FA Cup Final

In 1872 Wanderers beat Royal Engineers 1-0 to win the inaugural FA Cup. Since then the competition has evolved into the greatest domestic tournament. Each year teams like Dunstable have the opportunity to emerge from preliminary rounds to face professional sides in latter stages. The fact many amateur sides will never get to the third round and compete against billionaire behemoths is by the by; what’s important is there is a cup which means it is at least possible.

Over the years the cup has lost some of its prestige; the turning point for this was Manchester United’s decision to withdraw from the competition in the 1999-2000 so they could compete in the World Club Championship. This emphasis on putting the global before the domestic is seen today with top teams resting players for the FA Cup in preparation for European midweek games. For most sides though the tournament represents history, tradition and opportunity. The chance to bring some millionaires back to your mole hill and laugh at them as they try to play it along the floor. The possibility of rich boys rolling up in their Beats headphones, finding they have to adopt a sit-forward/sit-back approach to fit in the changing rooms. The dream of scoring against them. Sometimes that’s enough. Not even winning. Just a tackle will do. Going through a seven-figure salary can provide an amateur with a rich anecdote for life.

Manchester United announce they are withdrawing from the 1999-2000 FA Cup.

I don’t support a minnow. I support Watford FC. A small team that through good management have become big. Thirty-five years ago, the genius of Graham Taylor reached peak levels when he led us to the FA Cup Final. Under his management, he took the team from the basement of English football to its ivory tower. Despite being exuberant in Pop, Watford chairman Elton John did not operate such largess when it came to running a football club. Taylor balanced the books successfully; the team’s success owed more to his tactical acumen than it ever did to financial backing. Over the years Watford have experienced the worst of times, nearly going into administration; and the best of times, sustaining their position in the Premier League. For all of that, this year has been the best one in thirty-five years. The reason? We reached our first major final since 1984.

Knowing we were up against Manchester City meant we were all determined to enjoy the day. City have scored five or more goals eleven times this year. They beat Burton Albion 9-0 in the League Cup Semi-Final first leg. They beat Chelsea 6-0 in the Premier League. (Chelsea, who came third.) Last year, they got the highest ever points total in the Premier League. This year, they got the second highest. In other words, they’re competing against themselves. Shadow boxing against their very brilliance. Trying to outdo their own records. They’re nothing short of phenomenal.

In yesteryear the FA Cup Final used to be a bigger national event. Coverage would begin in the morning and go through to the night. The helicopters would be out tracking the team coach. Interviewers would be out early to vox pop fans. In one video I looked at during my research a reporter is at the hospital bed of one injured player, there to commiserate his bad luck. It used to be an important date on the British calendar; now, it doesn’t attract many people outside of football. In a bid to recreate the past we decided to devote a whole day to the match, in order to savour every moment.

The day began in Bill’s in Watford. My brother is a contributor to the award-winning From The Rookery End podcast, a weekly listen that previews and reviews games, as well as updating supporters on the schemes and initiatives the club run in and out of the ground. Through the pod my brother has gained an extended family. Like all genuine friendships, the boys respect for one another stretches beyond work commitments, meaning they now socialise away from Vicarage Road. It being cup final day they decided to get everyone’s families together so we could breakfast like hobbits and devise schemes on how best to make away with the silver. Having the opportunity to put faces to voices was just brilliant. For the past few years, their show has kept me company on the journey to work. A podcast is an intimate experience; more so than radio, as you’ve chosen when and where you want to listen to it. I kept my fanboy in check and chatted casually to the guys as if they were ordinary men, as opposed to the celebrities they definitely are.

After finishing two rounds of toast, scrambled egg and salmon, we made our way to the Watford shop, where my dad got all giddy and bought a bumper sticker. What my dad forgets is that I live in Dunstable, a Luton stronghold, part of the Orange Order. As a Watford fan, I’m positively Catholic in comparison. (This analogy needs a working knowledge of kit colours and Irish conflict. If you’re not on this Venn diagram, I can only apologise for your ignorance.) So what will happen when my dad comes to visit? Having that on my drive makes me a target. If I get a petrol bomb through my letterbox because in a dizzy moment of cup fever my dad thought it sensible to buy a bumper sticker, then I’m sending him the repair bill.

I'm dug in behind enemy lines living in Dunstable.

After this, we went home, put on our yellow t-shirts and had a round of teas. Whilst there, The Girl and I showed my brother the pictures from our wedding. (The happiest day of my life – pending the result of the cup final.) Both my brother and I were pleased with the reaction shots from our speeches. For too long we have doubted our sense of humour, yet there in front of us was cast-iron proof that we were indeed hilarious. A picture doesn’t lie. Unless you’re Stalin and you make it lie. Otherwise though, it doesn’t. There in the tears and laughter was concrete evidence that we are very funny men.

The journey to Wembley was a little stop-start. For The Girl, who suffers from travel sickness, she was looking more peaky than blinder. So it was a relief when we pulled up on the drive and parked our car (we booked one for the day; we don’t just park where we want. We’re civilized people, not riff-raff you have to call the council on).

Walking up the ground, we decided to take a diversion and go via Wembley Way. There’s nothing quite like seeing the stadium in front of you and walking up those hallowed steps towards the ground. We weren’t quite sure where we were going to stop for ale. The pubs looked mega full when we drove in, so thought it might be prudent just to go straight into the ground. Fortunately, Box Park (which we heard was good) was letting people in.

Wembley Way.

As soon as I walked in, I saw former centre forward Heider Helguson. I appreciate the name doesn’t mean a lot to everyone. But for me, he was my teenage hero. At a time when Watford didn’t have much quality, he was a star man, netting big goals in our debut Premier League season. (I’d met people off the podcast and now a retired Icelandic international – what a day.) Yes, I appreciate they’re not Cruise, Clooney, DiCaprio … Streep, but better to idolise a man without fame than give time to one with. (That sounds like something Jesus would say. For the record, I’m not saying I am Jesus. I’m just saying it sounds like something he would say.)

After drinking some pints, we were ready to head to the ground. In the semi-final The Girl didn’t get her bag searched. This is because they thought she was under 16, as opposed to being a thirty-something woman. This time they did search her bag, which just goes to show how being married to me ages you. Unfortunately, we couldn’t get tickets together, so we had to split into two factions. My dad, The Girl and me; my brother and mum. We ascended the escalator and made our way up to the Gods. High up in the Kingdom of Wembley, we would be singing with the angels. Such heavenly songs as ‘Javi Gracia, he drinks sangria’ and ‘Wash your mouth out son, go shoot some Luton scum.’ You know, songs that the Almighty Father would approve of.

Getting the beers in.

Early on in the match, we have a chance to make it 1-0. Roberto Pereyra is put through one on one with only Ederson to beat. He doesn’t find the corner and the score remains 0-0. Ten minutes in and a goal would have given us a huge amount of confidence. When you’re playing a team that has swept the whole league before them, an early lead would have been just the tonic. As it is, City pounce on a mistake by Abdoulaye Doucoure, leading David Silva to profit. Not long after, Huerelho Gomes is tempted by the serpent boot of Bernado Silva and is made to pay for his indiscretion. Gabriel Jesus is on foot to put it into the back of the net. Two mistakes and we’re 2-0 down.

After half-time, we come out and dominate the midfield. Our central pairing are showing the tenacity and dynamism that make them the best partnership outside the top four. We came back from 2-0 down in the semi-final; because of that experience there’s a feeling we can do it again. Last week Liverpool and Tottenham came back against world class opposition. Recent history tells us that it’s possible. We press forward. Smother City. Remind them: ‘this is a contest.’ Then from one of corners, they break. Pereyra, guilty for missing that chance earlier, isn’t a reformed character.  As supporters, we gave him a second chance to make amends; unfortunately, he re-offends, pulling out of two aerial challenges, causing the ball to go upfield where De Bruyne scores. 3-0 down with half an hour to go. The Watford players know it’s over.

The final thirty minutes demonstrated why Manchester City should be punished by the FA for unsporting behaviour. They were relentless. Like a dominatrix in the bedroom, they got unholy pleasure from flogging us into the ground. Perverts the lot of them. Every time they went forward they looked like they would score. At 6-0 it was already the joint worst defeat in cup final history. (In 1903 Bury beat Derby with the same score.) Yet still they came forward. Fortunately, in the dying seconds, Gomes saved from John Stones, preserving some of our blushes. But 6-0 was a humiliation, which did not befit the game.

The day remains a reason to be cheerful however, because it typified what football is about. In the morning I ate and talked with people I didn’t know – all because of football. I spent the pre-match drinking and singing with my family – all because of football. And in the 80^th minute I stood defiantly with other Watford fans, waving my flag to the sky, not white in surrender, but yellow in club pride. Pride over what had been accomplished. Out of 736 teams that started the competition, we made the final two. Against billionaires, we didn’t put eleven men behind the ball and accept narrow defeat. We dared to dream, believing we could win. Sure, we were found out, but we gave it a go. 

Standing together.

The cup final anthem is the hymn ‘Abide with me.’ Today, the lyrics strike a chord.

Abide with me, fast falls the eventide
The darkness deepens Lord, with me abide
When other helpers fail and comforts flee
Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me.

The football pitch is a lonely place when you’re being spanked by Guardiola and his band of perverts. We could have left our team, turned our back on them, yet instead we stayed to lift them. In our biggest game, we suffered our worst defeat. How you react to adversity says a lot about character. We as a club responded by standing together. I’ve never been more proud.

From The Rookery End is available on iTunes and other places where you download stuff.