EVERYONE remembers their first football match.

For me, it was the anniversary of that momentous milestone this week.

Monday represented three decades since my first trip to Portman Road – a magical 5-1 thumping of Stoke City.

Fans of a certain age may remember the game - and not just because of the score.

It was Sergei Baltacha’s debut, having just joined from Dynamo Kiev, and, in addition to scoring, he became the first-ever Soviet international to play in the Football League.

I remember the game and goals vividly.

But it was about so much more than football that damp, chilly January afternoon.

It was about lugging a milk crate through town, to get a better view of the action. An absurd thought in this generation of shiny new all-seater stadiums.

It was about the mud-ploughed pitch, players slipping and sliding and the ball sticking at every opportunity.

It was about the smells – the scent of tobacco wafting across the terrace and the aroma of deep heat being massaged into players’ legs, from our vantage point near the dug-outs.

It was about being mesmerised by the fans. The noise, the chants, the claps, the surges forward as goals rained in and the ‘banter’ between the two sets of supporters, housed alongside each other in the North Stand (Sir Bobby Robson Stand).

It was about our half-time snacks. The Kit Kat and flask of warming, super-sweet hot chocolate.

And above all it was about being with my dad. A passion we’ve continued to share ever since – endless matches and one that’s taken us to every corner of the UK.

In the three decades that have somehow slipped by, Ipswich, and football in general, has been a constant in my life.

It was the backdrop to my school days and then a perfect ice-breaker when making friends with like-minded supporters at university.

In the last 20 years, it’s been my huge privilege (and the very reason I wanted to become a sports reporter in the first place) to experience things from a different perspective, as the Gazette’s Ipswich reporter.

It’s been incredible – a deluge of memories, miles and matches.

A glut of goals and an avalanche of anecdotes, in terms of experiences shared on the road with Town.

My favourite game?

The obvious answer would be the play-off final success at Wembley, in 2000.

A truly magical, unforgettable day that I thought would never happen, given the semi-final agony of the previous three years.

But there have been so many others. Too many to mention.

The unbelievable, topsy-turvy play-off semi-final against Bolton, which the Blues eventually won 5-3 (7-5 on aggregate).

Marcus Stewart’s winner at Liverpool, capping a wonderful weekend on Merseyside, the ridiculous 6-4 victory against Crewe, the 5-0 demolition of Norwich and the euphoria of beating Brighton 3-1 on the final day of the 1991/92 campaign, to be crowned Division Two champions (securing a place in the inaugural Premier League).

There have been many favourite players, too.

Jason Dozzell and Chris Kiwomya were icons of my childhood, while the likes of Matt Holland became a favourite both on and off the pitch – a dream to speak to after matches (polite and friendly, he always made himself available for a quick chat - win, lose or draw).

The sadness is that this column is being written during a dark chapter in the club’s history.

Relegation, dare I say it, now looks inevitable and this, without doubt, has been the worst season in my 30 years.

But one thing the last three decades have taught me is that football is cyclical – peaks and troughs, highs and lows.

Fortunes ebb and flow and the good times will undoubtedly return soon.