Jonathon Rogers - Dont Take Me Home - Following Wales at Euro 2016

I was surrounded by a scene of unbridled joy.Grown men in tears embraced their friends, clasped in bearhugs four or fivedeep. Others furiously punched the air and bellowed until their throatscracked. A pair of middle-aged women jigged around uncontrollably, whoopingwith glee. As for myself, I was stood motionless with my hands on my head,incredulous at what I had just witnessed like an innocent bystander at aroadside accident. Little did they know it, but the streets of Zenica wereabout to play unwitting host to the biggest party in the citys history.

While my disbelief was in stark contrast toeveryone else within my vicinity, one thing kept us in common - the red shirtof the Wales football team. A jersey that for so long had been a symbol ofridicule, pain and embarrassment was now being proudly adorned by 725 of us whohad trekked across land and sea to the centre of Bosnia and Herzegovina tosupport our team, our country. It was soaking the tears of many when I wassuddenly torpedoed to the ground by a blur of sheer excitement and crunchedagainst the litter-strewn floor between two rows of red plastic seats.

Weve bloody done it! Weve bloody done it,Scotty! Ive waited 58 years for this!

What do you mean, you silly sod? Youre only33! I laughed. That was Dafydd, or Dav as we both preferred, my best friendsince the age of six when we were forced to participate in a primary schoolnativity play and both realised our dislike towards acting was proportionate toour love of swapping football stickers.

You know what I mean! This is the best moment ofmy life! he screamed firmly down my earhole which had already sustained thefigurative bursting of an eardrum once it had been announced that Wales hadqualified for their first major international football tournament since 1958 -Euro 2016.

Dav helped me off the ground and I handed him histrademark red, yellow and green bucket hat that had spilled onto the warmconcrete that made up our row of one of the stands inside the Bilino Polje Stadium, which was being shaken to itsfoundations. Never did the architects of this crumbling relic of a ground inthe back end of the Balkans ever believe that its capabilities would be testedso fiercely by so few, but Welsh sporting history was unfolding right in frontof our eyes, and it was glorious.

It had been a very different scene just 15seconds earlier. As the final whistle was blown my heart had sunk to the pit ofmy stomach and I was rueing the one swift pint I had agreed to have with Dav inthe White Horse down the road from Westminster Abbey. That well-meaningsolitary lager had led to a half-dozen more, and a drunken conversation inbetween mouthfuls of suspect kebab meat that would lead to an expensive 1,257trip to a country that I wouldnt have been able to throw a dart at, even ifId have possessed the accuracy of Phil Taylor.

But unlike most plans made over a few glasses ofCarling hurtling towards the wee hours, this one had stood the test of ahangover and by the middle of the next day the savings account had been raidedand flights had been booked. The location, the difficulty of getting there andthe cost had been inconsequential - this was a chance for Dav and I to witnesstogether our tiny little nation join Europes top teams and book our place at amajor finals.

Wed only needed a draw to make it and havingremained unbeaten in all our previous qualifiers, including beating the mightyBelgium on a night Ill never forget - or rather remember - in Cardiff a fewmonths earlier, it looked a certainty. But two second half goals had puncturedthe hardy souls who, like us, had abandoned reason and logic to take time offwork and pilgrimaged to the far corner of the continent - and we looked set totrudge home disappointed like the bad old days.

There was still one more game to go against groupwhipping boys Andorra, who had managed to lose every one of their eightqualification matches, and even if they had pulled a Neville Southall-sizedmiracle out of the hat and drawn against our newfound, mighty squad of suddensuperstars, then Wales would still be in the draw for the finals. But there laythe problem: this was Wales, a country that when it comes to football hadalways managed to grasp gallant defeat from the jaws of certain victory.

Our footballing history is littered with hardluck stories, such as the dodgy referee who gave Scotland a penalty when one oftheir players punched the ball to ensure we missed out on the 1978 World Cup,or Paul Bodin - bless him - entering the nations lexicon for misfortune whenhis tame penalty was saved and another chance at World Cup glory was ended in1993 at Cardiff Arms Park.

I was 20 when I took my place inside theMillennium Stadium 10 years later, already naively planning a summer travellingaround Portugal to see us at Euro 2004, and stood alongside Dav, his dad andour other close mates from university, Ieuan and Matt, waiting for it to beconfirmed. 90 minutes later, tears streaked through the red dragons painted onour cheeks as a single goal for the visitors meant that my Lonely Planet guideto Iberia would be consigned to a shelf in the Red Cross shop.

Scarred by the past, nothing was being taken forgranted and so I longed for our spot in France to be secured as soon aspossible. But a 2-0 defeat wasnt going to do that. Angry, gutted but not atall surprised, the referees whistle had been the signal for me to turn on myheel, make a quick getaway and wallow in pity inside the windowless,flea-ridden single bed hotel room we had opted to share a few days earlier. Ithad seemed like a five star establishment with a balcony overlooking the aquablue Adriatic Sea when we had initially arrived, full of hopes and dreams.

However, I had my exit blocked by an unexpectedsight - Dav on his phone. Back home this would be nothing out of the ordinary;he would be constantly checking his Facebook account for messages orfrantically swiping his chubby fingers through Tinder in a usually fruitlesssearch for a female friend. But this was abroad, and Dav is known for beingextremely tight-fisted (or frugal as he describes), thus the unwillingness to spendon his own hotel room or even a bed in the same one as mine, meaning I wouldendure a night perched precariously on the edge of the mattress cwtched up nextto the large, beanbag-like physique of my best friend. His data roaming hadbeen off switched since we arrived at the airport just in case, and thewithdrawal symptoms were palpable as he pawed away at his virtually uselessdevice, all but the calculator app he used to work out the cost of his beersduring the afternoons warm-up.

What are you doing, mate? I asked concerned.

Trying to find out what happened in Israel, he replied nonchalantly, scratching his bum chin. For the second time in a matterof seconds confusion reigned supreme - Dav was simply not a follower of worldaffairs. Back in our school days hed once answered a question in a geographytest with a drawing of the world map and attempted to gain a mark by showinghis working as hed been asked to do in maths.

What are you talking about? I responded.

The Israel-Cyprus game - remember? he said, andsuddenly it all made sense. Israel had needed to win that match to keep pacewith Wales and force our Andorra game to be meaningful three days later, butthey were certainties to win that one against inferior opposition.

Bloody signal; I cant get online here - thereare too many people, he grumbled. I looked around and many other fans weredoing the same - some were even trying to call relatives back home to get anindication of whether we had been given a lifeline. It seemed pointless to me,so forlornly I looked towards the pitch where the subdued Welsh players wereshuffling around with their socks already rolled down, congratulating theBosnian players with muted handshakes.