A brave, brave effort but in the end the full time professional's extra preparation and conditioning proved just to be the edge.
Early in the second half, Marske, two incredible last ditch clearances deep, their goalkeeper immovable, defence stoic, gladiatorial, the tangible sense being Marske's night hung in the damp Tyneside air, then it happened, the slip, uncharacteristic, unexpected, deft chip, crossbar rattled, open goal, headed rebound, 1-0.
There followed a spell of Gateshead buzzing around like chequerboard bees, Marske, hopeful hoofs, fine custodianship and last ditch heroics repelling the danger, the second goal inevitably came apiarian interplay, run on goal, onrushing keeper, cool tuck, 2-0.
The comeback; a dither and extra touch at the back by Gatehead's player manager, striker pounces, pocket picked, keeper drawn, dink, inside of post, net rustle. 2-1.
The onslaught came, home side penned back, bombard, crosses, half chances, oohs and aahs, then the counter, swift, pardine, ruthless, cross, shot, finish.
Still the underdogs barked, the 550 undimmed, the Yellow press relentless as time ticked away, centre's finding gloves, runs cul-de-sacs, passes interceptions, 3 minutes added time gave a vestige of hope, a corner, a cross, a mass of heads, a ball in the back of the net, 3-2, for a moment it was their, the impossible perhapsed...a whistle, the end, defeat but glory, reputations enhanced and a grand night out, real football in the backyard of the neighbours from hell.