Football, bloody hell! Leicester's triumph was one of the special nights

Football is expensive. Football is time-consuming. Football is disappointing. Football is painful. Football is filthy. Football is run by a revolting cadre of sticky-fingered, invertebrate egomaniacs. Football does not care very much about racism, sexism, or anything beyond itself; frankly, football is appalling.

And yet we keep coming back, over and over and over again, because on nights like last night there is nothing else remotely like it. Nights when, for 90 minutes, nothing else matters; nights when the most enthralling and dramatic event happening on the planet happens in front of your eyes and deep in your soul, implanting itself there for evermore.

Leicester City had no business whatsoever winning this tie. In the first leg they had no answer to Jorge Sampaoli’s bionic swarm, and though they found a way to stay in touch, there was no way things would change as much as they needed to.

But then Claudio Ranieri was sacked – the moralisers extolling his love for jigsaw puzzles and small animals will be quieter this morning – and suddenly Leicester were Leicester again. It is true that his players ought to have played as hard for him as they have done since he left; equally, it is true that it was his job to extract that from them. All the rest is commentary.

Having sat off Sevilla in Spain, back at home, they threw themselves into challenges, blocks and counters like junkyard dogs’ junkyard dogs. Sevilla, though, are an excellent side, creating their first chance of the night after just three minutes; first, Robert Huth’s fine challenge robbed Dani Parejo, then Kasper Schmeichel saved well at his near post from Samir Nasri.

But at no point were they permitted to settle; at no point did they have any fun. And no one did more to bring this about than Jamie Vardy – a lithe, vicious, jonesing menace, scrounging for the ball across the width of the pitch to impose Leicester’s tempo upon the evening: disjointed breaks rather than rhythmic beats, cacophony not symphony.

So it was not surprising when, on 27 minutes, they took the lead – but for the fact that “they” meant "Leicester", and the "lead" they "took" put them in position "to qualify for the last eight of the Champions League"; it was staggering. Vardy nipped down the left, Parejo steamed in, Vardy dived over his leg to make sure, and Westley Morgan bundled in Riyad Mahrez’s free-kick. The primal roar which followed wiped the floor with anything Andrea Bocelli ever came up with.

While Leicester celebrated, Parejo roused his men, who visibly rejuvenated. Leicester, though, maintained the pressure, Wilfred Ndidi an increasingly influential presence in midfield and Christian Fuchs almost finagling a penalty as he bundled into the box. But to name names is to miss the point: every man was in the zone and every man was on the edge, a ferocious meld of will and skill.

Quite what Jorge Sampaoli made of his team's start was terrifying to contemplate even from afar. A pool-hall thug in both appearance and demeanour, as half-time drew to a close his players fled the dressing room early, and to recapture momentum, two changes followed.

But again, Leicester clamped down, until, on 53 minutes, Sergio Escudero picked up possession 35 yards from goal. He paused, looked up, and flung his entire being into a drive which screeched past Schmeichel, clipped the underside of the bar, and bounced down to the unmarked Wissam Ben Yedder. Preferred to Joaquin Correa precisely for his ruthlessness in front of goal, he duly lamped the chance far over the bar.

It was a crucial oversight. Moments later Leicester pounded forward again, and though Adil Rami was first to Mahrez’s cross, he could only clear to the edge of the box. Marc Albrighton took a touch to open up the angle, took another touch to compose himself, and lanced a perfect finish past Sergio Rico. The KP exploded in ecstasy.

Finally, Sevilla found some flow, pinning Leicester into their own box. Though their last clean sheet was two and half months ago – and that against Middlesbrough – they restricted space, cut off angles and blocked shots like, well, Leicester. Then Nasri, already cautioned, flicked his forehead at Vardy, Vardy exaggerated contact, and over came the referee to send off one and book the other. Doubtless this was a political gesture which symbolised “being against the system”, but it made no immediate difference; Leicester were nearly home.

Still Sevilla kept coming, and on 79 minutes Vitolo found himself free inside the box; he knocked the ball past Schmeichel, Schmeichel ploughed through him, and moments later settled on his line to face his second penalty of the tie. Throughout this season he has conducted himself with the impermeable confidence of a man at the peak of his powers; as his name reverberated around the ground, suddenly he looked very big and the goal looked very small. Which is not to excuse the saunter and tickle that Steven N'Zonzi delivered; Schmeichel was down to it sharply, and the ensuing celebrations were wild.

There was still time for Sampaoli to incur a futile red card, crowning a perfect audition to succeed Arsene Wenger at Arsenal – one can only fantasise about what happened when he met Nasri in the dressing room – and Leicester spurned several chances to settle matters on the break.

But eventually the final whistle went, the KP ignited one last time, and 32,000 people grasped the point of being alive.