This was always my fear. Despite a resurgence in our play over the past month β high points at Villa, the second-half at Palace and at City β there was still a niggling doubt that whatever team was selected to play at Wembley, the players just could not be trusted to drag us over the line. And despite Liverpool players falling by the wayside with injuries as the final approached, I had a fear that there would not be enough in our locker β nous, determination, skill β to give us a much-needed win.
All of our deficiencies β and a few of our positives β were discussed at length as I collected PD, Glenn and Parky and drove up to the M4 at Chippenham. As I approached Junction 17 I made my views clear. I was up just after 5. I had collected the two Frome lads at 7am and Parky in Holt at 7.
For the third League Cup Final in a row, we were staying the night at the Premier Inn opposite, and I soon parked the car outside. We were hoping that this would be third time lucky. Against Manchester City in and against Liverpool in , we had narrowly lost on penalties.
On the Saturday, I had watched Frome Town obtain a relatively easy win at home to Tavistock to nudge themselves into pole position in the table. Mark, now living in Spain, and his son Luca, still in The Netherlands, joined us and the laughter roared around the pub.
We tried not to think too much about the football. Our first final took place four months before I was born in March , when we defeated Leicester City over two legs. In , we infamously lost to Stoke City at Wembley and I have no recollection of the game. We had to wait ages for the next one; a triumph against Middlesbrough at old Wembley in after extra-time.
