Roger Moore scores: history awaits

But he's wrong, of course, and he knows it. Winning the FA Cup was a triumph, a little provincial club toppling European champions and no mistake.

The runner's up berth in 2003 paved the way for a potential European campaign, albeit subsequently short-lived. And the run of relegation-dodging in the late 90s preserved our Premiership status at a time when few considered it possible.

Redefining a club

But none of these games compares with the magnitude of that end-of-season thriller last Sunday. And now there are two (hopefully three) games which could simply redefine our football club, without a hint of melodrama, as the future of the game seems more polarised than ever between the haves and the have nothing-by-comparisons.

Yes, we could continue to ply our trade in this modest but highly entertaining division. There are those who might even welcome such an outcome; I can honestly say that I have enjoyed few seasons supporting more than this one.

And, nor would failure to reach the Premiership necessarily spell financial disaster with a possible take-over looming? But if chances were measured on the Richter scale, this one is rocking the china from Kent to Katmandu and it brings a tsunami of opportunity in its wake.

So where is all this leading you ask? Like me, you know the magnitude of the opportunity. You too know the rewards on offer. Like me, you're hoping you bought a golden ticket to the Wonka football factory when you submitted that season ticket renewal.

You know it, I know it, my mother (a woman who only follows football to maintain a conversation with her two boys) knows it. And so, my anxious friends, do our players. They know and understand the scale of the task.

They can sense history's engraver, poised to chisel their names for eternity.

And here's what I want them to do about it.

I want them to forget about it.

Penalty drama

You see, when I was 14 years of age, I took part in my first penalty competition. Having thundered nine spot kicks to corners top and bottom, right and left, far from the flailing arms of the Petersfield Town goal-keeper, I faced my tenth kick.

This was the one. It would put yours truly into an unassailable lead and the fat lady would be clearing a spot on the side-board for a cheap trophy, made in Taiwan, engraved on Chapel Street.

But a voice from the assembled throng of parents and well-wishers encouraged me to 'take my time'. And for the first moment that evening, I had to make a decision. I had to think. Right? Left? High? Low? Thumped? Driven?

And thinking is not good for a sportsman of any standard. Decision-making should be instant. Selection should be natural. Ask Nick Faldo. Probably the most naturally gifted golfer of his generation, he seemed to lose his way when caused to think about the rebuilding of his swing and was never quite the same again.

Football poetry

Last Sunday, our third goal was pure football poetry - more, it was a Southampton sonnet. From the first touch before the halfway line, it had 3-1 written all over it. Breaking pace, neat interplay, swift movement, as sweet a cross as you will ever see, a finish worthy of a Swiss girl's school.

Was it thought about? Was it planned? Was it considered? Was it hell. It was natural. It was pure. It was football served on a bed of grass and garnished with nothing.

When every one of our lads was growing up, our third goal was what they dreamt of creating. And let's be honest, most of them didn't dream of creating it or delivering it at St Mary's against Southend.

They fantasised their own World Cups, League titles, European finals. And yes, with maybe one or two exceptions, it wasn't red and white they dreamt of wearing, well not our stripes anyway.

But here they are, and here we are. Not on the cusp of significance, but on the threshold of fantasy. Because on Saturday lunchtime and Tuesday night and, please God, Bank Holiday Monday, our boys can walk from their humdrum lives into the world they once created in their own streets and gardens. But only if they do what comes naturally.

Don't think. Believe

So here is my message to our team. Think not about what your football club can do for you. Think not about what you can do for your football club. Think not about anything, in fact.

Go out onto that pitch and be who you were born to be. Go with my dreams and those of every small boy or girl who wishes they had one tenth of your ability. Be brave, be positive, be daring, be unswerving.

But above all, be yourselves. Believe. And play football