Sunderland qualified for Europe with a 2-1 win over Chelsea on Sunday afternoon...
You could smell the flares from the press room. That specific stench, the acrid smoke, transports you back to May of last year in an instant - the hope, the giddiness, the exhilarating blend of belief and disbelief.
On Sunday afternoon, 12 months to the day since they salvaged the seeming impossible at Wembley, Sunderland found themselves on the cusp of another momentous achievement. Nobody in their right mind would have had the Black Cats down as European qualification contenders at the beginning of the campaign; thirty-seven games later and here they were, just one win away from the continent.
Their supporters welcomed Regis Le Bris’ side to a pivotal showdown with Chelsea accordingly - streets lined bodies deep in red and white to greet the team coach and hordes more waiting at the Stadium of Light, every seat occupied well before kick-off, the Roker Roar as deafening as it has ever been. Opposite the Jimmy Montgomery Stand, two yellow feline eyes peered with optimistic menace as the heat simmered balmily. ‘Til the End, one more time.
Sunderland began brightly. Plenty of pressure, plenty of noise, an early corner gobbled up by Robert Sanchez. It would, however, be the visitors who registered the first shot of the afternoon - Cole Palmer’s tame effort beaten away by Robin Roefs. When Enzo Le Fée responded in kind moments later, the reaction from the home crowd was nothing short of cacophonous.
Back when the Black Cats beat Chelsea at Stamford Bridge last autumn, there was a hint of the smash-and-grab about their stoppage time triumph. It is a measure of how far they have come in the months since, how much they have developed as a serious top flight proposition, that the control they began to exert over the opening exchanges on Wearside felt wholly natural. It was Chelsea - two-time champions of Europe - who were largely pinned back in their own defensive third as their hosts fizzed and probed around them.
Half-chances came and went, nearly moments piling up like confetti around Chelsea’s six-yard box. The Blues were suffocating, slowly turning blue in the face as Sunderland squeezed and stifled.
And then, the breakthrough; a long ball forward, a Luke O’Nien flick, an opportunistic Trai Hume volley. Lift off on Wearside, provided by two men who have been there every step of the way - the unimaginable suddenly absurdly tangible.
Half-time, and down on the concourse the scores from elsewhere began to trickle through. Brighton were losing, Brentford drawing. The Mags were behind at Fulham to boot. Sunderland, with 45 minutes of the season left, were seventh.
Back out in the swelter, the action resumed. Almost immediately, Brian Brobbey should have made it two. The formidable Dutchman scampered through on goal, only for his shot to be bludgeoned straight at a grateful Sanchez. Opportunities rarely come so clearcut.
The disappointment would not last long, though. With space yawning before them, Sunderland came forward once more. Le Fée got to the byline, Brobbey scuffed his attempt again, but this time Malo Gusto was on hand to bundle it into his own net. The Roker End surged forward to such an extent that the advertising hoarding came tumbling down under their collective weight. Daylight.
And still the Black Cats insisted. Nilson Angulo went close to a third, O’Nien fired in a speculative shot from the angle, Chelsea grasped punch drunk for the ropes. The Stadium of Light was, in a word, rocking.
But football can be fickle. The away side, having produced little of note to that point, worked the ball to Palmer, who tried his luck from distance. Roefs, so sublime all season long, should have done better. 2-1, and the nerves began to jangle.
On came Wilson Isidor for Brobbey, Habib Diarra for Angulo too. The impact was instantaneous. Isidor span Wesley Fofana, the Chelsea defender wrestled him to the ground, and referee Chris Kavanagh reached for a second yellow; the visitors down to 10 with a little under half an hour left on the clock. How Sunderland didn’t score from the resulting free-kick is anybody’s guess - Nordi Mukiele, Isidor, and Diarra all agonisingly close in quick succession.
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Tetchier and tetchier it became. Chelsea fumed at every contentious call, Sunderland tried as they might to widen the advantage. Time ebbed away with glacial cruelty as every visiting advance was met with a fraught lull from the home support.
Up went the board, accompanied by an indignant groan. Ten minutes... An eternity. Sapped by the heat, the contest wore on sluggishly. A clash of heads between Mukiele and Levi Colwill and it ground to a halt again. Five minutes. Torture. Le Fée made way for the boy wonder, Chris Rigg. Sanchez shanked a diagonal out for a throw and it was celebrated like a goal. Two minutes. Mukiele tangled with Joao Pedro and earned a free-kick. Seconds, if that. Diarra, ever willing, won a corner. Added time on top of added time. Kavanagh checked his watch. Checked it again...
Full time. Sunderland in Europe. Not just Europe, the Europa League. All of the heartache and all of the doubt - the successive relegations, the League One doldrums, and the play-off devastations, the crying on Netflix and the constant jibes from that lot in black and white - all of it was leading us here. If only we knew.
Was it worth it? To soak up the dumbstruck joy as a graphic reading “EUROPE CONFIRMED” unfurled itself on the big screen above the Roker End, to well up and pinch yourself as yet another thunderous rendition of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” carried far off into a perfect blue sky, you can’t imagine wanting it happen any other way. Without those dark times, would any of this mean as much as it does? You suspect not.
And amongst it all, there it was again - the smell of flares, the plumes of red smoke wisping blissfully overhead. In an instant you are transported back to this time last year and the fortnight that changed everything. Except, from now on, whenever you come across that charring, unmistakeable scent, your memory might just bring you back to another moment instead: May 24th 2026, the day Sunderland made it to Europe.
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