2nd May 1981. Walsall. It wasn't just that we lost, it was the manner of the whole thing.
We only needed a draw. Neither side had looked remotely threatening for 85 minutes. We were going to be okay. Next season would be a new start.
Queue John Macphail's intervention. Penalty awarded to Walsall which they duly score via the appropriately named Don Penn.
We're down. Blimey. We'd never even been as low as the third division until two years ago. Now we're contemplating life in the fourth division. Then salvation. Dubious penalty awarded to us with the clock virtually wound down.
I remember the person next to me on the kop celebrating wildly. I muttered to him "we haven't scored it yet" (or something similar). I don't know why, but I just felt a sense of impending doom. Probably because the whole season had been a gradual descent to this moment.
We all now know the story of Matthews declining to take the penalty, Givens stepping up and hitting a daisy cutter to their goal keeper.
But it was that penalty award to us and the subsequent failure to score that made the whole episode so much more painful.
We were down, then a miracle occurred and we were safe, except we weren't. It was like winning the lottery and then realising you had forgotten to buy a ticket.
Gut wrenching in the extreme.
No other relegation, either before or after, has felt as bad as that to me.