Arsenal 3-2 Hull City
It started, as all good things do, with some peri-peri chicken.
Our little gang of five merry cup warriors met at lunch, seven tortuously long hours after I woke up. Fed, we then sidled off to a house of refreshment to soak up the atmosphere, and proceeded to hoover up a few looseners. There was a fantastic atmosphere where we were – West Hampstead – with flags draped over pubs, fans of both sides mingling, an open-top busload of vocal gooners rattling past.
Itâ€™s hard to explain cup final day to someone who hasnâ€™t been to one, but it feels so different to your average game. A mixture of nerves, excitement, anticipation. Good spirits, and in this case, very warm spring air. The kind of atmosphere that makes memories.
Up Wembley Way and into the ground we went, lapping it up. Then we mostly went our separate ways – victims of the vagaries of cup final ticket lotteries.
Band of the Welsh Guards – tick. Abide with Me – tick (though unlike previous years the lyrics werenâ€™t on the big screens, which was a shame and meant that the massed ranks of fans mumbled along like John Redwood, only breaking into song when the hymn reached its eponymous end). National anthem – tick. Nerves utterly shredded – tick-a-rama with a hey nonny nonny.
Viewers of a nervous disposition might now wish to avert their eyes for the next paragraph.
Kick-off and, hello! We appear to be a goal down, a bit unlucky perhaps, so thatâ€™s alright, keep calm now (even though weâ€™ve not really started yet), weâ€™ll get a grip on thin…Whoa! Thatâ€™ll be two goals, some wobbly defending, and oh no, that was Curtis Davies. Thatâ€™s not remotely good. Thereâ€™s a frothing conurbation of gold and black bobbing up and down, rubbing their eyes and not quite believing what theyâ€™re seeing. The same shock was being felt at our end of the ground too, only with a touch less bobbing and a distinct absence of froth.
Itâ€™s nearly three! Hold me tight, but thereâ€™s Kieran Gibbs to nod it off the line. It transpires weâ€™re not good at starting early on Saturday, and nor do we steam off like a train late on Saturdays either. Finely tuned to Three Oâ€™Clock, thatâ€™s what it is.
Fair play to Hull, they were hurting us from set pieces and in the air, and weâ€™d not really been in the game. We were massively on the back foot and we needed a moment of magic.
It came, by Jupiter, it came. Cazorlaâ€™s free kick wafted handsomely into the top-right of the goal. It was a hell of a goal – a goal fit for the occasion and what a time it was for Cazorla to pull a rabbit out of his hat. We needed that, desperately.
The rest of the half at last seemed more evenly matched, it felt like weâ€™d steadied the ship at last, and there was still a long time to go. The goals were all so early, there was no room for too much sniping, though I did complain a bit about Giroudâ€™s ever-flailing arms of despair.
The pendulum was swinging, and the introduction of Sanogo, all legs and no goals, made a real difference. Heâ€™s still like a giant puppy but heâ€™s definitely got something about him, and we needed that energy badly. There were several good penalty shouts – Cazorlaâ€™s was clear from where I was – but I canâ€™t remember the rest, to be honest. Nervous memory blurs abound.
Then up popped Koscielny, scorer of important goals, to swivel in the equaliser. Pandemonium. Muchos hugging and slapping other chaps on the back, while baring teeth, fists pumping like a failing two-cylinder engine, swearing like a fishwife. I was sitting next to my 15-year-old godson and Iâ€™m sure on several occasions he peered over at me and wondered if his mum and dad hadnâ€™t made a desperately bad decision all those years ago.
Gibbs then Rosenthaled one over, it went to extra time, and we finally played our trump card by bringing both Wilshere and Rosicky on. We were in control now, both having a big effect on our movement and energy.
The next paragraph is about Welsh Jesus.
Giroud – and itâ€™s getting late in the day now – saves his best till the end with a glorious backheel. Itâ€™s happening in a flash but Ramsey just thwonks it with the outside of his right boot and wheels off in glorious delight, tailed by someone who used to be Gibbs but who now appears to be a madman, no doubt thinking â€œyouâ€™ve saved my baconâ€. Again, absolute pandemonium everywhere.
If Alan Sunderland and his megaperm is synonymous with 1979, then Aaron Ramsey is the man of 2014. Sorry, Santi, but he just is. He scored a goal of wonderful quality, at the most crucial time, and it won the cup for Arsenal.
Naturally, weâ€™re talking about Arsenal here and we almost conspired to Arsenal it up, Mertesacker tripping, Fabianski coming out and not quite getting there and Hull flashing a shot wide. Gibbs was back in a flash, still no doubt thinking about his miss, but still.
And that was that – the cup was ours, and you can see what it meant to the players, to Wenger, to us. Of course I feel sorry for Hull – they played their part in a memorable final (I can say that now – wasnâ€™t thinking it for large tracts of the match yesterday) and losing is never fun. They rattled us and they took us all the way. Their fans were great.
But we made it, we won. As I write this Iâ€™ve got the game replaying on the telly, my kids are waving two of the flags that were on the seats at the ground. This is what itâ€™s all about.
We did it the hard way, but weâ€™re back on the silver trail and how everyone needed that.
Remember this feeling. This is what football is all about.
Weâ€™ve won the FA Cup.