Barnsley Bard Jonathan Symcox was at Oakwell to witness one of the biggest FA Cup giant-killings of recent times - and found that cynicism is alive and well in t'tarn.

Getting served in Maceys was a triumph of patience. "We ant got no pint pots left," the lass behind the bar said when she finally go to us. The people of Barnsley were out in force, already denting the beer stocks. Who knows what would happen if they did anything daft like beating Chelsea.

But there was no time for 'soft' talk like that. "The trouble is, we've got to win tonight," I informed my better half. "Chelsea haven't lost at home for like three years. And Jonny Macken's cup-tied."

The walk to the ground from town was like knowing a panic attack's coming slowly and trying to control yourself, taking in the crowds, bickering about the time, eating up the distance to 90 minutes of trauma. And no sign of any Chelsea fans.

A car with blue shirts then crossed our path in the middle of a 'Red Army' chant. A few people advanced, scarves aloft. "You Reds!" they cried gleefully, and the car screeched off up the hill to general laughter. "I've got a big car!" someone joked, before adding something unprintable. And his mate got to the heart of the matter: "This is best atmosphere there'll be toneet." Delivered with a chuckle.

To support Barnsley is to savour defeat with victory. Unlike the Sheffield clubs, there is no pretension about where we should be, no expectation of future glory: we were 'spoiled' under Danny Wilson, not achieving our potential. Of course disgruntlement rules when things go wrong, and people are more open these days to public displays of displeasure such as booing at the half-time whistle, but with the groans at defeat there is always the mantra: "I told thi. I told thi. We need a bloody striker/defence aren't good enough/there's no one to boss it in midfield."

These are not utterances of outrage, displayed upon local radio or in the Saturday Green 'Un sports paper: they are shared with friends and family.

To the match. The bloke en route had been wrong: Oakwell was like a living, breathing creature, most definitely up for the Cup. The action was tense, made slightly easier by Chelsea's lack of actual shots on goal. Our own forays forward were promising, Kayode Odejayi leading the line like a poor man's Didier Drogba. Half-time arrived and after waiting five-deep at the urinal and scoffing a steak pie the holders came back at us, using their time on the ball to pepper the box with crosses.

In these frantic moments I thought back to 1989, when as a nine-year-old whippersnapper I crammed into Oakwell for a tie against Stoke. My Dad couldn't even lift me above his shoulders, there were so many people around us. I fainted and had to be taken from the corner between the West Stand and the Ponty end - where the BBC studio was situated this time - along the pitch, in front of the benches and to the first aid room. My Dad and Uncle stayed to watch the match, leaving the St John's men to look after me, but I was denied Steve Cooper's celebratory back flips (for so long one of the BBC's favoured images for the Cup's opening credits).

Nowadays Oakwell is all-seater, but - with a couple of famous past exceptions under Wilson - I doubt there will ever be another spectacle like that one. As Martin Devaney finally sent in a cross similar to the one at Anfield, there was a second when the knowledge that Odejayi had won everything in the air - against one of the most fearsome back pairings in the world - and Cudicini is poor on crosses converged. Then the ball hit the back of the net in a moment you can never truly recall, so delirious is your reaction to it.

How can 350 grand's worth of Championship squad, still fighting to stay up, emerge victorious over one that cost 230 million? What would my Grandad, dead since the early seventies, have made of it?

The Cup is different from the league. In play-off finals an entire season rests on a few minutes, and you are very well aware of it: last night was a special present, a one-off game which enabled me to turn to one side at one point and say: this is fun. That is the magic so easily referred to in coverage of the competition.

It was the cynics around me that put the whole thing in perspective though. The man in front, two minutes before the goal: "Get Odejayi off Davey. He waren't do nowt now." (I made sure to shake him soon after and remind him of that).

And the gentleman with the rucksack who, witnessing the pitch invasion at the end, shook his head and laughed. "But how many of this lot'll be here on Tuesday night?" he asked. "Not many, I bet."

Jonathan Symcox / Eurosport