It is a night I will never be able to forget

Caught up in the action, I'll admit I didn't even know it was Fabrice Muamba who had collapsed face-down on to the turf at White Hart Lane on Saturday evening.

It took me a few moments to recognise it wasn't Nigel Reo-Coker on the floor, with what appeared at first to be a hamstring, or maybe an Achilles tendon problem.

My instinct had been to look to Owen Coyle, stood a few yards in front of me, who had already instructed Chris Eagles to start warming up.

Then the horror started to dawn on me, Coyle, and thousands of others on my side of the stadium.

Fabrice wasn't moving and those players in close attendance were waving frantically towards the touchline to get medical attention on to the pitch as soon as possible.

The fear in their eyes told me it wasn't a run of the mill problem. But as the medical staff crowded round the fallen midfielder, my stomach hadn't truly sunk until I caught a glimpse of one doctor starting to push down on his ribcage, administering CPR.

For a minute, maybe more, stunned silence fell on the ground, save for a few whispered prayers.

Just last week I had been laughing with Fabrice over his close-to-the-knuckle tweets, when, as usual, he shook my hand warmly in the tunnel after the win over QPR. It has been a long running joke among the Bolton press pack that I never marked his performance down in my match reports, and you know, it's true. He genuinely struck a chord with me as a person and as a player.

And yet here, in the next game of his promising career, I was watching helplessly from a press box as he battled for his life some 60 yards in front of me.

Worse still, I had agreed to help BBC Radio Manchester with their commentary of the game, meaning that the words which were failing me completely were also tumbling awkwardly over the airwaves.

Then, from the most desperate of moments there came the most beautiful and spontaneous response you could ever wish for.

As the medical staff worked frantically to save Fabrice, the 36,000 people, who had been in that ghastly minute but shocked and ultimately useless bystanders, joined united in a wave of utter positivity.

The 650-or-so Bolton fans started to chant his name and were joined instantly by the swathes of home support. As the rescue effort intensified, the chants simplified to a rousing “Come On” as paramedics worked desperately to keep blood flowing around his body.

A few players – Nigel Reo-Coker, Benoit Assou-Ekotto, Jermaine Defoe – summoned the guts to stick around and watch their colleague from close-in.

Defoe was a childhood friend growing up close to Muamba in Walthamstow when his family had arrived in the country from DR Congo. He was consoled by team-mate Gareth Bale with tears rolling down his face. Two Premier League superheroes stripped bare with raw emotion.

Referee Howard Webb had done an exemplary job of clearing the way and taking the majority of the other players away from the scene. They lined-up, within touching distance of us near the dugouts feeling just as inadequate as we were.

Seasoned campaigner Martin Petrov wept openly, as did young defender Dedryck Boyata.

Gretar Steinsson, one of Muamba's closest allies in the Wanderers' camp, shook like a leaf, his stare fixed in the distance.

Manager Owen Coyle ventured closer to the massed huddle, face in hands, colour drained completely from his face.

There was a brief moment of joy as the medical staff lifted Muamba on to the stretcher heading back down towards the tunnel with an oxygen mask on his face. The mood quickly dipped when it became clear one of the doctors was still administering heart massage and that the stretcher was being carried double-time towards the waiting ambulance.

Webb – again a picture of professionalism – called a quick discussion between Coyle and his opposite number Harry Redknapp where it was quickly decided that the game should be abandoned.

Not one of the thousands in the stands cared a jot. This had gone way beyond a game of football and though some stayed behind to sing Muamba's name again, most fled quickly and quietly back into the night to await news.

When the game was called off, my own sense of helplessness intensified. As a journalist, my urge was to see the story through, but to be completely honest, all I wanted to do was get back in the car, head north, and see my own wife and kids.

I did move on to the London Chest Hospital to join a small gathering of press stood outside on the steps in the rain. If nothing else, I hoped my presence would offer some semblance of solidarity.

Travelling home a few hours later, a glance around the hundreds of messages of support coming from all walks of life on Twitter brought home just how much the incident had already seeped into the nation's collective consciousness.

In true 21st century style, the social networking site had become the go-to point for everyone who wanted to let their emotions out. I could add nothing.

But I was reminded of something Fabrice himself had tweeted just a week-or-so ago.

“You never know how strong you are until being strong is all you have left.”

That sentiment originally came from a 19-year-old American student named Scott Dolezal, who survived four heart surgeries to continue playing sport and live a fruitful life.

As chilling as that coincidence sounds, I pray that Fabrice is able to do the same, not simply as a footballer, for this whole episode has shown the sport to be insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but most importantly as a dad to Joshua and a partner to Shauna. They are all in my prayers.