbirth and deep emotional connection. I wasn’t just celebrating a win. I was experiencing a tribal, evolutionary, deeply human moment of collective triumph.
6. Legacy Activation
Football isn’t just football for me. It’s memory. It’s family. It’s identity. When Notts won, every thread of my personal history tugged at once. My brain wasn’t reacting to 90 minutes plus additional time. It was reacting to a lifetime.
What happened to me wasn’t weakness. It wasn’t age. It wasn’t overreaction. It was biology meeting belonging. It was science meeting soul. It was Notts County meeting destiny. My body did exactly what bodies do when the heart has been carrying something heavy for a very long time and finally gets to put it down. As Bill Shankly once famously quipped, “Some people think football is a matter of life and death… I assure you, it’s much more serious than that.”
But, on reflection, it was the boss of the Class of ’92, Sir Alex Ferguson, who captured this moment exactly: “Football, bloody hell!”
In the end, it wasn’t tears of weakness but the weight of belonging finally finding its way out. Because, for some of us, it really is “County ’til I die!”
PS
To the Salford City fans: it hurts like hell, but football turns quickly. With any luck, your rise will coincide with a season when I’m not sunning myself abroad, so I can finally visit the Peninsula Stadium and edge closer to the 92 club (I’m 78% there).
© Ian Kirke 2026 & all photographs
@ iankirke.bsky.social
