And so it proved.But, hey, that’s the timeless appeal of the FA Cup final for you.. Eamon Dunphy’s enemies insist he is a bitter, twisted little man who habitually takes a contrary stance and hates anyone to be successful. The reason, they assert, is that he never made it at Manchester United. It does not concern being sued over one of his strident newspaper columns, his TV show being pulled prematurely, Jack Charlton wanting to punch his lights out or even how 50 years of smoking might be affecting his body.

His nightmare, literally, is being dropped by Millwall.”If I have a bad dream, it’s always about being left out of the side and standing outside the manager’s office at the old Den,” he says as we meet in Dublin on the eve of the FA Cup final between the two clubs which did most to shape the man to whom it is said no one in Ireland is indifferent. In the Royal Box, the Duchess of York chatted to FA Secretary Ted Croker, while FA chairman Bert Millichip straightened his tie.As a fan, I was metaphorically settling back into my chair for the kick-off. As a reporter, I was being ushered backstage once more to talk to the turnstile operators.En route, we heard the stadium detonate in a roar Someone had scored, just a couple of minutes into the game. (It turned out to be Clive Allen, for Tottenham.) And I thought: “Typical. That will probably be the only goal of the game and I’ve been here all day, and now I’ve missed it.”At G turnstile, Coventry fans without tickets were making half-hearted efforts to bribe entry: “Come on.. for £20.. for £25… Just as it had when I watched my first Cup finals on television – West Bromwich Albion, in unfamiliar white, beating the favourites Everton in 1968, and then Manchester City, in unfamiliar red and black stripes, beating the underdogs Leicester a year later – the occasion was making my stomach clench.Three o’clock approached, and HM Royal Marines loitered in the players’ tunnel, Abide With Me clipped to tuba, trumpet and trombone. The turf itself felt like luxury pile carpet with a rubber underlay…As I chatted to those playing supporting roles in football’s annual finale, the sense of anticipation built.

Squatting by the halfway flag you could barely see the tops of the advertisements opposite, such was Wembley’s sumptuous camber, which dropped 11 inches from centre circle to touchline. “They might as well be pissing up a rope here,” he added.Next we were speaking to the youthful head groundsman, Steve Tingley, whose previous task had been to keep the Eastbourne tennis courts in trim. Griffiths wasn’t satisfied with the quality of the work and was soon demanding stiffer brooms from someone at the other end of his walkie-talkie. No tie.
Which wasn’t all right with Wembley’s then chief executive David Griffiths, the former Army man whom I was accompanying in order to write a behind-the-scenes newspaper piece.As the frowning ex-officer slid open his desk drawer I had a vision of him pulling out an old service revolver and showing me how the Army dealt with slackers such as myself. Instead he produced a tie which, notwithstanding an extremely unattractive brown and cream design, I secured swiftly around my neck.Suitably dressed, I was able to march out alongside the man charged with getting every backstage detail of the 1987 FA Cup final correct. It was more of a forced march, to be honest, as Griffiths barked and questioned, and queried and harried his way around the stadium complex.Here were men sweeping the steps to the banqueting hall which Mrs Thatcher and Neil Kinnock, among others, were to mount later that afternoon.

I know, only too well, the fear of missing out on an FA Cup final appearance. Seventeen years ago I turned up at Wembley on the big day and was almost sent home because I had the wrong kit. Andrew Flintoff replaced Jones at the Pavilion End, but this failed to prevent Cairns moving ahead of his childhood hero with an effortless clip over deep midwicket’s head. On seeing the ball drop into the Mound Stand, the right-hander’s face lit up.. In 62 scintillating minutes of cricket the tourists’ premier all-rounder smashed England’s bowlers to every corner of this famous old arena.The 33-year-old waited until he had reached his half-century before he began to scatter the crowd, but once he found his range those seated in the first 10 rows of every stand needed to keep their eyes on the game.The first six was a vicious pull off Simon Jones, but it was the second maximum, a sliced drive off Stephen Harmison over backward point, which allowed Cairns to equal Richards’ record of 84 sixes.