AS Cardiff and Portsmouth are led out onto the famous Wembley turf for the 2008 FA Cup Final, I have to pinch myself to be sure I’m not dreaming. It’s been an incredible journey. An eleven-month pilgrimage. I’ve travelled over two thousand miles, spent nearly a thousand pounds, watched over seventeen hundred minutes of football, and so far seen sixty three goals. I’ve also fulfilled an unexpected, lifelong ambition.
I’ve seen some of the best players in the world, visited some of the game’s most-hallowed arenas and witnessed some of the biggest upsets in history. I’ve also seen some real stinkers, at stadiums which are barely worthy of the title, watching players whose pre-match build-up is a doner kebab, five pints of lager and half a packet of Marlboro Lights.
I’ve been an unlikely ball boy, a backseat manager, a reporter, photographer and in equal measures a frustrated and delighted fan. I’ve sworn, cheered, sung and jeered. I’ve experienced the adrenaline rush of the last-minute goal, the sudden, all-encompassing misery of the late winner and the slow, lingering death of the plucky but outclassed minnow.
I’ve built bridges with my friends and family, built friendships with complete strangers, stood frozen in the same place for seven hours and raced across a continent to make it to a match on time.
But more importantly I’ve rediscovered my love of football. That magical, wonderful game. So simple in its premise and yet so complex in its execution. Something that I had lived and breathed for, taken for granted and then with disillusionment discarded.
And now, right now, sitting here in this glittering stadium, which is heaving with the heat and passion of ninety thousand expectant fans, I’m about to witness the culmination of all of those events. I feel both elated and numb in the same breath. Delirious at the achievement and despondent that beyond this magnificent climax looms a large void that I will have to somehow fill.
It all started back in July of last year. For some reason, and I honestly can’t remember why, I found myself sat in my study at home, perusing the pages of the Football Association website. One of the links on the page caught my eye, a link which announced the fixtures for the Extra Preliminary Round of the 2008 FA Cup. I was amazed. It seemed like only yesterday – actually it had been just two months – since the previous final was fought over by Chelsea and Manchester United, and yet here it was again. The new competition would begin in August, linking the seasons in the span of just one summer. There were a record number of entries, seven hundred and thirty one in total. But the teams at this stage were completely unrecognisable from the familiar league clubs. They had curious names like Glasshoughton Welfare, Norton & Stockton Ancients and Jarrow Roofing Boldon CA.
It reminded me of the old milk advert from my childhood where two Liverpudlian boys were sitting at a kitchen table discussing the prospect of playing for Accrington Stanley…
‘West Allotment Celtic?’
‘Who are they?’
‘Eggz-actly.’
It made me think about my own childhood. To the first FA Cup Final that I had watched on television aged eight, to the legion of underdogs I had seen perform miraculous feats of giant killing, to all of the thrilling, memorable ties that the competition had conjured up year after year. I felt warm and nostalgic for the Football Association Challenge Cup. The most famous knockout competition in the world. It had been a constant in my life. Always there waiting for me like an old friend who you meet for a couple of times each year.
It has been argued that the cup has lost some of its magic in the last decade, particularly when it threatens to be overshadowed by the Champions League. But the one thing that the FA Cup guarantees me which the European showcase can’t is a sense of belonging. The Champions League is an elite club which few of us ever get a chance to join. If you’re fortunate enough to follow one of the top four then you probably have a different opinion, but for me the Champions League is a competition where I rent out my loyalties like a mercenary to whichever English team is playing, without ever really caring.
The FA Cup is different. We are all in it. We all have a crack at the title. We may not fancy our chances of winning, but we all get that chance to play. There are no limitations with this dream. No exclusive membership based on the depth of club chairmen’s’ pockets. In fact although the likelihood is that we won’t win it, the dream is available to hundreds of clubs up and down the country. And maybe, just maybe, this year will be our year.
As I sat in front of the computer screen, I realised that this was the reason why a record number of teams had been mesmerised by the dream. Why hundreds of Non-League clubs would be battling for the right to progress. Each step further into the competition bringing fresh challenges from stronger, faster, better teams. Each round navigated offering the monetary rewards which could underpin the finances of these little clubs. The FA Cup is like the Holy Grail, a mythical quest seemingly out of reach, promising great riches but where the journey itself is the actual reward.
I made a snap decision. I fancied that quest. The Road to Wembley was starting and I wanted to be on it. To travel this great river from its bubbling source in ramshackle stands and renovated cow fields, meandering up and down the country as it increased in depth, power and pace until the final outpouring at the magnificent footballing cathedral of the new Wembley Stadium.
But where to take my first step? Which of the one hundred and seventy one Extra Preliminary Round matches should I attend?
And then I saw it. Tie number 104. Haringey Borough V Wembley FC.
Surely my road to Wembley had to start from Wembley?
