Pessimism.
It's a trait we all have as football fans. "Typical *insert name of club*," we say.
Even supporters of Manchester City, an expensively-assembled winning juggernaut with the most lethal marksman in world football and arguably the greatest manager to ever grace any dugout, probably still half expect them to blow a seemingly inevitable treble this season. If not at Wembley against their arch-rivals, then in Istanbul. "Typical City," they'd say.
A couple of divisions down the football pyramid, one fanbase that can probably defend their pessimistic nature with more gusto than most is that of Sheffield Wednesday.
The Owls' faithful has endured a largely miserable couple of decades since dropping out of the top flight in 2000, only once getting close to returning and currently enduring their third stint in League One.
But last Thursday night, they were given an evening they will never forget and one that showed that the level you're playing at never really matters when it comes to raw emotion.
Six days prior was the lowest I had ever felt in a football ground. Wednesday were drubbed 4-0 in the first leg of the playoff semi-final at Peterborough United, despite finishing on 96 points - 19 clear of their opponents - and looked for all the world they would be consigned to another season in the third tier.
Like most fans who watch their club week in, week out, I have a routine for home fixtures. Couple of pints in my local, take the 15-minute coach journey with the rest of my group and return to the same pub after the game.
Such was my pessimism ahead of the second leg, I decided to drive to the match so I could scarper after 10, 20, 30 or however many minutes it would take for Peterborough to inevitably score again and kill the game.
Arriving at the ground around 20 minutes before kick-off, that pessimism had not relented. As 33,000 people turned up en masse to Hillsborough, it got me thinking about why we do it. Less than a week on from what was nothing short of a catastrophe at London Road, surely none of this lot actually believe we will turn it around?
Frankly, walking into the stadium just stirred up the feelings of disappointment I'd had for the previous six days. Club captain Barry Bannan played a cheerleading act in front of the Kop as he left the pitch after the warm-up. I wasn't having it. I'd already seen him and his teammates blow the season.
But there's always that feeling. What if? What if this one time, despite all the evidence to the contrary and everything that has gone before, a miracle happens? That 1% chance. That's why I was there. That was why Hillsborough was packed to the rafters.
It took nine minutes for Wednesday to pull one back, and nine minutes for me to become swept up and fully invested in a record-breaking turnaround. No side had ever come back from three goals down in the EFL playoffs, let alone four.
Once the second had gone in after 25 minutes, I felt Wednesday probably needed a third before half-time otherwise Peterborough would have steadied the ship. And they still looked dangerous on the break.
That third eventually arrived on 71 minutes, by which time Posh had visibly shrunk under the atmosphere and had no intention of crossing their halfway line, let alone scoring a goal.
But as the clock ticked down, and the fourth official signalled a minimum of six additional minutes, it looked like being that most heroic of failures that we could have all predicted.
Then in the 98th minute, after a barrage of aerial bombardment, Liam Palmer turned home makeshift striker Aden Flint's knockdown to spark scenes of complete euphoria across three and a half sides of Hillsborough. Scenes I'd never witnessed before and very much doubt I ever will again.
If you could bottle that feeling you'd be an overnight millionaire. And it's something only sport can give you.
But for all the 'limbs', as the kids call it, Wednesday hadn't achieved anything yet. They'd only drawn level on aggregate and still had extra-time and penalties to contend with. Nothing has ever been straightforward supporting this club, and so it proved once more.
Lee Gregory turned into his own net on the stroke of half-time in extra-time, and Hillsborough resembled a balloon that had been slowly expanding for over two hours only to be suddenly burst with the harshest of pricks.
"Typical Wednesday," we groaned. All of us.
When Callum Paterson made it 5-5 and I hugged the stranger next to me, something else I don't suppose happens at the theatre, emotion got the better of me. "I hate these f***ers," I told him. "They will be the death of me."
Wednesday went on to finish the job on penalties, after an uncharacteristic clinic in the shootout, and fans young and old poured on to the pitch.
Me? I slumped into my seat. Drained. Overcome. I felt like I'd run a marathon. But was reminded in that instant, as Jack Hunt's spot kick nestled in the top corner, why I fell in love with football.
It's not for the three points. It's not for the trophies. It's for the moments with your mates. With your family. It's a common ground that only you and that stranger you're unceremoniously cuddling understand.
Wednesday might still play in League One next season. They might lose to Barnsley at Wembley; they've already been beaten by their South Yorkshire neighbours twice this term. It would hardly be a shock. And their semi-final heroics would forever be tainted.
But that moment will never be taken away from those that didn't rip up their tickets after the first leg. Those that went for the 1% chance. That miracle in the place they love more than anywhere else in the world.
And that's what football is all about.
