The magic of the FA Cup.

The magic of the FA Cup.

They keep telling us about the magic and romance of the FA Cup, one of football's oldest and still much loved competitions. They insist that although the Cup may have lost some of its sheen, animal magnetism and mystical allure in recent years it still has the capacity to surprise us, making us go all weak at the knees and letting out the most remarkable whooping noise because none of us saw that one coming and besides the concept of giant killing is still stitched into the game's fabric.

But hang on a minute. The romance of the FA Cup? What on earth are they talking about? The FA Cup, it may confidently be asserted, has absolutely nothing to do with either Barbara Cartland or Mills and Boon classic books. Certainly, football has no connection with flowers and chocolates because if it did many of us would begin to suspect that something wasn't quite right.

For those of us who still cherish football's Saturday night Cup heroes with mud on their shirt and a broad smile on their faces nobody can deny that there is still a sadistic satisfaction to be derived in seeing a team at the bottom of the National League North dumping Manchester City out of the FA Cup. Of course this will never come to pass in any form or guise of  the competition in any season or any year. The fantasists and idealists will still argue to the contrary but even this season's last non League survivors AFC Fylde couldn't overcome Premier League newcomers Sheffield United.

Still, there is much more of the egalitarian spirit about the FA Cup than used to be the case. Only the likes of non League Leatherhead, who once knocked out Brighton during the 1970s, the then non League Yeovil overcoming high flying old First Division Sunderland in 1949 and Sutton frightening the life out of then top flight Coventry in the late 1980s with a famous victory over the Midlanders, have upset football's status quo. And yet how close Plymouth Argyle came to beating Watford in the 1984 FA Cup semi final and Chesterfield found themselves 90 minutes from an FA Cup Final.

Essentially though football will always find its level and the cabinet makers and engineers, the supermarket shelf stackers and the lorry drivers will never really be able to realistically challenge the established order. Years ago sleepy market towns would readily busy themselves making rosettes and banners while proudly proclaiming local and lifelong, even emotional attachments to their club. Watching those supporters climbing their coaches to travel the length and breadth of the country to support their team always did leave you giggling at the sheer love of the game that football can still command.

Yesterday football was up to its old tricks again. When Liverpool and Everton were drawn together in the third round of the FA Cup we somehow knew that this was no joke. In 1986 and 1989 these fierce Merseyside rivals battled it out for bragging rights in their city in the FA Cup Final and there have been countless occasions in the same competition when both have collided like old school friends at a re-union.

And yet here they were again in this year's third round of the FA Cup. Liverpool, seemingly running away with this season's Premier League, were up against an  Everton side now managed by the unsmiling, lugubrious and grumpy Carlo Ancelotti who once worked wonders with Chelsea but now finds himself lumbered with the demanding and never entirely happy Everton. One of these days Everton will actually discover a manager capable of reviving them to their dizzy heights and will then get up fed up with moaning and groaning about their team's perilous plight. This may be wishful thinking.

For the best part of the first half  Everton had the inspirational Theo Walcott running at his defenders with that ferocious burst of pace that used to distinguish his football at Arsenal. There was Morgan Schneiderlin, still crafting and grafting ceaselessly at the heart of Everton's midfield, Gylfi Sigurdsson forever picking locks alongide Schneiderlin. Everton also had Lucas Digne probing and pestering Liverpool with nuggety persistence. Everton had innumerable opportunties with shots brilliantly blocked by Liverpool keeper Adrian. Frustratingly this was not to be Everton's day.

When Mason Holgate, another Goodison Park whizzkid, powered his header straight at Adrian, Everton must have known that once again Anfield would once again be their bogey ground as Holgate failed to find the target. Everton simply ran out of collective steam and reverted to type rather like kids at a fairground who just can't hit the coconut. For a moment or two you were reminded of Gordon Lee and Harry Catterick, former managers, just snarling helplessly into the middle distance as Everton laboured and toiled.

In the second half though the youngsters and whipper snappers of Liverpool demonstrated the kind of bright eyed vim and vitality that Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley would never have stopped gloating about. From Neco Williams. Nathaniel Phillips and Joe Gomez bringing a precocious maturity to their defensive roles to James Milner now the elder statesman, Liverpool, although outplayed by Everton in the first half, somehow found a second wind in the second half.

With the ever impressive Adam Lallana still re-producing the kind of form that should have brought him further England recognition, Liverpool began to crank up their cultured passing game to the highest level.  Pedro Chrivella, another youthful kid on the block, moved through the gears easily and with Harvey Elliott chasing and dashing after every lost cause, Liverpool re-discovered their season long authority on the game.

But if this was Liverpool's collection of wonderkids on display then it may be safe to assume that manager Jurgen Klopp has got the most outstanding crop of talent ever seen since Sir Alex Ferguson once delivered the golden generation of David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs for their Premier League bow at Manchester United over 20 years ago.

 Liverpool were purring, humming and carving out their neatly precise attacking movements with their familiar and almost genetically short, quickfire passes to feet. After building up a head of steam in the second half, Liverpool were now firmly in control. It seemed only a matter of time before Liverpool would break their deadlock and what a goal it would prove to be. You thought back to Kevin Keegan's debut goal for Liverpool when just a spring chicken against Nottingham Forest.

With Divock Origi at his trickiest and devious, the ball fell to Origi who instantaneously nicked the ball square to the very young Curtis Jones, barely out of football's nappies. Jones, eyes eager and darting all over the Anfield pitch steadied himself, cut inside his defender and then sent the most glorious, curling shot that flew high over Everton goalkeeper Jordan Pickford and into the net. Oh for the exuberance of youth. What a precious asset.

So it was that Livepool have progressed into the fourth round of the FA Cup and a bright eyed and bushy tailed Liverpool young man named Curtis Jones must have thought that all his birthdays had indeed come at once. The FA Cup has produced its most bejewelled moment, when the diamonds glitter and the world seems a much better place to be because of it. If Curtis Jones does reach an FA Cup Final with Liverpool he may care to think back to that one moment of brilliance when the side from the other side of Stanley Park were given their marching orders out of the FA Cup. The FA Cup is still here and it's still shining.