Season on season, Selhurst’s crowd has stood through Palace history changing before it, watching on the brink of despair or at the height of ecstasy – often switching in the same minute.
They’re the times where Selhurst isn’t just the country’s stand-out atmosphere for an unwavering, vocal buzz, but when its volume goes to an almost indescribable level. They’re when commentators strain into mics as the sound they’re fighting sends goose bumps through TV sets. But it’s never the full experience at home: those within the ground are part of something different.
It’s Ambrose powering home from 30 yards, Puncheon pounding the turf and Ayew dancing to victory; it’s being enveloped by a display in the Holmesdale, ‘we’re the Arthur’ and squeezing through a turnstile tighter than any.
Then, for 18 months, that all stopped.
