The faithful souls, huddled under the pavilion sails of the main stand of the Don Valley Stadium, have seen much, suffered much. Since Tony Stewart tore at the steering wheel, swinging the club away from oblivion's edge at the very last minute, the act of supporting the Millers has been a question of belief triumphing over disappointment, of keeping faith as circumstances trample on the shoots of hope.
Weeks ago, last year in fact, the Millers beat Aldershot. They deserved it, playing with efficiency, drive and hint of something more. A crack of another false dawn?
The next game after the great freeze would help answer the question. Port Vale the visitors, a team never lower than fifth in the league this season, with the league's best defensive record and the second best away records. A team, though, unsettled by the departure of their manager to Sheffield United, or perhaps stirred and stung by his loss and the 3-0 defeat at Gillingham on Tuesday.
Vale made one change from their defeat at Priestfield.
Their team looks powerful, tall athletes virtually to a man. It plays with power and determination, too, its attacking efforts built on a platform of Griffith - an indefatigable central midfielder - and McCombe - a central defender of almost mechanical efficiency - who break up the opponents play and intercept anything that leaks through. Alongside Griffith floats Gary Roberts, once of this parish, a player possessed of vision, skill and passing accuracy, but possessed too by demons that have limited his career too often in the past.
The game begins brightly, both sides exchanging jabs in central midfield. Griffith looks to force Law into imprisonment, denying him space in which to work from the off. The Millers initially fall into the trap of searching for an opening from long balls over the Vale defence, but McCombe is there, wherever there happens to be, to mop up. Coid reminds the team it has wings, probing a pass down the line for Marshall to explore his options against the full-back. It brings a free-kick, swung dangerously into the box. A scuffle of headers and the ball breaks loose to Law, who cracks a shot through the forest of legs and bodies and into the net. But Mr Salisbury has seen a foul, perhaps a shove in the initial aerial contest and the goal is struck out.
The Millers - piqued by indignation - start to play with a rhythm and a crispness that they have shown in glimpses over the season but seldom for long periods. Jason Taylor, a player who has an unhappy habit of winning the ball and then standing with it, like a dog seeking approval for fetching a stick, starts to play simple balls quickly forward, recycling possession as the coaching manuals no doubt call it. Law, fizzing, alert, moves and dances away from Griffith's attentions, finding space and with a neat turn and prod forward, finds Atkinson, via Taylor's flicked header..
Atkinson, a winger at play in the centre of the field, runs towards goal on flickering feet. Approaching the area, with a jockeying defender unable now to risk a challenge for fear of allowing a path to goal, he pauses, in command of the moment. A feint to shoot, a slipped pass to his left and Law, who has followed up his initial inspiration is free in the area. A touch, a powerful low shot and the Millers are ahead.
A nasty moment follows as Ryan Taylor, shackled by Port Vale's other central defender, breaks free with elbows flung. Linesman remains immobile and the referee has a word with Taylor, but no more, suggesting he saw and thought nothing of the incident. On Match of the Day, red cards might be flourished for less.
That ugliness aside, there is much to admire. Vale switch wingers over and fashion a half chance or two from crisp interplay of their own. No sight of Warrington's goal, yet, though.
And then a thing of real beauty. Careful, patient passing switches play from left to right, ends with a pass into space on the right. Coid, arriving with the punctuality of Swiss railway, strikes an instant whipped cross with his right foot. A thing of near perfection, it swings towards goal, but away from keeper and beyond McCombe and on to the head of Taylor at the far post. His header redirects and refocuses the power of the cross, sending it flying across Tomlinson and in.
Vale rally, the Millers lose a little of their tempo and a Roberts prompt allows Loft in behind Coid. Mullins blocks his cross, but it jags sharply back towards goal. Warrington reacts instantly to gather the ball and prevent Vale coming back into things.
Controversy, now. A confusion between Roberts and Griffith, a through ball launched into space where Marshall is free and on the run. The defence are cut adrift; Tomlinson alone stands between Marshall and the goal. The keeper races from this area and launches himself at man and ball. Everything arrives at once. Reflexes and nature send Tomlinson forward arms first (though close to his sides). The ball seems to strike a hand intended to deflect it. Everything strikes Marshall, the ball flying out of play.
With linesman again immobile, there is a tiny pause. All eyes turn to Mr Salisbury who must do something, must make a call of one kind or another. He gives a freekick and having done so must send Tomlinson off because there was nothing bar him between Marshall and the open net. In the moment, it seemed inevitable. Reviewed in memory, a yellow card seems possible.
Certainly Vale were furious. Arms whirled, in particular towards the immobile linesman. But the decision was done. Newey, as if wishing to avoid stoking the fires of rage further, tamely put the freekick into the wall. The rest of the half was diverting, but nothing of note happened. Vale reorganised themselves into a 4-4-1 formation; the Millers took what they had.
It is a truth universally accepted that a Millers side in possession of a halftime lead must be in want of concentration immediately at the start of the second half and are very likely to concede. A goal back for Port Vale, even 10 man Port Vale, would set things up troublingly. Coid has been forced off, so Mullins is at right back, where he can be made uncomfortable and Ashworth is in central defence where he can be marvellous or maladroit, sometimes in the space of five minutes.
And yet, and yet. Atkinson chips a ball into Taylor, who lays it back to Atkinson who feeds Law's run into the box. A touch, a drive across goal and Atkinson, drifting through the defence like a fog through trees, has time and deftness of touch to guide the ball home. 3-0.
Vale are crushed but not bowed. Griffith, in particular, redoubles his efforts to scrap. But the game is drifting away from them and the Millers, buoyed by their good play are starting to add panache to their perspiration and precision. Marshall ghosts past his man, but Atkinson, under pressure, heads wide. Le Fondre, fed by Taylor, draws a fantastic save from replacement keeper Martin, who tips an instant powerful snapshot over the bar. Randall replaces Law and swaggers, brimming with instant control, ideas and sufficient arrogance and audacity to try them, even when they don't come off. He gives it away twice, but then feeds Atkinson, who in turn plays in Newey. His route to goal blocked, he clips a cross which is deflected out towards the edge of the area where Taylor lurks. Balanced, watchful, he hooks the ball out of the air with the vicious grace of a bird of prey. It flies into the goal, a thing of wonder, deserving of a stage more gilded than a half deserted Sheffield running track. If that's not goal of the season, then what is?
The answer arrives quarter of an hour later. A free kick is laid off, 8 yards or so beyond the bounds of the Vale box. Randall is there and his response is instant, cracking a lightning half volley off the cross bar and into the goal. 5-0. Stunning. Just. Stunning.
The Millers then wind down, playing at half pace, a training ground routine. Vale, to their credit, do not settle for it and still probe for a goal. Slipshod defending in the Millers box allows Griffith the time to hit a shot the equal in terms of power of Randall's, but it is lower and Warrington makes an outstanding reaction save.
And that is that. The Millers looked cohesive, convincing against a side who are clearly, at the very least, capable and effective opponents. Once they've sorted out the transfer of power from Micky Adams, they'll be a threat to everyone they play. But the Millers look, for the first time in a very long time, the real deal. No longer the nickers of 1-0 goals after defending robustly for 70 minutes, or the spluttering takers of three touches who just have enough to overcome most but draw more than they should.
This team had pace, panache and verve, allied to hard work, organisation and a collective will. This team performance was as good as we've seen from an eleven wearing a Millers shirt for a decade. This team will no doubt lose badly at Macclesfield, because that is the nature of things, but for now, it is very probably the best team in this league.
