Cup Final

By J. P. W. MALLALIEU, M.P.

THE Great Central Railway, I have heard, was built that well-to-do and leisurely-minded people from the middle of England could travel to Lord's like gentlemen. During the winter Marylebone Station looked like a country house when the family are not in residence. The station staff gossiped from nine until six, making little jobs for themselves with a casual duster. That apart, the station was settled in reposeful dignity.

But in summer-time, on match days, about eleven o'clock, it bustled expectantly as though the family were- moving in. And by and by the family arrived—retired clergymen in panama hats, elderly squires who wondered if this over-arm bowling was quite the thing, a few ladies with smelling salts in case the heat became oppressive and, of course, in the school holidays, the young gentle- men in blazers. They were all gently decanted by discreet trains which then meandered off into the country to kill time until seven that evening.

All this was before they took to playing Cup Finals at Wembley Stadium. These Cup Finals have had a terrible effect on Marylebone. Things happen there which would have turned the softly mellowed brick of the old station scarlet with shame. Queues form at the booking-office, trains hustle each other in and out with ill-bred haste and rather vulgar efficiency. No one can get a seat, nobody shows respect to first-class ticket-holders and the air is full of rude noises. You can almost hear the station protesting that times are not what they were, that they'll be running cheap day excursions next Why, she says, they're turning me into nothing better than a main-line terminus.

Last Saturday I saw a relic of old Marylebone days. He wore black coat, striped trousers and wing collar. His bowler, unlike any other on the station that day, was neither striped nor brightly coloured, but just black. He glared fiercely through his pince-nez at the dinner-bells, the rattles and the outsize rosettes ; he seemed to be reminding himself to complain at the next board meeting that that station-master fellow had failed to bow him into his compartment, had failed not merely to bow but to appear at all. In the mean time, and in the absence of the station-master, he'd use his umbrella, which had never been unfurled against the rain, to prod these people out of his way.

There was, of course, no seat for him. Already the backs of standing passengers were protruding through open windows. He prodded at one such back, dusted the door-handle and strode at the compartment as though it was empty. Someone forced the door shut behind him. Seconds later, first his umbrella, then his face, appeared through the window. One hand was struggling to extract itself from his coat pocket. The hand broke free at last, and it too emerged through the window holding an enormous whistle. Without further warning this relic of old Marylebone blew violently on

his whistle, paused, shouted " Up the Arsenal!," then blew another blast. He was trying to fix a red favour to his lapel as the train

drew out. I shall remember this Cup Final by him and by him alone On the game itself the experts are much divided. I exclude from consideration the London evening papers, which kept to the best traditions of local journalism. Readers of these papers soon found

that Arsenal were playing football of unsurpassed brilliance, but had more difficulty in discovering against which club this football was being played. Of the national papers a few said that this was about the best final ever. More said it was good. Others said it was just plain dull. I will give you my view in a moment.

Where there is no disagreement is on the fact that the pre-match atmosphere at Wembley was more like the old off-season atmosphere at Marylebone. Perhaps the rain did it. For the first time in years it rained or rather, since " rained " is an active, almost dramatic, word, it is better to say that 'it drizzled with boring evenness. The big crowd, usually so gaily expectant in the warm spring sunshine, sloshed moodily about in puddles. The singing of " Abide With Me " was never more subdued, nor was a Cup Final crowd ever more silent during the game itself.

I cannot, either, remember a Cup Final crowd which was so uniformly colourless. Of course the drizzle had much to do with this, since it drove bright dresses and suits under the cover of drab mackintoshes. But even worse, I think, was the fact that, because both Arsenal and Liverpool normally play in red, both had to change colours for this game, so that their supporters had to wear favours which for them had no meaning. An Arsenal fan was not himself with an umbrella of white and gold ; and if a Liverpool fan obstinately stuck to his own true red, he might, heaven help him, be taken for a supporter of Arsenal. So many fans wore no favours at all, which was tantamount to traipsing around naked. Even the Guards Band were in rain-soaked grey. Only Swindin, the Arsenal goalkeeper, with his jumper of vivid red, and the Liverpool trainer, with his vivid red trousers, kept defiantly to their rightful tradition.

There were exciting and delightful moments in the game. Arsenal's Lewis, in the eighteenth minute of each half, scored a goal which was the epitome of football art. The first-half goal was particularly memorable. The ball came through the air to Leslie Compton standing near the centre circle. He headed it across field to Barnes, who pushed it up to the point of a triangle where stood Logie. Just as Logie trapped the ball, Goring, the Arsenal centre forward, ran off to the right, drawing the Liverpool centre half with him. Into the open space so created, Logie projected a smooth, grass-rolling twenty-yard pass and Lewis, coming, it seemed, from nowhere, slid this pass into the Liverpool net. Liverpool, too, provided excitement, as when a centre from Payne was fisted on to the Arsenal crossbar and thence dropped on the line waiting for someone to kick it over. Swindin got that one in the nick of time by a backward dive.

But the game as a whole was not exciting. Almost from the beginning it was clear that Liverpool's inside forwards and wing halves were having a poor day. That meant weakness and open spaces in midfield. That made a Liverpool defeat inevitable. So there was little tension. " Like the rainclouds the game rolled along inevitably. I felt no great distress for the newsreel cameraman whose duties, all afternoon long, compelled him to keep his eyes on the Royal Box and his back to the play. He at least missed several performances which I would have liked to have missed too.

Before the match Arsenal knew that the man they must watch most closely was Liddell, Liverpool and Scotland's flyer. If he got loose, anything might happen. He must not get loose. I remember how, years ago, one tough but not particularly skilful Oxford wing faced a much more skilful but rather less tough wing from Cambridge. In the first minute, acting on instructions, the Oxford man tackled his opponent so hard that both finished in the straw. Even fiercer than the tackle was the glare that accompanied it. Thereafter the glare was enough. No further tackles were needed. I consider such tactics fair.

But on Saturday I saw tactics which were unfair. The first time Liddell got the ball an Arsenal defender's foot got the man, not the ball. Free kick to Liverpool. The next time he got the ball he was tripped. Free kick to Liverpool. The next time he got the ball his face collided with an Arsenal fist. The referee missed this one. So it went on while Liddell, and Liverpool, persistently tried to play football.' In' terms of football morality I am no better than I should be. The best I can say for myself is that I set my face steadfastly against fouling by my own team except where it is absolutely necessary and that I set my face against fouling by my opponents except in my own penalty area when the referee is watching. But I don't like fouling by any team in Cup Finals and, thank goodness, veryieldom see it.

Were the winners once again " Lucky " Arsenal? No. Just slightly dirty.