CUP FINAL
By J. P. W. MALLALIEU, M.P.
FOR some people—good luck to them—Cup Final day means a trip to London, sightseeing, a...couple of beers, and home by the evening train. But for some others it is a social occasion. They don't watch football either. But they must see the Final. It is the thing to do. They ought to be prosecuted. So ought the people who let them have the precious tickets.
Because of them, real fans are kept outside, hearing the crowd's roar, but not knowing whether to hope or fear. These fans have followed the team from that last Saturday in August when the crowd sat in shirt-sleeves and the grass was green. They have followed the team through the wet and cold of December until the grass has turned to mud, followed them groaning, followed them protesting, followed them cheering, but always followed them hoping that, this year, the team will have a run in the Cup. Now the spring is here, their team has had a run in the Cup, their team is at Wembley, flash- ing over the velvet turf. But they are outside ; and the ticket touts want £6 for a 3s. 6d. ticket. And all the time there are people inside who don't care which team wins, who don't know the rules
and who chatter. • It is an agonising tragedy. Not that the game will be a good one. True, there was Pompey-Wolves in 1939 and Arsenal-Huddersfield in 193o. They were fine. But the usual Final is terrible. The tragedy is that the fan is part of the club. Saturday after Saturday he has known the feeling you get on football grounds, that all men are equal, that all men are honest and that, until the game begins, all men are brothers. Right through the season he has given his advice, without charge, to countless referees.; he has exhausted his nerves on those long-drawn-out " ees " and " oos " and " ah's " that betoken a close shave, or thrown his whole being into that ecstatic shout that betokens sudden triumph. But now he is outside Wembley, outside the club, outside the deep communal delight of unthinking, whole-hearted passionate bias.
And I am inside. Normally, I am only inside when Huddersfield are playing, as they did play five times between the wars—five times between the wars and only once an honest referee. But though it is not Huddersfield today, I still claim a seat by right. Always, con- sistently and violently, I support the more northerly of the two teams. True, in 1931, when West Bromwich played Birmingham, this took some working out. But on Saturday there was no doubt. Burnley, after all, are a side from Lancashire, which even prejudiced observer's admit to be the second-best county. Moreover, is not Alan Brown, the Burnley captain, fresh from playing with Hudders- field Town, where he learned his football? So up the claret and blue.
Colour? Where is it? There are some flowers in front of the Royal Box. But the Guards Band is still in khaki. And you women of England! I know you soon tire of yourselves in one bright colour and haven't the coupons to replace it. But couldn't you, please, do better than brown? Alongside the men you made the steep sides of Wembley Stadium look like the Yorkshire moors in late autumn when the bracken has died. The colour is not visible. But it is audible.
At one end of the ground, packed high and tight, are re,000 3s. 6d. supporters of Burnley, with their rattles. There were times during the game when the rattles were silent. But when Burnley pressed, when for example they forced a corner, or when, as happened six times, a Burnley forward broke through and had only Sam Bartram, the Charlton goalkeeper, to beat, the rattles roared. Far away, on the opposite side of the ground, were the Charlton three-and-six- pennies, also with rattles, and also, in the case of accident, with a silver cup of their own. As things turned out they did not need it. But they might have done.
Their team did only two things; it played—for nine seconds—the only football in the game, sweeping the ball from one end of the field to the other without a Burnley man touching it. It also scored a goal, but of that more later.
For the rest of the match, their manager, Jimmy Seed, sat silent and still on the touch-line, half-smoking cigarette after cigarette while Burnley made. and lost chances. Six minutes from the start, Morris, the Burnley inside forward, found himself through the defence. He raced towards Bartram, arid as Bartram came out to meet him, he shot—yards over the bar. Jimmy Seed lit another cigarette. Minutes later, Harrison, the Burnley centre forward, screwed in a shot without great power but with plenty of spin, and Bartram, going the wrong way, twisted himself to pull it off the goal-line with one hand. Jimmy Seed stubbed his cigarette and lit another.
Early in the second half, Bartram leaped to a cross-shot, missed, fell on his face, and Burnley's Morris slammed the ball back. It hit the cross-bar. Jimmy Seed let his cigarette fall and lit another. Later still, Harrison at last beat Phipps, the Charlton centre-half, and raced for goal with Phipps on his heels. In the penalty area he fell, and twelve thousand Burnley fans roared for a penalty. I begin to roar, too, and then remember that referee Wiltshire is a friend of mine, that I have seen him handle five games this season without a mistake. Good heavens! Backing the referee? I must be slipping. I roar for a penalty. But the referee is deaf as well as blind. Jimmy Seed smokes on.
And so to extra time. With six minutes only to go, something decisive was done, and the man who did it was little Duffy, the Charlton outside left. Duffy has all the tricks. When trying to beat an opponent, he weaves and waggles his legs all ways. He even diverts a waiting opponent by suddenly pointing over his shoulder. On Saturday these tricks got Duffy nowhere. But a sudden swing of Duffy's foot got Charlton the Cup. Robinson, the Charlton right-winger, had the ball just outside the Burnley penalty area. For once, the Burnley left back dithered and let him through. At once, Brown, that impeccable centre-half, ran across to stop the gap. But Robinson centred the ball. Heads bobbed up in the Burnley penalty area like fish trying to snap an evening fly. They all missed, and Duffy, lying back, swung his foot. For seconds thereafter he stood still. Then suddenly he threw his hands in the air and ran like mad with the Charlton team after him. Jimmy Seed just smoked, and when Welsh, the Charlton captain, waved to him, he waved back impatiently as though to say, " Get on with it— anything can happen yet."
How nearly right he was! With less than sixty seconds to go, Burnley got a corner. And as the wing forward prepared to take it, every Burnley rattle in the stadium gave of its best. The ball sailed slowly up and over in a delicate parabola, and despairing heads leaped to it. One—a Burnley head—got it, and sent it—just over the bar. And that was that.
Or not quite. Late that evening, in our hotel, the lift-man said he had a customer in his lift who thought his room number was 6r. But room 61 was occupied. So the customer was spending his time travelling up and down in the lift. We roused him ; and, under pressure, he remembered that 61 was the number, not of his, room in a London hotel, but of his house in a Burnley road. We took him to Euston and saw him on a north-bound train. Up the claret and blue!
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