Do you remember your old Cup Final days,
the only live match all season,
that you could watch on the television,
instead of wall to wall
blanket coverage,
the pull out special in the pages
of your newspaper of choice,
the pencil drawings
and the managers looking on
with pride having achieved mortality
for a few weeks and the songs
from the terraces as the day grew closer,
the interviews on the bus
and the poet, always one,
coming up with a piece that
emulated a popular song of the day
and for a while he would be the go to man
with scarf round his head
but being intellectually different
to the ones being honest
as they cheered c’mon Arsenal
three finals in a row, or the 100th when
the cockerel sang to the tune of Ossie,
when Ipswich and Southampton
made the big boys blush
when West Ham and Brooking were the talk of the town
that night
and kids would disappear at half time
as the Watney’s party seven would mingle
in the box with mother’s glass of sherry,
only to shake as the window became a goal
and granddad would appear raging
for the noise
and yet as soon as the second half started
he would be banging the sides of his trusty armchair
and bring the neighbourhood into disrepute
as he called the referee every colourful name
under the blue Wembley skies from
a hundred miles away.
The pen pictures, the build up and excitement,
the media on the team bus as they approached Wembley Way,
this was the point of the Saturday in May,
before the cricket got into full swing,
one last hurrah
for the foot of Liam Brady,
the knowledge of Pearson,
of Tommy Caton in bubbled hair
and Steve Mackenzie’s volley
be still my beating heart,
of half time brass band and Abide With Me…
all memories of the Cup Final Day.
Ian D. Hall 2017