The miracle, really, was that it took so long. After nearly two months of following Queen of the South as father and son, the unthinkable happened in the League Cup against Dundee United. We sampled the bitter taste of defeat. And it was no more pleasant than I remembered it.
For those who do not know the back story, let me fill you in. After repeated refusals on his part, my six-year-old finally accepted his fate this summer and agreed to get a season ticket for Palmerston Park this season. We then spotted a lovely purple T-shirt - Fiorentina colours with a Queen of the South badge - and he has scarcely taken it off since.
We were beginning to think he was a talisman for the team and his strip a good luck charm.
Remember, this is the Scottish second division side from Dumfries we are talking about. We generally don’t do lengthy unbeaten runs, we rarely progress in cup competitions and we are not habitual table toppers. This season, however, has started with one of the finest runs of results I can remember.
The last campaign was as much fun as a long-weekend listening to Luciano Moggi justify his part in the Calciopoli scandal. Tedious, repetitive and generally soul-destroying. I found myself regularly using Channel 4 racing as an excuse not to go to a match. Sometimes even a good cowboy film was sufficient reason to stay at home.
That was being a bad supporter. We got relegated and maybe I deserved it, given my lukewarm contribution to the cause. I resolved to be a better fan this year, the company of my son has bolstered that decision.
There are few feelings finer than holding his little hand walking down the alleyway towards the entrance to Palmerston Park. His mind is usually on how quickly I will admit defeat and go and get him his half-time bag of chips. While I am generally wondering how this ranks in my all-time list of happiest parenting moments.
As well as our home games, we even made a family away-day of the clash with Ayr United. In politically incorrect fashion, the women went shopping and the boys went to Somerset Park. Grandpa, dad and son saw another entertaining 4-2 triumph. My boy could not decide whether myself or my father-in-law shouted most during the match.
And, on a culinary note, no chips. He reluctantly settled for a sausage roll and demolished it with as much aplomb as the Doonhamers destroyed the Honest Men. A great day out.
But I knew, deep down, that the golden days could not last forever. We don’t follow Barcelona, Juventus or Manchester United. Defeats are our bread and butter, disappointment our tea and toast, depression our pie and peas. You get the picture.
So it was with a sense of trepidation that we made our familiar journey towards the ground we now call home. His first live night-time game (he fell asleep on a friend’s sofa watching the historic win over Rangers in the Ramsden’s Cup). Having already kicked out Hibs, could we do the double over SPL outfits?
The answer would, ultimately, be no. A first half goal for the visitors was enough to decide the tie despite our best efforts. We huffed and puffed and gave them a scare or two but eventually had to admit defeat. There was resolute rather than resounding applause when the full-time whistle blew.
Trudging down the steps from the back of the main stand, I enquired about my boy’s immediate feelings on seeing his team defeated for the first time. I don’t know what answer I really expected. “How does it feel,” I asked. “To lose a game?”. He paused for a moment, as if giving it an appropriate level of thought, before delivering his measured, one-word response.
“Poo!”, he said.
And I found that I could not argue with his assessment and the conclusion he had reached. It did, indeed, feel like “poo”. I can only hope we don’t have to experience too much more of it this season.