The Myth of Hercules and the Mighty Ducks

I am sad to announce the F.A. Cup has died. Somewhere in the early 21st Century the once beloved national treasure passed away in its sleep. It leaves behind a younger brother the League Cup, who has gone by many a nom de plume and successful cousin the Champions League. A memorial to help remember how good it once was will be held annually. Donations can be made to the F.A. who are always willing to receive any good-will of this sort.

I have not watched an FA Cup Final since Michael Owen’s late double secured victory against Arsenal in 2001. It was a strange new world, Wembley Stadium was being torn down and the trophy was moving to Wales. The excitement I had as a child watching Ian Rush knocking down the camera buried in the corner of the net in '86, Keith Houchen's diving header in '87 and Dave Besant palming John Aldridge's penalty away to make history in '88 has been lost. I remember the days fondly. A trip to WH Smiths for the programme aside we did not leave the house, watching for hours as the crowds poured up Wembley Way toward those regal towers. The BBC features beforehand, the player profiles, their road to Wembley and most importantly their FA Cup Final songs. When did those songs stop?

There are many reasons for the dissolving of this passion. Firstly let us not be naive nostalgia paints everything with kindness and excitement. Perhaps there are ten year olds that in a decade's time will fondly remember Ben Watson's 91st minute header for relegated Wigan over behemoths Manchester City and not the other 90 dull minutes that preceded it. 

Television coverage plays its part. Since it moved to Sky the terrestrial coverage has been poor and relies heavily on a captive audience. The change of kick off time to an evening match to secure another chunk of money was also a further chip away at the veneer of its beauty, as was the year Manchester United decided not to be in it. How can a cup be the greatest cup competition if a team, if the most successful team in English football, refuses to play in it? Another problems lies with the rising popularity of the Champions League in english football. Everything has become about qualifying for that elusive cash-cow. A season is a disaster or a success based on qualification even if the difference is only a point. 

The FA Cup fails to move me as an entity anymore, the odd game may excite in isolation but the magic the cup once had has gone. For me the F.A. Cup is dead.

Except, perhaps its not.

Perhaps the magic is hidden and we have to try harder to unearth it.

My father has a similar attitude to football as me. He would watch two dogs kick a ball about in a park and enjoy it. On a Saturday morning in my childhood we would look through the newspaper to see who was playing locally and off we would go to Stamford Bridge, Loftus Road, Elm Park (Reading), Manor Ground (Oxford United), Loakes/Adams Park (Wycombe Wanderers) or lower down into the conference and beyond to Aylesbury, Marlow or Flackwell Heath. This was back in a time when you could watch a team without a season ticket, or pre-booking, or paying more than the money in your pocket. The crowds and of course the grounds differed enormously but it didn't matter to us. The football was relative to the opposition and soon you would swear that the striker would be at a big club soon.

In 1994 one Saturday we went to watch Aylesbury United put Boreham Wood to the sword three goals to one in the 1st Qualifying Round of the F.A. Cup. As we sat in the clubhouse afterwards amongst the players, coaches and supporters my father had an idea: We would follow Aylesbury in the next round and whoever was the victor of that tie we would follow for the next until Wembley or until it became impossible to go any further.

The next round was easy as Aylesbury were at home again and beat Edgware Town two nil, next was an away trip to Baldock and an encounter with another of those young non-league players who we swore would be snapped up soon, but not even England and Sunderland's Kevin Phillips could stop the Mighty Ducks, as Aylesbury scored two without reply.

Another away trip followed to Moor Green in Birmingham. The cars parked by the side of the pitch and many of the supporters opted to stay within them through the torrential rain that blighted the one all draw. The drive home felt like the twenty five minute mark of an apocalypse film when Cruise/Willis/Smith and his family realise the world is ending, which was not the way we envisaged our quest beign curtailed. The replay was a more straight-forward three one win for the Ducks and they had qualified for the 1st Round Proper of the world's greatest club competition. 

The quest was becoming personal. The players were becoming familiar, Bob Dowie (brother of Ian, father of Natasha), centre back and coach would have been the most famous to outsiders but there was plenty of talented players to enjoy. My favourites being play-maker Steve Heard and the man that was born to be a hero, striker Cliff Hercules. The same heroes we watched on the pitch drank with the supporters afterwards, sharing their success as they watched the day's results come in on the TV screen. An old boy sat in the corner propping up the bar telling each player that came in  that he was his man of the match. I sat sipping my flat Dayla Cola not yet realising that the run couldn't last forever. 

The 1st Round brought something unique, an away tie at the only club in the competition that you had to travel to by boat. We caught the supporter's coach down to Portsmouth and took the ferry across the Solent to Newport F.C on the Isle of Wight.  A Hercules double and a rare Pluckrose goal were enough to secure a victory against our european cousins and the celebrating supporters and players drunk the returning ferry dry.

The 2nd Round was a trip to Kingstonian and the glamour of Sky Sports' cameras if only for irregular updates during the game. Ex-Chelsea player Mickey Droy had already seen his Kingstonian team scalp third tier Brighton in the 1st Round and a victory at home to lower league minnows was a formality. But they didn't count on the Mighty Ducks. A four one away victory secured their passage into the round of riches. It was also the birth of the Duck Walk. Hercules' goal against Newport had been celebrated by a mimicking of Jurgen Klinsmann's dive that was popular at Spurs. The 2nd round brought something new, something that represented my father and my F.A Cup run that year, something that brought Aylesbury into common consciousness, however briefly. Although the Duck Walk was an accident, the seven players had waddled along on their knees as the seven dwarves, the truth will never get in the way of a good narrative and soon it was in the national papers and on the TV. The premise was simple when Hercules scored he dropped to his knees and waddled along the pitch, arms bent as fingers hitched into imaginary braces... a look that could be mistaken very easily for wings. As Hercules waddled six of his teammates followed behind in unison. By the next day the country (or at least a few of them) were talking about the Mighty Ducks. The draw was made and Aylesbury were well rewarded with a home game against Queens Park Rangers. As much as I understand the massive financial implications of switching the game from the 4,000 capacity at Buckingham Road to the  18,000 capacity at Loftus Road, it still feels that this is the moment the lower league team ends any chance of an upset. Still non-league clubs have no time for romance and fantasy, they are living hand to mouth and an opportunity like this is incredibly rare.

The 3rd Round for me was the final for me in many ways. There was such a huge sense of occasion for the Aylesbury fans and even perhaps a slight, misguided slither of hope against a QPR side whose mind may well be elsewhere. The Mighty Ducks fought and played well but they were never going to match internationals like Les Ferdinand and Steve Hodge.The result was a flattering (to our biased eyes) four nil and the dream was over. The crowd sang 'Aylesbury, Aylesbury'  to the tune of 'New York, New York' as if they had won. The players slid toward the fans on the bellies lacking Klinsmann's elegance, performed their notorious Duck Walk  and celebrated with their fans, the men, women and children that they shared drinks and tales with each week. To an innocent bystander the scene was confusing as QPR trudged off as if they had lost. 

The fourth round barely bares describing, in one of the dullest games known QPR eked out a one nil win against West Ham due to an Andrew Impey goal. Even writing that brought back horrible flashbacks.

We waited excitedly for the the draw on the radio, not dissimilar to the excellent film Those Glory, Glory Days. Draw day had become an important part of the journey; offering up a glimpse of possible futures. The further on the competition was the more likely we were to catch big teams but the less likely to get tickets. The draw was, as my father had hoped, QPR at home to the winners of the replay between Millwall or more likely his team Chelsea. Could it be that he would follow his own team to victory in the F.A. Cup for the first time since 1970. As we know in life such perfect narratives are for other people. Millwall shocked Chelsea, as they had Arsenal previously and we were faced with QPR against Millwall. The ghost of the fourth round held its dull shadow tight over it successor.

I remember sitting at the game, wondering why Millwall fans had such a bad reputation. They were loud but certainly held none of the threat that many of the matches I watched in the eighties had. The game limped rather tamely to its goalless ending when a penalty was awarded to the home side in the stoppage time. Clive Wilson duly converted and a plastic chair flew past my ear from the stand above, followed by another. Finally I understood Millwall.

The next round I watched from my sofa. QPR had drawn Manchester United away, a trip to one of the biggest teams in the world at one of the best stadiums but unfortunately my sister is a Manchester United fan, from when they were rubbish (the last time) in the late eighties and the ticket was duly hers. I won't pretend that after standing in the monsoon rain at Moor Green or sitting through QPR-West Ham I wasn't incredibly disappointed not to be going to the first glamorous tie, but in hindsight and with the eyes of a father now I understand and agree with the decision. Sharpe and Irwin scored the only goals which very much pleased my sister who was/is in love with the former.

Four teams remained; Manchester United, Tottenham, Everton and Crystal Palace. Tottenham and Everton were drawn to play at Elland Road and our path led us to Villa Park and Crystal Palace. My father and I made many arduous trips around the M25 to Selhurst Park to attend league games in order to qualify for semi-final tickets. Alas tickets were scarce but we were able to source a single ticket for my father to continue his run. The match  was a two-all draw Iain Dowie opening the scoring with a trademark header- the narrative of our journey travelling from Bob in the 1st Round to his brother Iain Dowie in the Final was perfect. In the second half a stunning free kick from Irwin took the tie to extra time where an elegant lob over Schemichel from Chris Armstrong looked to have booked their place in the final until Pallister rose above Southgate and Eric Young with his ninja headband, to equalise and secure the replay.

We were both able to get tickets to the replay thanks in large to the terrible events that preceded the previous tie resulting in the death of a Crystal Palace fan. Most of their fans boycotted the replay and the attendance fell from the 38,000 of the first tie to under 18,000. The threat of violence surrounded the game and both Ferguson and the Palace boss Alan Smith took to the pitch pre-game to call for calm. 

Bruce's header cracked off the bar to give them the lead. and his partner Pallister made it two but the residing memory of the game was Roy Keane's stamp on Gareth Southagate's chest directly in front of our seats which resulted in a melee and a red card for both Keane and Palace's Darren Patterson. Hardly what the already incensed crowd needed. the game finished without any further action to note and Manchester United were to face Everton in the 1994/95 FA Cup Final.

We had resigned ourselves that a single ticket for the Final was going to rare enough and even that was providing frustratingly fruitless. My dad wrote to both clubs, the Daily Mail, who had followed the same path since the Aylesbury- Newport game and a number of other organisations. The Daily Mail wrote a column about our adventure but were unable to help with the elusive ticket to complete the journey. The Road to Wembley would mean nothing if it didn't lead there.  

Our guardian angels came in the form of Aylesbury Unted. Weaving one last stream of their FA Cup magic they produced that small rectangle of paper that would conclude the tale. 

The occasion of the day and indeed our journey was deflated by a bore of a game decided by a solitary Paul Rideout header on the counter attack for the underdogs Everton. A disappointing fizzle.

So there it was the 1st Round Qualifying to the Final and my father had made it. I can't speak for my father but for me, and perhaps because of my decreasing involvement, the journey died after Aylesbury heroically crashed out. The magic, the excitement of the F.A. Cup was not in Abide With Me or in the climbing of the thirty nine steps, but in the clubhouses, in the coach trips, in the pouring rain of Solihull. Football lives in the communal experience not in the corporately framed image we are fed. If we are feeling dissatisfied with modern football and the uncontrollable race toward a non-fan-centric game then all we have to do is step back a few leagues and we can find the game we once loved and that once loved us back. These clubs need us, our support and our money far more than the Premier League clubs who no longer have to rely on entertaining fans into their seats. In the darkness of corporate-led football and Greg Dyke's money making schemes. We need to protect our pyramid.

Don't worry about your heroes you will find more.

I told my father I was going to write about our journey and he said something that struck me as incredibly true. 'Experts will tell you that Keane was better than Steve Heard and Sir Les was better than Hercules but that's not how I remember it.'