Leicester City's impossible triumph rewrites history

It won't last. It can't last. How the hell could it possibly last?

Throughout the 2015-16 Premier League season - an absurd, wacky campaign that's showed a total disregard for conventional wisdom - the football world waited for the bubble to burst, anticipating the moment Leicester City would finally, predictably, falter. Precedent, and for that matter simple finances, dictated it would happen. It must happen. The big fish eat the little fish.

After all, there was no history of success; Leicester's previous best in the top flight was a second-place finish ... in 1929. This wasn't Manchester United. There weren't 13 Premier League trophies sitting pretty behind shimmering glass, no "winning culture" - whatever that actually means. This wasn't Chelsea or Manchester City, in whose deep pockets you could swim among endless waves of cash used to purchase the biggest and brightest stars. Arsenal, perhaps? Nope. It wasn't even Blackburn, which at least boasted the man many consider the greatest striker English football has ever seen.

This was freakin' Leicester.

The same Leicester that required seven wins in nine matches down the stretch simply to stay in the top flight last season, never mind come close to winning it. The same Leicester that was installed as a 5000-1 underdog to hoist the coveted hardware. The Leicester that fielded a starting XI less expensive than the combined transfer fees Newcastle forked out for just Jonjo Shelvey and Andros Townsend.

That Leicester.

And the same Leicester that's now the sixth champion in Premier League history, following Tottenham's second-half capitulation at Stamford Bridge on Monday. Leading 2-0 and looking in complete control, Spurs - at times far and away the most devastating team in the league - threw away said advantage. The final sliver of hope dissipated when Eden Hazard, nearing the end of an abysmal year, reverted to last season's imperious version of himself and fired a stunning 83rd-minute strike into the top corner to seal a 2-2 draw.

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Some 14 surreal minutes later, Leicester had done it. Jamie Vardy had a literal party inside his living room for the newly minted kings of England.

It still doesn't sound right. The Foxes were supposed to falter. They had to. History said so.

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Ah, history. You didn't account for so many things.

You didn't account for a squad largely comprised of rejects - players other teams across the continent deemed unnecessary and undesirable - staying fit effectively all season and morphing into the absolute greatest versions of themselves.

You didn't count on Riyad Mahrez's wizardry on the ball leading to the lithe Algerian being crowned PFA Player of the Year. And how could you? Two seasons ago, toiling away in the French second division, the winger was deemed too frail. There was no possible way you could know N'Golo Kante, purchased for a mere £5.6 million from SM Caen, would establish himself as a midfield colossus whose penchant for interceptions was so pronounced it became an Internet sensation.

How could you know that skipper Wes Morgan and journeyman Robert Huth, two hulking centre-backs with the mobility of an actual brick wall, would prove nearly impenetrable. Christian Fuchs, discarded by Schalke and picked up for free, turned into both the best transfer of the season and a fan favourite. Marc Albrighton was useful. Danny Drinkwater became an England international. Shinji Okazaki scored a bicycle kick. None of it made sense.

And of course, there was Vardy, author of a rags-to-riches story that's been told the world over by now; his non-league days with Fleetwood Town and other nondescript sides that don't even sound real - hello, Stocksbridge Park Steels - giving way to a potential starting spot in England's XI at Euro 2016.

History couldn't account for him. Nobody could, least of all opposing defenders, who trembled in the face of his incessant, tireless running.

Soon to be the subject of a Hollywood film, the electric Englishman has found the net 22 times (and counting), breaking a 13-year-old record in the process with his combination of pace, clever movement, and adept finishing. Strictly as a footballer, his might be the best story of all in a squad littered with endearing ones (off the pitch, of course, is another matter).

And, as much as it makes some cringe, history didn't account for luck, of which a healthy portion flowed through the whimsically landscaped grass at the King Power Stadium.

Yet even with all these factors converging, it was still so unlikely. Someone would stop the Midlands outfit from accomplishing the feat. Of the wealthy and powerful sides in a mega-rich league monopolized by those with the largest bank accounts, one would surely step forth and restore order. History said so.

One by one, the perennial powers traditionally at the forefront of the English game faltered, their challenges falling by the wayside while the Foxes continued to either dazzle on the counter-attack, defend resolutely, or scrape their way to victories, points - and ultimately, dreams. Survival? Check. Top half? Indeed. Champions League qualification? You bet. The title?

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Claudio Ranieri wouldn't let any of them believe it until a couple of weeks ago. Just win, and see where it goes. That was the affable gaffer's message (at least publicly), until he could no longer deny that silverware was within reach. Even then he tried, smiling all the while, to avoid the discussion.

"I never expected this when I arrived. I'm a pragmatic man, I just wanted to win match after match and help my players to improve week after week. Never did I think too much about where it would take us," he said Monday.

Right to the top of the mountain, Claudio.

That's where you and your players, this collection of outsiders, will be perched forever. History - his own personal history - said he wouldn't be able to reach that pinnacle. Wrong again.

Ranieri arrived with little fanfare. And why would it have been otherwise?

The well-travelled Italian, 64, had never tasted glory before. Charming and engaging, Ranieri arrived at the King Power Stadium a prototypical lovable loser. Four times he had sniffed a league title, with three different clubs, only to emerge hands empty of the prize on each occasion.

And now Ranieri brings his band of misfits, each of their names etched in sporting folklore for the rest of time, into Saturday's match knowing the Premier League trophy will be handed out in front of the team's rabid fans.

Nobody can catch the Foxes at the summit. Seriously.

It still doesn't sound right. Perhaps it never will, the same way it's still mystifying that Nottingham Forest claimed the crown in 1978; that Greece won Euro 2004; that, on a wider sporting scale, we know who Buster Douglas is; that the New England Patriots didn't complete a perfect season in 2008; that the phrase "Miracle on Ice" is entrenched in our sports lexicon.

Leicester City is the Premier League champion for the first time in its 132-year existence. Still don't believe it? Check again. Now, history says so.