A cruel end to our League Campaign left me feeling numb for a few days. Have taken this match report from Mick C on the GPG. To try and summarise what happened yesterday is the most painful report to write, but the demons have to be exorcised. Rosler sent out a determined side to play our way into the Championship, but Doncaster with McCombe and Jones at centre halves at 6ft 5in and 6ft 7in respectively our attempts got strangled and towards the end our keep ball went frantic and each ball sent in was a little like the boys brigade going into battle against Roman Centurions. Clayton was cut down time and again by stud knee or arm and BWP swatted away like a irritant fly whilst Referee Oliver lived up to his surname and looked a little lost boy in the maelstrom of a stroppy and choppy League 1 storm. The referee tried to read the beat of this game, but was illiterate at best and out of depth at worst. BWP got a half chance on a dozen minutes and free of the shackles of the gruesome twosome shot left footed across Sullivan, it bounced off a post, we were out of our seats and sucking the oxygen in. The crowd level rose and the old ground creaked in expectation. But in truth, the Bees look laboured, Clayton and Douglas on their heels often, and out on their feet. Harry had no stardust on this important day. Too many of our main leads played bit parts whilst our supporting cast Kev, Bidwell, Tom and Toumani kept us at it, but it was hard yakka. The game was going nowhere and at nil nil into added time it looked like we had fallen short, when ref Oliver made a defining decision, Toumani wrestled to the ground, penalty, we all saw the ref point to the spot but barely believed it. The scene was set for Capt.Kev Mr Brentford, right time, right place, the scriptwriters in the pressbox had their ending laptops at the ready. This was written in the stars stuff. Trotta took hold off the ball and like the boy who brought in the ball to school kept it under his arm, Kev went over to get the ball, Trotta walked away to compose himself. It looked like Kev had said words to the effect of give me the ball son. Marcello went deaf. Kev then went to Clayton. As Trotta moved towards the spot, Clayton looked like he wasn't asking but telling Trotta to listen to his captain and pulled at his arm, Trotta was focussed and ignored him. It was apparent Kev was now not asking but shouting at Trotta, Claytons body langauge was evident and angry with hands outstretched and a flick of disdain he looked at his Captain with a look of resignation that Trotta was hogging the moment, the young loanee had tasted the highlight of the Chelsea moment and wanted more. He had placed a penalty in front of the Bramall Lane Kop 10 days and had a bit of Brentford history in his hands, but now Trotta had broken rank and orders and was about to rewrite history for all the wrong reasons. A lash at the ball, the arthritic Sullivan was still going down like a falling oak as the ball pinged off the bar like a cash register ringing. This was a 4 million pound ring. A penalty miss, a mad scramble and the hoof upfield met Billy Paynter standing by his manager on the touchline who had spent the previous two minutes spitting water from his bottle, it could have been his dummy as Donny knew their game was up. But it wasn't and Paynter raced away, Moore incredibly has his head in his gloves and looked up like a man seeing a train coming at him at the last moment. Simon rushed at the Pork Pie Man but Paynter was alert and rolled it across to Coppinger who tapped home. In 46 games, our regular season had been topped and tailed in just over 46 seconds. The next scene will haunt every Brentford supporter for ever, players fell to the floor, the 100% ers, Moore, Dean, Donaldson, Saunders, Toumani, Adeyemi prone on the grass, the football world had just rattled and given them and us an aftershock, BWP seen it all before, not a chance, looked suicidal at us in New Road, the young uns on the team too young to comprehend the moment, Forshaw close to tears and Bidwell hands on head with Harry on the bench standing bent double. In the middle of this devastation sat Trotta with his shirt over his head, hero to zero in a kick, a cruel snapshot Roslers young team laid bare for the world to see. An Image of Nightmares. O'Connor ran straight to Rosler and screamed at him, Rosler stood in silence, it was as if he had seen a promotion car crash, he was stunned. O'Connor unrepentant, berated Rosler and chuntered about our Italian loanee, this was the saddest sight, Commander and Captain miles apart at the most crucial time. The whistle blew and we were crushed. Kevin fell to the floor to be helped up by his Donny counterpart, a real sporting gesture, whilst most of the other Donny players celebrated like prisoners released from the play off jail. We finished third and the table never lies, but just for one moment, it was the hope that nearly killed us all in a football sense yesterday. Having followed the last seven games five away and two at home over the last month, we just didn't have enough to get over the line, it was so close, but the performance wasn't Crewe and Sheffield like, it was more of a Coventry Hartlepool performance and Rosler knows it. But the football gods move in mysterious ways Captain Kevins' defining moment and ours as a club was cruelly denied by a crossbar yesterday, but who's to say that in 3 weeks time, Kev lifts the trophy at Wembley and ironies of ironies Trotta comes on as sub to net the winner. The season ain't over yet - Give us all a few days off and then lets have another go at this promotion lark Saturday we are the best team in the playoffs.