Perhaps it was inevitable. It certainly does not unduly damage our hopes. But upon reflection, there was somehow a sense of certainty about this defeat.

Few of those among another swollen City support travelled in particular hope. Roy Keane’s Sunderland thoroughly outclassed the Tigers at the Circle, and despite our relative recovery since that traumatic defeat, the Black Cats have marched with awesome intent up the table since that day and now leave the likes of us trailing in their wake. C’est la vie. It beats coming away from Spotland thinking “bugger me, they were a bit good.”

On duty for the Tigers at a windswept Stadium of Light were: Myhill; Ricketts, Delaney, Turner, Dawson; Parlour, Ashbee, Livermore; Forster, Windass, Elliott. Phil Brown’s selections have become notably more comfortable of late. The clamour for Ashbee’s removal from the side has become a muted, discontented grumble rather than a deafening chorus. Jon Welsh, poster-boy for many, is no longer cited as the obvious alternative and with Dean Marney’s infuriatingly tepid form, midfield options concerns no longer tax the manager.

Only Nick Barmby’s return offers a genuine dilemma; yet with his match fitness yet to be tested, there was little prospect of the hard-working forward trio that started at Luton being broken up. So with over thirty-eight thousand people piling into Sunderland’s terrific arena, we kicked off unchanged.

And kicked off again two minutes later.

A rather needless free-kick was conceded – the culprit being difficult from a hundred yards – and swung in where Evans popped up unmarked to thud a header past Myhill. The home fans bellowed a hearty roar, the Tigers trooped back upfield, and the points were pretty much Sunderland’s.

Let this not necessarily be recorded as a complaint against the Tigers. From the restart, no discernible economy of effort could be seen. However, in those frames that stood tall and unbowed at Luton could be identified just the merest of bending. Heads did not quite drop; but maybe they just sagged a little. This was not to be our day.

Not that much actually happened. Please accept in good faith the assurance that this is not the inevitable consequence of exceeding HM Government’s guidelines in binge drinking before 10am. It was just a match of little goalmouth activity, though what there was occurred principally at the end defended by City.

Much of the reason behind this unremitting pattern was in the midfield. Ashbee was trying gamely, which is the charitable description we shall attach to our captain. On each occasion Parlour received the ball, two homesters zoomed to him, neutralising our most streetwise midfielder. Livermore was quiet. And so with the midfield ceded, we had to rely upon a stunning stop by Myhill to foil Connolly and some resolute defending (though not passing) from Turner and Delaney to keep the margin manageable at the break, which we reached with a wry chortle as Deano talked, shouted and eventually capered his way into the referee’s notebook for a sequence of imaginative dissent.

Five years and a day ago, City visited another fairly new stadium for the first time, and lost. This was under the stewardship of Brian Little, and his faltering Tigers were being bested by Oxford United, who now play Conference football. So, lest we be too downhearted at the paucity of chances being created by our modern-day heroes, it is never a bad time to recall the sheer scale of the progress that has been since we losing to jumped-up non-leaguers in three-sided stadia in front of under six thousand people.

For six thousand people would get lost in the Stadium of Light. It is a truly colossal venue, comfortably the largest in the Championship and one worthy of a higher level than this. The crowd was Sunderland’s second highest of the season – bolstered by over 3,500 from Hull – and they were in fine voice throughout. Sunderland is a proper football club with a proper stadium and proper fans, and there is nothing wrong with acknowledging this. There was never the faintest question of them playing Tom Fucking Hark when they scored. We tip our cap, and continue with the football.

The conditions had worsened during the interval, and blustery winds being replaced by near-gales. City were kicking away from the small army of fans who’d travelled north, and begin the half with some vigour. This tails of quickly, and the over-riding pattern of the first half reasserts itself.

A lone magpie softly landed on the turf in the corner nearest to the City fans, and is amusingly berated by the mackem majority. It provides light relief of a kind – in front of your humble scribe City are grimly clinging on while behind in one or two people are becoming a trifle irate with the largely blameless local constabulary.

Ho hum. Yorke is killing us now and although we strive to remain in it, there is little we can do to halt the tide. The manager throws on Vaz Te and Barmby on for the sadly ineffective Elliott and the bemused Livermore. It matters nary a jot. Windass is a virtual spectator; the real ones sigh in resignation.

A decent cry for handball against Turner is indulgently brushed aside by the referee – one suspects that a goal at this point could have sparked an Ipswich-style massacre. Yet still we bleakly refuse to surrender. Connolly misses an open goal, somehow, and City survive again.

This aggrieves the home support a little. They possession percentages must be as skewed as election day under Saddam, but Sunderland are only a moment of madness away from squandering two points, and as the game enters the final 15 minutes one senses this realisation beginning to enter a few minds.

The plainly struggle Forster sidles off for Marney, who immediately sets up a burst forward that he himself eventually wastes. The City fans, dreaming of a shock point, are exhorted to remain by at full time in order to prevent any extracurricular activities by some, none or all of those whose minds were fully focussed on the football, and this meets with general dismay. And during this moment, the match is finally settled.

Turner passes back to Myhill, the ball hits a small crater/flying piece of litter/is horribly miskicked and flies out to John. He nearly messes up the late present, but has enough presence of mind to steady himself sufficiently to stroke the ball home. 2-0, match over.

One does hope that the City players awarded themselves a day off after doing the important bit on Tuesday night. Snatching anything back to East Yorkshire from such a daunting trip was always unlikely, but it’d be a shame to think we didn’t give it our all.

And in fairness to the players – not a sentiment that has always been merited this season – it is probably just the case that we were outclassed rather than outfought. Sunderland are impressive side with a fantastic manager who will probably not been seen at the Circle for some time. Fair enough, we wish them well. Let us hope that we avoid them next season as a consequence of their promotion rather than our demotion.

That prospect is not significantly more likely as a consequence of this fixture. Losing at Sunderland is something most clubs in our position will do. And the scoreline was not as bad as it could have been when we found ourselves behind inside two minutes. And we have substantially bucked up our ideas since the Ipswich debacle.

A fortnight off, then. One that the aging limbs of Forster, Parlour and Windass will appreciate. Two weeks to gather our thoughts for the final push. Fourteen days and then Southend visit for the beginning of the hectic, nerve-shredding, heart-stopping finale in this desperate quest for survival. Use them well, City. The next time we have a free weekend our fate will be known. (AD)