In much the same way as great rock music did, there was a time long ago when my life could be defined by the FA Cup Final.
Bear with me while I try to explain………
The first FA Cup Final I have any recollection of is the 1968 meeting of Everton and West Bromwich Albion, this a distinct memory as I recall sitting next to my dad and watching the match on my nan’s black and white television.
Twelve years later in 1980 I attended my first FA Cup Final, baking in the sunshine as second division West Ham United pulled off a Wembley shock in beating Arsenal. Ten years on I made my Cup Final debut as a football writer at the Manchester United v Crystal Palace contest, lucky enough to report on several more thereafter.
In more recent times I have been able to give both of my sons the Cup Final experience, although strangely enough it is a fixture I never attended with my dad – this a peculiar anomaly during our forty five years of attending football matches, as together we saw games at every domestic level from Sunday League to the Premiership, International fixtures, even a European Final.
People tend to become intrigued at this point, conjuring an image of dad and I stepping off a ferry into mainland Europe or showing our passports at the airport of an exotic European capital.
In actual fact the final we saw was the 1972 First Leg UEFA Cup Final between Wolves and Spurs. Okay, there are not boulevards or a Coliseum in Wolverhampton, but that is beside the point, we were there.
My dad looms large in this story as he has done (and thankfully still does) in my life. Returning to the theme of FA Cup Finals, my most treasured memories of the occasion are watching early-70s finals with him.
It is hard to pinpoint exactly which one it was, but definitely involved Leeds United so that would make it either 72 or 73, as I have clear memories of them wearing the numbered blue sock tags that I thought were the last word in football fashion.
My dad was suitably unimpressed by this trendy gimmick (not least as they had beaten his beloved Wolves at the semi-final stage in ’73, another fixture to add to the list of our games attended, FA Cup semi-final). He made the same type of disparaging remarks as I make to my sons about the FA Cup Final nowadays – players who look like mobile advertising hoardings, ridiculous kick-off time – but when the match started, I was suddenly enthralled by what the pundit on the sofa next to me had to say.
In making an observation on the play my dad casually remarked:
‘When I saw the Wolves win the cup in 1949.’ The rest of what he said remains a blur until he ended the sentence by saying, ‘49 was a much better final than when I was there to see them win it again in 1960.’
It was like hearing proclamation from the Gods. The incredulous expression on my young face must have said it all.
‘Wow – not only have you been to London, but you’ve been to the Cup Final.‘
For the next few years at least, I never once queried or cast doubt on any comment dad made about the game. How could I? He’d been to the FA Cup Final. Twice.
Part of what once made the FA Cup Final so fascinating was it being one of the few (and how incredible does this sound) football matches in the course of a year to be broadcast live.
On reflection some of the finals might have been dire, bringing to mind the great quote of Tottenham Hotspur double-winning captain Danny Blanchflower, ‘FA Cup Final day is wonderful until 22 players go out onto the pitch and spoil it,’ but the day itself was special. The nearest thing in my young life I can equate it to would be having a televised football match on Christmas Day afternoon (Carols replaced by ‘Abide With Me‘ the traditional FA Cup Final hymn).
At a time when pubs closed at 3pm (kick-off time) most people either watched it in their (or someone else’s) front room. Those leaving the Sambrook household at tea-time (extra-time notwithstanding) would have had their share of beer or tea and sandwiches provided by my mum – who probably thought it her duty to provide refreshment on such an eagerly-anticipated afternoon.
Those reeling under the strain of too much hospitality lumbered to our garden gate as if they had just played ninety minutes on the ‘strength-sapping Wembley turf,‘ the Cup Final commentator cliché of the time.
On Saturday I will check my watch at the moment someone in the commentary box utters the latter day equivalent that is ‘showpiece occasion.’ I don’t expect to be kept waiting for too long.
As for Saturday who knows? Between the two Manchester clubs are capable of producing an exciting game, atmosphere should be good and the weather forecast looks fine. Almost makes me wish I was going – but I’ve made other arrangements.
I’m watching it with my dad.
AUTHOR’S NOTE:
Sadly my dad passed away on January 27 2021. His absence will be felt more than ever on Saturday to the extent I decided the FA Cup Final could come and go without any interest from me – but on second thoughts will probably tune in.
I’m sure it’s what dad would have wanted.
NEIL SAMBROOK is the author of MONTY’S DOUBLE – an acclaimed thriller now available as an Amazon Kindle Book.
This article was first published in a slightly different form on 17/5/2018.
