They mocked your hope, season after season— Said the crown was too far, the stars not in reason. Every April you rose, every May you fell, And still, you showed up—wounded, but well. 18 years. Not just a number. A pilgrimage of pain. Of rain-soaked jerseys and heartache in vain. You weren’t just losing matches— you were learning patience. While others lifted trophies, you lifted belief. You were memes. You were mockery. But you were also memory— Of comebacks, collapses, and chants louder than fate, Of standing by love when it showed up late. And then— when no one dared believe anymore, when the jokes were louder than the roar— you won. Not just the cup, but the weight of the wait. In that embrace—raw, real, and wide— was every tear you didn’t let fall, every jeer you swallowed with pride. It wasn’t just victory. It was release.