FIRST off it must be said, I am not from Middlesbrough.

I am from Grimsby, a town whose club has a long history of building up expectation only to let you down when it matters most.

Just last week I drowned my sorrows after enduring the agony of penalties.

What I am trying to say is that I feel your pain.

And not in some trite, condescending kind of way. No, as a season ticket holder for the last five years your hurt is every inch my hurt.

Boro have known Wembley defeats before, it would not be the venue of choice if you were to ask most fans with half-decent memories.

But today (Monday) had felt different.

There was genuine optimism around the town. Believe was not just a hashtag it was a state of mind.

Aitor Karanka had assembled a team capable of winning things - remember Manchester City, recall how Liverpool were taken to penalties. The Premier League did not seem some far off, distant dream.

On Sunday night, Trafalgar Square rang to the sound of Boro songs old and new. it didn't feel like false optimism.

London was bereft of the yellow and green - red and white had conquered the capital before a ball was kicked.

On the train in from Watford Junction the mood was just as joyous. This time, surely.

The massed ranks vastly outnumbered the opposition and some were wondering if they were going to turn up at all.

They did, of course, but the volume, ramped up by DJ Mark Page, was all from one end - or at least it seemed that way.

A shot came up on the TV screen of the tunnel as the teams prepared to come out. Leadbitter, Boro's talismanic leader, looking straight ahead, focussed on the coming 90 minutes.

This time.

It took 20 minutes for the optimism to evaporate. Johnson rattled the bar for the Canaries and though Vossen repeated the feat seconds later, it was an all too brief respite.

The fans behind the goal seemed to sense the inevitable and when Ayala - didn't it just have to be him - slipped and Jerome ran on to fire beyond Konstantopolous the die was cast.

Heads in hands became hands over mouths when Redmond escaped down the right and shot into the back of the net - the impact sucking the lifeblood out of players and supporters alike.

The united front that had been so self-evident up to kickoff vanished - dissent broke out, heroes became villains and no one but the most ardent fan could see a way back.

We hadn't even reached half time. So much for #believe.

Of course the break brought fresh resolve, but despite a brief rally on the pitch and in the stands, the script soon reverted to type.

Cries of 'Kike, Kike' smacked of desperation and fans who had been leaning forwards, on tip toes, arms reaching out in adulation were now sat down resigned to the inevitable.

Having conceded so early on this was a slow end. A death by 1,000 passes you might say.

Boro have played at soulless stadia in the likes of Blackpool and Rotherham, but, despite the 85,000 present, Wembley felt just as cold and lonely as the clocked ticked down. It was as if the heavens appeared to know as the Norwich end was bathed in sunshine, while the Boro support was shrouded in cloud.

Nothing was going for Karanka's men and even when they found space they were unable to bring a meaningful save out of Ruddy.

A trickle of fans, most probably those who had come just to see if they could do it, were already heading for the exits long before the four minutes of added time were up.

With the whistle went Boro's hopes of a return to the top flight, the only return for the fans being the one back North.

All became armchair pundits on the walk to the station - the blame game was in full effect.

But the truth was probably contained in a well-worn Teesside phrase: "Typical Boro."

Trust me, coming from Grimsby, I know the sentiment all too well.