Into the woods
Boy racers are whizzing around the Maccies Mile with their windows down and their speakers up. Hightown’s youth are persisting in their dogged mission to slam the emergency stop button on the Eagles Meadow escalators every evening. The queue at Rhosddu SPAR is full of chatter about the “nightmare” of the 20mph speed limit.
This is definitely Wrexham. But it’s not the world we were living in just one week ago.
In the space of seven short days, our town has lurched from euphoria to despair and back again. And it’s all thanks to our football club.
It’s been wild, frankly. Rip-roaring fun and punch-in-the-gut pain from week to week. At times, it’s even been a little hostile - with fans squabbling over which players should start and players grumbling about which songs fans should sing.
But a bit of fatigue-induced tension was inevitable. Emotion always tends to spill over in the final furlong of a forest marathon which we’re privy to right now. And you can’t always see the wood for the trees.
Indeed, this past week has been akin to a sprint through Erddig with all the twists and turns, peaks and troughs, blasts of sun and showers of rain that such a test of endurance entails.
We started this last stretch strongly, too - the team powering away from the Easter checkpoint cheered on by sugary smiles and triumphant roars. We startled a herd of Stags en route and sent them galloping through the woods back to Nottinghamshire, screaming over the sound of clattering hooves about the terrible refereeing. But moments later we were cut off by some misfits from Yorkshire (who seem to have picked up the pace considerably since this cross-country race first began).
Then, just as a rowdy group from Essex looked destined to leave us lagging even further behind, we suddenly found our feet - inspired by a centurion in Pele Mullin and a precocious youngster playing far beyond his years in Max Cleworth.
Potential champions. Resigned to the play-offs. Promotion hopefuls. We’ve been all of the above in the space of a week.
Supporting Wrexham this season has been a marathon so energy-sapping, even that bloke who just ran the length of Africa would raise his middle finger at the prospect of participating. Following the Reds can be an exercise in masochism that few outside of football would ever understand.
And it’s not over yet.
Stockport are cantering ahead with their spindly Mancunian legs, rocking Hacienda Classics on their headphones, humming “Fuck you Wrexham we’re gonna win the league” under their breath. And that’s fine. They can crack on.
All that matters is we’re right up there at the right time. And if all goes well, the world of Wrexham won’t just feel different by the weekend - it’ll look it, too.
The boy racers won’t be able to speed through streets packed with pedestrians. The local teens will forget to tamper with the staircases, distracted by the scenes exploding on town hill. And the shop chatter will be all about the football rather than the road signs.
Wrexham will be in League One.
If we beat Crawley and FGR - and results go our way - we’re on the podium.
Just a few more laps left.
A big swig of Wrexham lager, a wipe of the mouth, and off we go.