The FA Cup Final that never was but still could be.

The FA Cup Final that never was but still could be.

Today marks what would have been one of football's most high profile days. It would have been one of football's most prestigious days, its blue riband day, its day of singular significance, magical memories, one club's golden day in the sun, an iconic day of global renown, millions of TV and radio listeners and watches enchanted by its enduring charms and almost genetically attached to the Beautiful Game because their grandparents, uncles, cousins and distant ancestors were also besotted with football and everything the game represented.

The occasion is the FA Cup Final, almost a sporting byword for the finest that football can ever offer by way of a conclusion and send off to the previous Premier League season. It is the signature event of the footballing calendar, the decorative flourish, the bow on the cake box, the full stop without any commas or semi- colons because football does love to finish its season- or so it would seem.

Sadly and perhaps tearfully the FA Cup Final, due to be staged today at another expectant and powerfully vociferous Wembley Stadium, is not to be because of the worldwide pandemic disease that is Covid 19. Now we all know that owing to extenuating circumstances all sport has been, understandably, either cancelled and postponed but for some of us its very absence lent the whole of this Saturday afternoon a pitiful poignancy, a sorrowful ache in the heart and the kind of feeling that only the most hardcore and loyal football supporter could ever relate to.

Of course it isn't the end of the world because, as seems more and more likely the FA Cup Final will be delayed until perhaps a week before the next football season and that's perfectly alright. Then of course the FA Cup Final will be staged amid that special atmosphere more reminiscent of a municipal library where people invariably tell you to be quiet anyway. We can hardly wait for this year's Cup Final because this year it will be inherently unique. This year the Cup Final may be played behind closed doors so let's all dance from the rooftops. We've got to see this.

It'll be the first FA Cup Final to be played against that traditional backdrop of a couple of barking dogs, an oasis of empty plastic Wembley seats and a couple of very stern, kindly and affable policemen and women patrolling the touchlines. How we've longed for this moment. Every so often the silence at Wembley will be rudely interrupted by a couple of planes going to somewhere. But the travel industry will be up and running by then so we can rest easy.

But it's the fundamental concept of an FA Cup Final possibly being played behind closed doors that still blows your mind. The Cup Final is the one day in the football calendar designed exclusively for football supporters, reserved specifically for the fans with their multi- coloured flags and banners, the swaying scarves, the fan homage to their favourite players, their handsomely rewarded stars and idols. It is an occasion tailor- made for football supporters and therein lies your grievance.

The fans are football's life blood, blood supply, its limbs and muscles, its arteries and veins, its essence, perhaps the one striking feature of the day that gives the FA Cup Final its colour, its all singing, all dancing charm, its drama, background noise, its glorious influence, its plot and characterisation, the twists and turns of fate and above all those intriguing changes of patterns and shapes.

Without its supporters football is rather like a birthday party without any of the invited guests, a West End musical simply played out for the benefit of the orchestra only and nobody else. It is a classical music or pop concert with none of those hysterically adoring fans who have paid through the nose for a ticket. It is an empty school classroom, a shop with no customers and, it has to be said, ultimately humiliating. It is a pub without lager and ale, a shopping mall with the shutters up and, in a nutshell, a joke, a derisory charade. It is a pathetically demoralising scenario that must surely never be given another thought.

What happened to the good, old days when the FA Cup Final was simply TV driven. You surfaced from bed at breakfast time, flung aside the bed covers, racing down to the living room, frantically switching on the telly before immersing yourself in the pre-match FA Cup pre-amble. There was the famous build- up to the Cup Final, the two teams travelling to the game on their respective coaches and being interviewed by both the BBC and ITV because in those days we had to make do with three channels and that was good enough for us. This was entrancing TV, right on TV, fabulous TV with bells and whistles.

Then, once the players had arrived at the old Wembley Stadium they gingerly trotted off the coach before heading for the dressing rooms and then traipsing across those lush green acres with their impeccably tailored suits, carnations on their lapels, natty hairdos of the day and a copy of the Cup Final programme firmly held between their hands.

The FA Cup then abandoned itself to showbiz celebrity silliness, tomfoolery and flim flammery. Comedians and actors were summoned for their nostalgic turns for the camera, the days when as kids they would faithfully cling onto rickety terraces with rosettes on their coats and that lovely, cacophonous rattle that belonged at an FA Cup Final.

Finally there was that spine- tingling moment half an hour before the game when the massed bands would strike up with those unforgettable strains of Abide With Me and a hundred twirling batons would capture our hearts. Roughly quarter of an hour before the Cup Final the tensions would rise like the steam pouring from a pressure cooker, an all- pervasive intensity would spread across North London and the supporters were in their element. And who could blame them. This was, after all, their day.

And therein lies the crux of the problem for those of us who still regard football as one of sport's great spectator events. Perhaps we've missed a point but since when was the last time an FA Cup Final was played out to an audience of hungry, inquisitive pigeons, perhaps a flock of seagulls and a smattering of people wearing surgical masks. Truly incredible. Football for the masses or maybe not. You could always close your eyes at home and feign interest but the hard truth is that football, until it comes to its senses, will continue to behave like the spoilt kid who expects to get everything and then finds that it may be asking for too much.

Still here we are on Cup Final day and Anonymous FC are about to play extra time with Totally Invisible FC. Those blank, faceless and emotionless Wembley seats are beginning to look very sorry for themselves and at this rate the referee and assistant linesman or woman may be in need of some matches to keep their eyes open. This game is destined to peter out in some snoozefest, soporific goal-less draw. Never mind, at least they made the effort.  At some point the referee's whistle may have to blow if only to break the stultifying tedium on the pitch. It may be that even the ballboys may have to be provided with some entertainment because this Cup Final is one very boring anti climax and a profound disappointment. Bring on the cheerleaders with their pom- poms.

Anyway we could always assemble once again at perhaps Hackney Marshes because the FA are so determined to play out the rest of the football season at a neutral venue. We adore the FA Cup Final because it used to be, in the historic past tense, the one game throughout the footballing calendar where everybody seemed to take part whether you were in the crowd or at home. For some of us the FA Cup seemed to lose its romance when Barbara Cartland passed away and David Coleman was at his most scintillatingly vocal and utterly precise in his timing.

For now though it's time to forget about the FA Cup Final because that's for another day and another month whenever they might be. Who knows we could be celebrating this year's Cup Final in the 25th century on a misty, fog shrouded February afternoon with snow on the ground. We are rubbing our hands in anticipation. Oh yes and the kick off for the game will be shrouded in mystery because we'll all have got fed up just hoping that it might take place. Roll on whenever!