Now as the dreary, cloud-filled sky above closed ranks with the dancing Angelenos in the corner, I realized that I couldn’t stand this absurdly painful cabaret anymore. Don’t mistake me; there was never a thought of leaving, for that would violate one of the primary tenets of the Fan Code I hold dear: you never leave your club out to dry, even if they are getting smashed to holy hell by twenty goals. But I was prepared to accept the inevitable and launch an emotional boycott of the whole affair. “Win or lose, we’ll always be here for you” was the noble sentiment, a true one in fact, but my grim witness was the tragic reality.

A whistle pierced the funereal atmosphere and the haze in my soul. With sudden clarity I saw three Quakes surrounding the resting ball, and one let fly with a wicked shot from the depths of defiance, so precise in its intention that there was only a statue where the Galaxy keeper should have been. 2-1. 4-1. Jeff Agoos had raised hope from the dead and cast a spell on the audience. Suddenly, the crowd was mesmerized by every tackle, pass, and shot. Objectively, three goals should still be an insurmountable lead, but the path to victory now was spread out before me on the field. All we needed was one more before halftime.

And the Quakes knew it as well as I did, lightning energizing their every effort. And then that lightning struck twice, Mulrooney’s lofted ball meeting the path of the superhuman stride of Jamil Walker. So it seemed at the time, Walker’s timing so perfect and his speed so sublime that the Galaxy defense was left in another time zone. This was it. My breath snagged on the claws of despair as Hartman’s desperate effort deflected the ball from Jamil’s feet…right to Donovan’s feet. The Galaxy defense had somehow managed to catch up just in time to make things interesting. A foot race ensued. The angle was closing on the open goal. The window for magic was shutting before my very eyes. But our very own magician judged the angle perfectly and slotted it home. 2-2. 4-2.

Another whistle pierced the night, this one to begin the second half. This one to call the team to their destiny. Again I read the plan. We needed a quick goal to keep the momentum going. Within five minutes, Mulrooney sends forth a cross from a free kick; Walker rises from the crowd, spurned higher by the necessity of this, his moment. 2-3. 4-3. Each goal celebration had gotten wilder, as each one brought us a little closer to ultimate elation. Now we were so close, one goal away from sending this series into overtime. Victory teased over my tongue.

The forty minutes left on the clock seemed a sure bet. I kept looking behind each pass, each play, each shot, expecting to find the equalizer there. But I found only frustration, and a mounting sense of dread. To come this far only to falter and fail would be the height of heartbreak. It just couldn’t be. When the Galaxy came deathly close to scoring, that dread found voice. Who was I kidding? Life could definitely be that cruel. The game clock seemed to be gaining speed, breezing through the 60’s, flying through the 70s, the attempts of the Quakes becoming more and more desperate. We were all caught in a historic moment alright, but not the one I wanted it to be. This was the Greatest Comeback That Almost Was. I blinked at the clock in disbelief. The 90th minute. Game. Set. Match…

Mulrooney holds up the ball, shielding it against the Galaxy defender and the inevitable. Then with a sudden change of direction and burst of speed, he is off down the by-line. Tightly marked. Goal line near. The cross is off. It floats. And floats. And floats. And… From the crowd comes one. Innocuous. No Quake legend. No media-drenched superstar. It is the blonde head of Chris Roner, one member of a team, taking his turn to seize the moment for them all, for us all that sends the ball flying. The bottom corner of the net billows. 2-4. 4-4.

There has been no other moment in my life quite like it. I remember dancing around on the wooden bench, then turning around and hugging a complete stranger. And I wasn’t the only one. Strangers united only by a love of the Quakes were hugging, high-fiving, and jumping up and down uncontrollably. I have the feeling that those who were die-hard fans were obviously ecstatic, but those who had entered as only casual observers and supporters had been helplessly swept up as the game went on until their hearts could only sing one song: Greatest Comeback Ever.

But the deed wasn’t quite done yet. Overtime beckoned. Again, the creeping doubt found voice as the first half of extra time began. What if we had come this far, placed one hand on the pinnacle of glory, only to tumble into the abyss below? But it was the doubt that couldn’t get a firm grip, not this time. I believed. The Galaxy came at us hard with all their tired legs could muster, not willing to simply submit and be the stooges of fate. Still, I believed. Our tired captain and the one who had started this epic comeback could barely walk, let alone play. We believed.

Watching the replay later, it happened in a flash. But at the time, it was all slow-motion in the most beautifully clichéd way. A seemingly typical through ball found the feet of substitute Rodrigo Faria. With a decisive burst, he sped through the exhausted L.A. defense. The clouds above held their breath. Faria sent the ball home past the outstretched arms of Kevin Hartman. As we all danced and cheered harder than ever before, the sky exhaled and the promised rain finally descended upon us. 2-5. 4-5. The most amazing thing to me now when I think back on that game was that it wasn’t fate. For that matter, it wasn’t a Galaxy team choking under pressure and blowing what should’ve been a sure victory. It was a team making the miraculous happen against all odds, and us, the fans, sharing in a collective moment of magic.

A week later, I was startled awake by what I thought was a loud explosion. Everything seemed frightening and foreboding in the gloomy dark of my room, and when a bright flash lit up the sky my fears seemed to be confirmed. Surely, a bomb had been set off or a nuke dropped and I was soon to meet a fiery death. I leaped up from my bed and all I could think about was the fact that I would never know how the Conference Finals against the Kansas City Wizards turned out. I would never know if the Quakes pulled it all off and won the cup. Fortunately, the sound of driving rain filled my ears in the next moment. It was just a thunderstorm.

I had been a fan before, a supporter with an obsession growing greater with every game. But now there was no doubt. This club of mine had been driven deep into my soul. Such commitments are sacred, such love is pure, and such passion is elemental.