Last night was right up there as one of the best sporting experiences ever. With Mo Farah and Usain Bolt on the ticket, second Saturday tickets had always looked promising.
Little did I anticipate just how bright the fireworks would be.
My athletics watching history dates back to 1993, Colin Jackson smashing the 110m hurdles world record, Linford Christie’s 100m gold and Sally Gunnell’s 400m hurdles triumph.
I was hooked.
I’ve waited 24 years to attend a global championships so wanted to do it properly. Ideally I’d have attended all session but, funnily enough, money prohibited such a crazy plan.
Instead we decided to go to just one session but go big.
That’s why we found ourselves sitting behind the main gathering of Jamaican fans, on the home straight, opposite the finish line. Amazing.
We were wowed by the 100m hurdles and our ladies in the high before the first of the main events.
With a fearsome wall of sound and Mexican wave clattering of seats in support, he was set.
So often he’s imposed himself on the field. So often he’s held the lead, gritted his teeth and adopted a Gandalfesque ‘You shall not pass’ attitude.
Not this time.
It was shocking to watch his aura of invincibility shatter down the final back straight as the Ethiopians for once had got past him. The usual strained look was plastered on his face but now he was the hunter not the hunted.
It was a stark reminder of how quickly someone can become yesterday’s man.
The crowd roared him through and he pulled a heroic silver out of nowhere but with Edris doing the mobot across the line, his golden era was up.
The stadium fell into a stunned hush. What had happened? They showed a highlights reel of his best bits which was kind but only underlined the fact he’d just been beaten.
He still saw his family. He still did a lap of honour. He’s still a legend. But his legacy is diminished slightly.
he action continued apace. Stunningly high quality javelin competition – despite not quite reaching 90m – followed by the relays.
The British women were incredible. Flying round the track chasing the likes of Torrie Bowie and Allyson Felix and running them close to finish second. Wow.
Finally, we had the big man himself. Usain Bolt entered the stadium to a cacophony of noise and the Jamaicans in front of us went mental.
They’d had a poor championships but surely now was their time. Not if Justin Gatlin (booed again, very poor) and Christian Coleman had anything to do with it.
And, out of nowhere, not if the Brits had their say too. They were incredible. I found myself utterly hooked by their performance screaming at the top of my voice as the baton flew round.
In the blink of an eye, Bolt had the baton- could he claw it back? I was too busy yelling at Nathaneel Mitchell-Blake as he blazed towards the finish.
Three strides, two strides, line…GOLD!
I’d kept a brief glance on Bolt but to our shock he pulled up halfway to the finish, agony etched over athletics’ most famous face. Horror.
He crashed to the track and the Jamaicans in front of us held their breath in collective despair. Their hero, their figurehead, their idol. This was his career literally ending in tears.
We had the perfect view as the wheelchair came over and the doctors surrounded the prostrate Bolt – his teammates gathering round, devastated.
All the while the majority of the stadium were going mad to celebrate Britain’s confirmed victory. Unbelievable.
The dark sky was awash with stars as we left but two of the brightest stars ever of track and field had seen theirblights dimmer dramatically over 90 minutes.
Not a championships high on sentiment but definitely high on drama.