Fozzy 
Ed’s note – For issue 244 of The Gooner, I suggested a few potential article topics to our regular contributors. One was ‘The FA Cup Final – Less of a match report than a personal account of the day, which captures the emotions involved’. As I received more than one submission, I held this back for the website, originally with the plan of using it to promote the issue, although for some reason, I was obviously not organised enough to do that. So, no time like the present to recall one fan’s memories of May 17th 2014…
My Cup Final experience started way before last Christmas when I was asked to run a workshop for some adult charity volunteers. The date of this gig was Saturday 17th May. A quick check revealed that this date clashed with some meaningless game at Wembley and by running the course meant that I wouldn’t have to watch the likes of Citeh play the Odious Chavs in a plastic version of the game we all love. I therefore readily accepted to run the course on that date.
Oh what fun it was to spank Totterington, then have a romp against Coventry before I thought we’d probably hit the buffers against the Scouse Cheats. They didn’t pose the anticipated threat, nor did their neighbours, and suddenly we were paired against Citeh in the semis. Or so we thought, but fate had other ideas. As God shines on the righteous, it was Wigan at Wembley and they provided stiff opposition. I’m not sure that I ever want to go through those two hours again. As soon as our former keeper saved two good ’uns before Orville stroked home the winner, I needed to make plans to be in front of the box on Cup Final Day. This meant a change of venue for the charity workshop and a briefing note to let the participants know that their workshop would finish at 4.30pm.
Everything went to plan on the day. I arrived home with one minute to go before kickoff. I poured myself a beer during the opening exchanges and was taking my first gulp when we let in the first goal. I put my beer down, only to take my second gulp a few minutes later when we promptly let in the second goal. Was it all my fault? After a few more minutes I reached for my glass once more, but paused to drink because Hull were attacking again. I am so pleased I did because I have no doubt that if I had taken another gulp, then Kieran wouldn’t have headed the ball off the line, and thus change the course of the match.
I would like to believe from that moment onwards it was all plain sailing, but that wouldn’t be true. Up until halfway through the second half I thought that this could well be Weng’s last match. However, the bravery of our Kos to put us back on level terms from (whisper it...) a corner. We are no bloody good at corners! Then you all know what happened in extra time.
At the final whistle I got all emotional. I reached for a very expensive bottle of French red and phoned the lovely lady who presented it to me eight years ago. I first met her and her amazing Mum when they sat next to me at a CL group game when the announcer said near the end of the match that the entire Tube system was up the creek. All I did was drive them back to their car and this bottle of wine appeared a few days later. I said that I wouldn’t open it until we next won something. It tasted wonderful!
