My heart sinks as the number 10 flashes up on the injury time board. It’s been 90 minutes of torture, less two for the goal, and I’m a wreck. No way can I handle another 10 minutes of this.
Hendo, dawdling with the ball, gets a yellow for time wasting. It doesn’t speed him up. Legend.
We’re so close. But we’ve been here before. I know that soul crushing City goal’s coming. It has to. Palace don’t win stuff. It’s not what we do. It is what City does. I wonder which of the light blue twats it’ll be.
The pressure continues unrelenting. De Bruyne takes a shot but pulls it wide. 8 minutes to go.
The drunk guy next to me, my new best friend, breathes words of booze at me. “We’re gonna win it,” he says. “Shut the fuck up,” I respond, my pulse beating even faster.
I turn around and look up toward the Wembley exit, a sea of red and blue in the way, and for a brief second I consider leaving. Before I can decide, the guy in the row behind shoves his face in mine, wraps his arm around my neck and screams about Oli Glasner’s army. I join his shouts and feel my fear subside, the singing brings a glimmer of positivity.
I can’t leave. What the fuck am I thinking? I spent thousands flying from Texas and the Austin Eagles fans to be here now. Stay Woody, stay. We’re just six minutes from achieving the unthinkable.
Unthinkable because I know we’ll still lose it. It’s written in the stars. I look around and see palace fans smiling. Don’t smile, I want to tell them. It’s only gonna make the misery worse when City scores. Don’t they remember Lee Martin in the 59th? Or Juan Mata in the 81st? Can’t they see it’ll be Haaland in the 99th?
95th minute and Sarrs got it in the corner in City’s end. A twinge of glee shoots through me hoping he can keep it there but O’Reilly snatches it and puts it back in our half in a flash.
No more, I plead.
When I first sat down on row 8 near the corner flag I couldn’t believe my view. Now, as I see Mitchell get stitched by Foden close enough for me to put my own foot in, I rue my choice. A seat in the gods would surely be less painful to watch this.
Another minute gone and another attack pummels Palace but this time Hughes leaps in the way and I breathe again. Huuuuuuuuuuuuuuughes.
Four minutes to go. Jesus. I hear someone behind me say he thinks we’ve won it. I turn to him with my finger to my mouth. Four minutes means 8 attacks for City. Plenty of time to lose it. I know it’s coming. Just a matter of when.
I feel something funny inside. A warmth radiating from my gut different to the heartburn already churning in me. It feels good, similar to the relief you feel peeing with a bursting bladder. I wonder what it is but get pulled back to the game by a huge roar from Palace fans. De Bruyne lofted the ball out of touch. 98 minutes on the clock.
The warmth returns and this time it overwhelms me. I look to my wife, Heather, standing next to me, tears flooding her eyes. I turn around and see hundreds of shirtless men sobbing. For one split second I allow myself to believe. Is this our time? Is this the moment I get to say that Crystal Palace are FA Cup winners? Are we finally going to win?
I turn once more to the game and the momentum has shifted. The Palace players seem calm and in control. Their heads are up and they radiate confidence. They can tell. I can tell. And as the realization dawns on me, I allow myself to believe. My amygdala gives way, convinced that the tigers of City are no longer a threat and I break down.
Weeping uncontrollably. I throw one arm around my wife and the other around hammered guy next to me and sing as loud as my lungs will give, joining the cacophony bouncing around Wembley.
I look at the game but it’s clear City are done. 30 seconds to go, Doku drags it pathetically wide and we all know that’s it. The game is done.
WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?
I sink to my chair adopting the brace position and hold on for dear life. I can’t control my shaking. Heather hugs me from above and I look up. I say just two words to her. Two words I have dreamed of saying for the 40 years I have supported Palace. Two words that I didn’t know were in me. Two words that mean I can die happy.
We won.
We won.
I have cried many times since we won (see, I said it again). In fact, as I write this four weeks on I am still crying. The tiniest of reminders will trigger me to take that sharp intake of breath hoping to stop the tears from flowing in public. It never works.
My emotional wellbeing is tied to that day. I can change my state merely by scrolling through match day posts. In moments of anxiety I can pull up the highlights and my burden feels lighter. The moment the whistle blows, Ebbs drops to his knees and the commentator says “There’s a new name on the FA Cup and it’s Crystal Palace” I’m a goner. I wonder how long it will take for that not to affect me this way. I hope never.
I care less about many things now. Are we going to play in Europe? I don’t really care. We won the FA Cup. Will Ebbs stay at Palace? Don’t care. We won the FA Cup. Will Guehi sign another contract? Fuck it. We won the FA Cup. Will Heather divorce me for going on a European tour to the Baltic States on Tuesday nights next year? Whatever. We won the FA Cup. Alright, maybe not that one.
I don’t know what the future holds for Palace and quite frankly as long as we don’t do a Charlton, I don’t really care.
I say this, of course, before the new season has started and the inevitable moment when I lose my shit as we go one down to Sunderland at home in the 85th.
The difference now is that I know how to deal with that. I will search “2025 FA Cup winners” in google and start scrolling.
Thank you Palace.
