SANDY PARK, Exeter -- If anyone tries to tell you that home advantage means little, ignore them. As Henry Slade kicked to the corner for Exeter's final shot, the crowd sucked the ball to the five-metre line and as the wind blew in off the Exe estuary, Sandy Park's foundations rocked as the Chiefs secured their place in the final with the last play of the game. It was astonishing.
There will be no double-double for Saracens and for the first time in three seasons, the Aviva Premiership will have a fresh name on the trophy. Saracens were heroic, weathering two key injuries early on and led with a minute left, but this Chiefs bunch are a truly special team, backed up by their wonderful support.
The Exeter faithful, the claustrophobic nature of the stands at Sandy Park and the Tomahawk Chop created a zealous cauldron of West Country fervour. It achieved the rarest apothecarial ability of bottling passion, one which invades every pore of the Exeter Chiefs players, and they responded in kind.
Each one of the Chiefs was heroic. Attempting to deconstruct them player by player is near-impossible, but Jack Nowell proved his Lions quality and it's a quirky bunch. As a 15 they numbered fewer international caps than Schalk Burger but then you factor in Exeter's collective ability, and suddenly you have a team who head to their second final in as many years.
Slade's kick was sheer theatre, poetry or whatever artistic medium you prefer. As he slowly swung his left boot from 60 metres out, he made Saracens' five-metre line and from there Exeter rumbled over with Sam Simmonds clutching the ball which gave Exeter passage to the final.
Rob Baxter was on the touchline, smiling in disbelief. The stands bounced up and down, the local ale went flying and then came the Tomahawk Chop, with about three different versions starting a matter of seconds apart.
Sandy Park bounced, but then came a remarkable moment a few minutes on when the cheering was replaced by applause, as Saracens did a lap of honour. Each Chiefs fan stood and applauded a truly heroic effort by the team who have dominated English rugby for the past couple of years but will miss out on their annual visit to Twickenham.
Saracens lacked their usual ruthless pinpoint nature. Owen Farrell's kicking was off in the second half as he struggled with the swilling wind in this corner of Devon while their scrum also out-thought by Exeter.
A European hangover after their Clermont win last weekend? It's not the Saracens way but even the immense Vunipolas were a little slower than usual. It's a long old season but they battled to the end.
One of the few happy parties from this, from a Saracens perspective, will be Lions coach Warren Gatland who has another week with six of his squad, when it looked like for so much of the season and in recent matches that it would be another season dominated by Mark McCall's side.
After losing Chris Ashton and Mike Rhodes early on, they kept a foothold in the game and scored two nice tries, one for Chris Wyles and then a contortionist effort from Ellery late on which looked like it had secured them the win. The thought of 'typical Saracens' suddenly loomed over this semifinal, but Slade and his Chiefs comrades had other ideas.
They brought together sheer physicality -- Don Armand was immense -- a constant hammer at the Saracens gainline and then those neat little sleights of hand. They aren't a team that normally kicks, but they adapted that slightly for the south-westerly gust which was dictating where the ball would land but still, in typical Chiefs fashion, got the lion-share of possession and territory. Eventually it told, but they left it as late as possible.
Next Saturday will see the trains and motorways dominated by Chiefs fans journeying to Twickenham for their second final trip in as many seasons. Last year it was Saracens who ended their dreams of winning a debut Premiership title. This time around it will be very different.
They say teams have to suffer heartbreak before they can experience the ecstasy of success. Next weekend, as the Tomahawk Chop rings out at Twickenham, you feel they are well-placed to bury demons from last year and ensure that the old concrete block in west London is engulfed in Devon pride.