I’m a pretty level-headed bloke, but the Cardiff game hurt. It still does.

To get so close to the last eight of the League Cup and miss out after being drawn at home to a lower division side is a shock to the system. After all, it’s not the sort of thing we’ve become used to in recent years!

It brings back memories of how we felt in the FA Cup twenty five years ago. The side which knocked Middlesbrough out of the FA Cup wasn’t one of Brian Flynn’s strongest. Indeed, they had to dig deep to avoid being drawn into a relegation scrap.

However, after Robin Gibson and Darren Ferguson had struck the goals which knocked Bryan Robson’s star-studded side out of the competition, a familiar scenario arose.

Perennial giant-killers, cup runs are in our DNA. We had players who could win matches in that squad, and an apparently friendly draw in the fourth round at home to Cambridge United.

We went into the match in twentieth position, but our opponents were rock bottom. The last 32 beckoned.

However, it was one of those annoying games where you always seem to be chasing the result. Like Tuesday, we went behind, but equalised. Like Kieffer Moore’s header, Karl Connolly’s strike made you feel we’d dodged a bullet and could now go on to take control of the game.

That’s not where the similarity to the Cardiff game ended. The Us scored again early in the second half and we couldn’t find a way back.

It was horrible, and felt like a squandered opportunity. I suppose the FA Cup quarter final loss at Chesterfield three years earlier had a similar feel to it, although at least that wasn’t played in North Wales. Still, it was a real opportunity to make history.

Tuesday was as well, but we mustn’t be too shrill in our judgement of Phil Parkinson’s rotation of his side.

Hindsight is a wonderful gift for the judgemental, and it would be easy to suggest that we ought to have put a similar side to the one which was so impressive on Saturday onto the pitch.

However, nobody complained when Parkinson adopted the same approach in each of the previous three rounds, and the opponents we came up against then were hardly insubstantial. Our first and second round adversaries currently sit seventh and eighth in the Championship, after all!

The first half team just didn’t click, though, and while we are adept at soaking up pressure, the domination Cardiff enjoyed in that first period was something very different.

We gave an absolute masterclass in how to defend with a mid-block on Saturday, holding Middlesbrough comfortably at arm’s length. Apart from their late goal they only had one other real opportunity, a late strike by Luke Ayling which drew a fine save from Arthur Okonkwo.

Tuesday was different. We were forced far too deep and spent too much time camped in our penalty area while Cardiff’s snappy passing opened up space on the sides of the box. Had it not been for an absolutely superb performance by Callum Burton, it would have all been over by the break.

As it was, we managed to get to half time still in the time, and Parkinson made changes which galvanised the side. We were more threatening and it seemed we’d turned the tide.

Cardiff were excellent though, and in judging our performance we mustn’t lose sight of that. They were slick and dominant in the first half, their accurate passing and movement pinned together by the magnificent Rubin Colwill.

My dad was at the famous match in 1957 which saw the Busby Babes attract the largest home attendance in our history. He said the fabled, tragic Duncan Edwards stood out, physically more developed than any of the other players and clearly the most talented on the pitch as he dominated the game.

Colwill put me in mind of that description as he glided through the game, passing intelligently and, when he was needed in a deeper position in the closing stages of the match, strong in defence.

City deserved their win, which is a statement I don’t enjoy making in the slightest. The chip on my North Walian shoulder is bigger than ever, and uncomfortable memories of our clashes in the 1990s was evoked by the City fans. They were loud, and reminiscent of the old-fashioned mentality of “taking” the town they were visiting.

I ended the day alone in the press box, listening to them singing derogatory songs about us on the platforms of Wrexham General. I dreaded the sense that City would come into town with an attitude of putting us back in our place; in the end, they did exactly that, and that why it hurts.