I didn’t write anything after the semi-final because it wasn’t the end of the story. I didn’t write anything in 2016 because I wanted to forget the day ever happened. I wanted to write something now because I want to help set those memories in stone forever.
I set the 2016 final to record and promptly deleted the recording when I got home. Until this week I’d never seen any of it apart from the odd replay of Jason Puncheon’s goal. I couldn’t tell you how poor some of Clattenburg’s decisions actually were, I didn’t know just how far we let Wayne Rooney waltz around for the equaliser or that it went in off Joel Ward. I only know this now because of some of the footage shown in the build up to the game. Our cup runs since then had been largely forgettable. And let’s face it—who really cares about the cup anymore?
On to more recent times. The turnaround under Oliver Glasner last season was remarkable. We arguably played the best football I’ve ever seen from a Palace team across a seven-game stretch. The caveat, of course, was that we played several teams with little left to play for, and we had the most talented player I’ve ever seen in a Palace shirt pulling the strings. He eventually left—allowing Harry Kane to finally win a trophy—and a few others departed too, with replacements only arriving late in the window.
It’s fair to say that we started slowly in terms of points tally as the new players integrated into the side and a couple of the more expensive signings didn’t hit the ground running. But it was clear we were doing the right things—we just weren’t getting the rub of the green. We had a decent League Cup run, bowing out in the quarter-finals, and then, thanks to some favourable draws in the FA Cup, we found ourselves at Fulham with a place at Wembley on the line. Underdogs? Sure. But we won 3-0. Wembley awaited, and next came Aston Villa. Again, unfancied. Again, a 3-0 win. Glasner clearly has Emery’s number.
I hadn’t seriously considered we might win the cup prior to the Fulham game but I was getting a feeling. Maybe it was all the people saying our name was on the cup this year – several voices from the Five Year Plan Fanzine Discord seemed convinced. That’s not really me though, I rarely feel confident and generally find comfort in expecting the worst while hoping for the best. Too many years of disappointment and watching games sober will do that to you. I started to entertain the idea in the build-up to the final but we were playing Man City. I started to entertain the idea as the final drew closer—but we were playing Man City. If anyone asked whether we could win, I said we’d need to be at our best, they’d have to be slightly off theirs, and we’d need a few big decisions to go our way. It didn’t quite go like that—but it wasn’t far off. I’m not quite at the match yet but just hang on for a couple more paragraphs and I will get there.
I’ve had a season ticket since 2018/19. For most of that time, I’ve travelled solo, turned up, taken my seat, and left. I’ve chatted with people from the Discord group and other platforms, but games were a solo pursuit.
I’m one of the more talkative ones in the group—but also one of the more pessimistic, to the point that some probably think it’s an act. This season, though, I’ve been welcomed into a group that actually exists beyond the online world. It started when I bumped into a chap named Nobby and his son Sam on the way to Selhurst Park, and then occasionally met them at the Pawsons Arms pre-match. That’s become more of a routine this season. I don’t usually go to away games, but Sam and Nobby do, and through them, a wider circle of away-goers has opened up to me—and they’ve become true friends.
Back to the final. I tried to follow more or less the same routine as for the semi-final because despite what some on the Discord group will tell you jinxing is very real and why risk it? I walked the dog in the morning, not really feeling that nervous, I’ve got the travel to think about and we were playing the best team in the world—if they brought their A-game, it might not even be close. Let’s just have a good day out, I told myself. Maybe I was kidding myself—but that’s how it felt.
I dressed almost identically to the semi-final, and set off on my usual route via Maidenhead to the tube. The pre-game pub: the Jackalope, tucked away in a quiet Marylebone street. On the way, I noticed some scaffolding by a company called Zenith—sharing its name with a minor trophy we’d once won at Wembley. Maybe the stars really were aligning.
The pub was the same as for the Villa game. The away travel pub expert, Mark, had arranged for it to open early just for us. He was determined to meet the agreed minimum of 12 patrons with the landlord—and when I arrived, a decent crowd was already gathering. Mark himself turned up at 10:59.
I won’t remember everyone, but we had myself, Mark, Sam Nobby and his niece Liv, Lopes, Duncan and his family, Mike and his, Ed (who isn’t really an Everton fan – long story), Robbie, a group of Swedes and a lovely couple who’d travelled from the States especially for the game Tyler and Erin. Others drifted in and out—including the irrepressible Julian, who’d been saying our name was on the cup since before round one. I do believe he genuinely thought it too, his belief was unshakeable.
I have a few conversations with people and actually find myself daring to dream and force myself to catch myself. In separate conversations we discuss what winning the cup also means. Palace legend and club captain Joel Ward lifting the cup with current captain Marc Guehi. Playing in the Europa league. Being back at Wembley for the Community Shield. The latter one particular ran through my head because that’s a game at Wembley I could take my son Alex too if he’s keen, plenty of children his age at the game but I’m not sure he’d have enjoyed it and in all honesty for a game of that magnitude I am honest enough to admit I would have been unfit to parent him. But a game that doesn’t matter that is really a celebration of the fact that we’d won something at last? – that would be ideal.
I articulated it in the pub – may have been to Mark and Ed but it doesn’t matter – but I commented on how the team have faith in the manager but a core of the squad has proper Faith. Now that’s not my bag but you will see a core of our team pray and look to the sky before games, after goals, after victories and so on. They’re not shy about it and it’s out there. Some will reference His plan in interviews. hey went into this game believing it was meant for them—if they gave their all. History tells us that going into battle believing a higher power is on your side is a powerful motivator.
Being an astute chap Mark spotted that I was getting a bit antsy and decided to give everyone a ten-minute warning to depart the pub and then made us leave after five. I was glad. I was ready.
The journey to Wembley was smooth. One moment stood out: Robbie spotted a distressed child on the tube and knelt to give him his Palace cap. The kid smiled. Settled. We’d joked about karma-farming in the build-up—maybe that moment tipped the scales.
Walking down Wembley Way and the vibe I got was that the Man City fans were making a lot more noise than the Villa fans had three weeks earlier. We were soon inside the ground and while the rest of my merry band dissipated to find more liquid courage I headed directly to the entrance to block 139. Not to find my site just yet but to meet up with Alex (another member of the podcast/discord group but someone else who has become a good friend). We’d met there for the semi-final so why not do it again. He had once again come with his own large group but we made time for that last one to one chat before we went in. It was pretty close to kick off by the time I actually took my seat.
I say my seat, officially it was assigned to Robbie during the booking process but he agreed to swap due to my paranoia about these things. Worked out for him actually as he got to stand next to someone even more famous than he is. Robbie might not consider himself famous, he’s in musicals and has had some pretty big roles—and let me tell you, it’s intimidating screeching “Glad All Over” next to someone who can actually sing. As for the more famous person – just a blockbuster movie director.
The Palace fans outdid themselves at the start and the usually black clad HF group, wearing white for this one, prepared the most amazing display. Obviously when you’re in the middle of it you can’t really see what it says or what the image is clearly but the message is out there to the opposition fans, the players and the watching world and the message was one of the fans are in this together and we’re going to do our bit.
I’m not turning this into a tactics discussion but Pep Guardiola had picked a very attacking line up and maybe based on some comments from our manager, or perhaps just being Pep, something very different to how he’s set his teams out against us in recent times. Man City dominate the ball for the opening 15 minutes before we score the most typical Palace ‘25 goal you could imagine. Front to back in seconds with what I think was only our second visit to their half and the first touch in the penalty area. The celebrations were suitably loud but that nagging doubt of “have we scored too early” must have been on a lot of minds.
Then the game’s biggest moment in the eyes of the watching world, we initially see a VAR check for possible Red Card go up on the board and my first thought was a City player had kicked one of ours but only after it was cleared and people get on their phones do we realise what had happened. Looking back at the time it seems that most of the live commentaries on TV and Radio were that the decision not to send off Dean Henderson was the correct one but by half time the narrative had changed to he’d been very lucky. In the ground I don’t think it was such a big story at the time.
Shortly afterwards City are awarded a penalty, some debate over whether it was or wasn’t, debate over the choice of taker, debate over whether the keeper should have been on the pitch to face it. But for me what is being missed is just how good a save it was. Marmoush’s penalty was a decent penalty, hit with power and would have gone into the corner of the goal, the kind of penalty that goes in 9 times out of 10. In the moments before the kick Sam is next to me facing the other way, I’m sat down for the only time during the game just staring laser focussed at the ball. I’m not sure what I was trying to achieve but half a second later a huge cheer as the ball is saved followed by an even bigger one when the rebound is gathered. I think it was bigger than for the goal. Half time soon comes.
The concourse is where the Wifi works and what happened is analysed. I’m having this conversation with two people I’ve never met before and I wouldn’t be able to pick them out of a line now. But we’re all focussed on what happens next. We have 45 minutes to go. We’ll need another goal. We’ll need the next goal. I believe I mention that it’s the longest we’ve ever led in an FA Cup final.
The half starts and the talk is how the next 45 might feel more like 450 but apart from a few crosses across the box very early on the time ticks away steadily. The big moment of the second half comes on about the hour mark I think.
A long throw into the box, a ball bouncing around and Daniel Munoz nips in and puts us two goals up. I believe the common parlance is “LIMBS!”. The noise is deafening and its pandemonium in the crowd, people are hugging seemingly everyone in a 5m radius and more. I’m sure it logistically isn’t possible but it felt that way. Before I can even remind myself how much I hate leading 2-0 at times there are notifications going round that it’s offside. We’d resigned ourselves to it at least 30 seconds before an official announcement. For a glorious minute it was 2-0 but it’s only 1-0 and also our captain is leaving the field injured. This is the antithesis of the penalty save moment when we’ve gone from 1-1 in our heads to retaining the lead. In hindsight that goal not counting might have been a good thing – City might have thrown the kitchen sink at us at that point and our players may have let their levels drop a notch. A goal to make it 2-1 would have given them all the momentum. The game continues.
I comment to Sam to my right that we’re only 20 minutes away and I think my nerves really start to kick in at that point. When JP Mateta leaves the field, I leave the stand. I just need a couple of minutes to calm myself. Steadily the time ticks on and as Adam Wharton is helped off “it’ll be 6 minutes if we’re lucky but I reckon more like 8” I say to someone – might have been Robbie, might have been Sam, might have been to no-one in particular. I’m pretty sure it was out loud at least. I get a text from Kathryn saying it’s 10 minutes about a minute before the board goes up in the stadium. I’ve already internally groaned before the massively audible groan takes over. This is where I have to make a confession. On 92 minutes I left the stand again, my mouth was so dry I needed something to drink. I wandered along the concourse in no sort of a rush listening to the noise from the crowd and getting texts from Kathryn telling me to remember to breathe and with updates on the time remaining. Apparently, Dean was time wasting a little, surprised Pep didn’t mention it.
There must be 100 like-minded souls on that concourse. All ashen faced looking more scared than hopeful. Older fans staring blankly ahead, father’s trying to calm children while internally probably at least as emotional. I find the drinking water; some fan is making it his job to just repeatedly fill cups and hand them to people. I drink in very small sips a sI walk back to my entrance. “90 secs” left says the text. I want to go back in but imagine it goes wrong now; I would be selfish to risk ruining it for everyone inside. “60” follows. A loud roar from our end, not a goal but it’s good news I think to myself. I’m at the gate just out of sight of the pitch and someone sees me and gives me a thumbs up and beckons me in. “30, they missed” comes the slightly delayed text. And with that I hear the whistle. I’m back in my seat seconds later – everyone is hugging and cheering. But this is different to a goal. This isn’t that. The energy isn’t the same. Equally it’s not the same as when you’ve just taken 3 points in a tight game. This is relief but combined with jubilation combined with disbelief. It’s not a feeling I think I’ve ever experienced. In fact, possibly not an experience any of those Palace fans every have. The City fans – probably not since “Aguerrooooooooo”.
It’s over. We’ve won the Football Association Challenge Cup. Ok it’s the FA Cup but I like giving it the full title. We have won the most prestigious cup competition in the world and nothing UEFA or FIFA have to offer will convince me otherwise. Six wins. One goal conceded. Several head injuries.
We watch the players collapse to the ground probably in a similar mind set to us at that point. The celebrations continue. Player’s songs are sung. Cups are lifted. That’s not unusual but what is different is the sheer level of emotion – so many in tears. Some immediately, some later. But by the time we left an hour after full time, I don’t think anyone in the Palace end hadn’t cried.
I get accosted on the concourse with a big hug I don’t see coming – it’s Alex again clearly looking for more friends to share the moment with. Outside the ground some people are heading away, some are looking dazed and some just aren’t quite ready to leave and move on with the rest of their life. They just wanted to stay in that moment a little longer. We bump into Rob outside – we embrace and agree to disagree on the whole jinxing thing once more. I forgive him for trying to tempt the fates while knowing he doesn’t care a jot and thinks I’m a bit mental.
We returned to the Jackalope – I should’ve gone home—but I needed a bit more time among friends. We keep joking about the fact that we’re no longer a team who hasn’t won anything. All those daydreams I tried to push to the back of my head 8 hours earlier can now be freely discussed. I feel content that it’s my time once Mark has been persuaded to finish his Tequila shot that he clearly didn’t really want.
On the journey back I think of a lot of things but family is a big one. Grateful that my own family let me do this and understand how much it means to me but also the wider Palace family. I love that these people have embraced a glass half empty Welshman as one of their own. I lucked in to picking a team back when I was a child that have turned out to be the best fan bases in the country and these two Wembley games have proven that in spades. Being a Palace fan is an honour. A privilege. And while I’ve only ever been to there for football—I am, without question, South London and Proud.