As the sun rose on Monday morning, the thrilling vigil that was the Cricket World Cup final came crashing down on me.
Cricket tragics such as myself are used to investing our life force into supporting this team which time and time again has shown their character and ability, and at times their frailty. The Black Caps' scarcely believable loss to England at Lord's was a sporting occasion for the ages and a roller coaster unlike any other I have endured.
Not long after 6am, tired and deflated, I looked down to see my Kane Williamson Steady the Ship hat on the floor. Somewhere in the calamity of the final ball it had been cast to the ground and I came to a few conclusions.
Compared with the tense Rugby World Cup finals of 2015 and 2011, where there was an arrogant expectancy, the Black Caps kept giving us hope. As England looked to take control on Monday, they found ways back into the game. On the other side of the world England fans, albeit at a much more gentlemanly hour, were being teased with the same hope delivered on the swift-swinging pendulum of Sunday's final.
In the end a countback of boundaries, after a super over, denied the Black Caps their maiden world cup title and handed England theirs. The brutal nature of sport at the top level was showcased perfectly with agony and jubilation in equal measure.
But this brutal assessment of performance is a must. Games on that kind of stage, with those stakes, should be separated by the slimmest of margins. There was a plethora of those moments in the final and all it takes is one team to win one more of the moments than the other.
As I watched England lift the World Cup through misty eyes, from lack of sleep I assume, I found I was not angry. I didn't feel robbed or ripped off. I reflected on two teams pouring every ounce of their being into a contest of pure theatre and felt okay with the defeat.
That is a hard thing to swallow when you have willed this team from the couch and the stands for most of your life and then when they finally have their shot, it is cruelly denied to them.
There will be talk of rule changes after the unfortunate incident in the final over where English hero, most likely future Knight of the Realm, Ben Stokes, accidentally deflected a throw when diving for the crease, resulting in four bonus runs. There will be internet and talk back radio chatter about the bizarre use of boundaries as a count back to decide a world champion.
There will be talk of New Zealand's cautious approach, although most could see it was not an easy deck to bat on, and the decision to send a woefully out of form Martin Guptill out in the super over. Guptill, widely regarded one of New Zealand's best limited overs batsmen, even had fate hand him the reins in the final ball of the super over. But it was not to be. What matters is he was given the opportunity, he put everything into his performances and that is all we want.
The Black Caps once again took us on an amazing ride of hope, one that was close to ending in the fashion we acted out in our backyards as kids. But they displayed the kind of Kiwi fight we know and love. There is something about the black jersey, shirt, skirt and singlet that is pride-inducing and will attract support from all corners of the country, even if they have no idea what a super over is.
It is okay to be pissed off, sad, upset or deflated. It means you care. So, in about three-and-a-half years, I will gladly step aboard the Black Caps train and take the ride, to glory or despair.