Forever…
The day hung like a stage,
Set for a dream.
The preliminaries had been completed;
The carefully negotiated lower rungs,
Scenting the glory, then
A magical evening
At the home of the Red Devils
Where Villa soothed the December air
With their flowing play:
Yellow and blue patterns
Stretched the famed scarlet forces.
A rare pride…
I strolled, waiting.
I saw claret and blue.
Groups walking,
Voices singing,
Beer talking…
Time passed,
Claret and blue
Mingled
With white and navy.
Voices sang
Rival songs…
Trooping lines,
Fattening:
People, noise, horns,
Songs of confidence.
Like tides the crowds surged
And kept flowing,
Parted only
By omnibus gullies.
And still they swarmed….
Walking, talking,
Excitement filled the air…
Scarf swept round my neck,
No thoughts of losing.
Waves to claret and blue people,
Smiles.
Food. Must eat…
Crowded hovel,
Lax service.
I bellowed.
“Chico…!”
Silent, smiling glances flicked my way.
Warm tea lubricated
Ailing voices.
Outside,
Atmosphere grew.
Photographs.
No need to put on a smile.
Shaking fingers being chewed.
Nervous mumbling.
No more hiding.
Inside England’s bowl:
Lush, green turf,
A brass band;
Couldn’t hear it though.
Unconsciously carried away
By the sway,
The soulful chants,
The songs of praise.
The pride.
Combatants entered to powerful welcome:
100,000 expectant followers.
Smiles of pride,
Eyes fixed on line of Villains:
Glory hunters.
Balls bounced,
Gum was chewed.
Red carpet nervously approached.
Spurs presented:
Handshakes,
Smiles,
An odd word.
Lions’ turn!
Shutters clicked,
Ecstatic voices greeted each player.
They ran towards us,
We sang each name:
“Chico…”
A wave.
A cheer…
Crowd bubbled,
Delirious.
Defeatist feelings dismissed.
Time passed,
Contest even.
Balding Lochhead mingled with white defensive marshals,
Causing bother.
Rearguard tidied up in sterling fashion.
A shot…
Too high!
Dunn raised an arm,
No trouble…
Holding our own
At 45 minutes.
Sweat rolled down brow…
Second phase:
Chico raced through,
Drove for glory,
Crowd swayed,
Hands flew high
As ball scraped crossbar…
Irish custodian shook head
In sheer relief.
Crescendo of support…
A mistake:
Ball struck slowing Lochhead’s legs,
It MUST be…
Crowd swelled
But brave Lillywhite kicked clear,
Depriving us of that dream…
Time running out.
Ball planted in our net
By Chivers…
Shock, dejection, pain.
“Come on, Villa!”
But Chivers repeated the dose
And Spurs went marching on…
Utter disbelief on players’ faces,
People near me too stunned even to blink.
Time escaped me.
I could no longer think.
Tears rolled.
A double blow.
Hopes gone.
Victory snatched from the heart.
Villa should have held that silver trophy aloft…
Pain.
“Villa, Villa!”
Heroes trotted to our terracing.
They wept.
We sang.
They waved.
We wept.
Glory WAS ours.
Mullery thrust the League Cup at us.
Arrogant. Unnecessary. Sneering.
Yet drowned out,
He turned away
To resounding choruses of,
“We’ll support you evermore…”
Pete Ray
The League Cup Final, 1971.
Spurs from Division One beat Aston Villa from Division Three by 2-0, after Villa had beaten Manchester United over two games in their semi-final.
I was 21.
Times have changed.
Disillusion has crept in.
I watch and write about non-league football now…
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