Favourite trophy? Well, if you’re a Coventry City fan, the choice is somewhat limited – to one, in fact (not counting the league-winning trophies that were even before my time). It’s got to be that gleaming silver, jug-eared one that prompts countless memories of one fine day in May of 1987 - the FA Cup. A day when the Sky Blues of Coventry overcame the seemingly invincible Spurs – Ardiles, Hoddle, Waddle, Allen, Mabutt and all.
Ah yes, 16th May 1987 – one of those life-defining experiences. A time when:
- fashions and hairstyles were at best forgotten, at worst a criminal offence
- football was ‘proper’ football
- the players, managers and fans all smoked and drank before, during and after the game (probably)
- Saint and Greavsie ruled the world
- you could pass back to the ‘keeper to pick up the ball (as Liverpool spent every match doing throughout the whole game)
- there was no shame in sporting a bowler hat, peaked cap, or indeed foam finger in your team’s colours
- and, of course, the FA Cup really meant something – and it really meant something.
Memories are too countless to mention, but among the highlights of that wonderful day (good and bad):
- Waking at 7am after a maximum 1 hour’s sleep. Sick with excitement and a fresh-faced 18 years old (you do the math). Mother, please bring me my first can of Hoffmeister to steady the nerves. Meet up with mates and brother in law – game on.
- Train to Wembley stops – vandals have put debris on the line. Held up for what seemed like hours. New train required, half the size, same number of people. Are we going to make it in time? Is my bladder?
- No (to both!). Inebriated sprint up Wembley Way – no time to take in the atmosphere or sights, the game’s kicked off.
- In the stadium at last – not just missed the pre-match goings-on, but the first 5 minutes. Oh well, at least we haven’t really missed anything of the game. What was that, Allen’s already scored for Spurs? Oh, bugger.
- Hold on – not only has the expected Spurs avalanche not occurred, what’s Benno doing taking it round the keeper? Oh, he’s scored: 1-1. Get in. Pandemonium.
- Things settled down now – keep things quiet til half time. Uh-oh, it would appear that Mabbutt has other ideas – rubbish goal: 2-1 Spurs.
- Second half – City the better team by a mile, better fans by a mile – can’t hear Spurs. Plenty of chances, but no goals – is that going to be it? Not if Messrs Bennett and Houchen have anything to do with it. Cross – diving header – back of the net: 2-2. Best Cup Final goal of all time? Maybe a bit biased, but I think so.
- All too soon – final whistle and extra time, please no replay. Six minutes in and the moment that launched a sky blue riot. McGrath, further forward than he has ever been on a football pitch, crosses. Accurately finds the left knee of Mabutt, Clemence flailing – it’s in! Surely we can’t hold on for another 24 minutes – well yes, we can.
- Final whistle – Oh. My. God. Kisses and hugs for everyone and anyone – female, male, animal, vegetable or mineral.
- Killer lifts the trophy – that glorious, glorious trophy which has sadly lost its sparkle little by little as each year goes by and more and more money washes in to football.
But it’s my favourite trophy – and always will be.
