Milkins, Tindall, Ley,
Smith, Haydock, Harris,
McCann, Pointer, Hiron,
Kellard and Trebilcock.
Substitute: Travers

A quick search of the internet reveals that February 21, 1968 seemed to be a quiet news day in a year blighted by protest, revolution, riots, assassinations and wars. But that can’t be right. A seven-year-old boy from Portsmouth had a life-changing experience at Fratton Park on that very day.

Look again. I know because I was that boy. My memory of the events of 1968 has been eroded. Can I really remember Harold Wilson as Prime Minister, the Vietnam War, the shooting of Martin Luther King? It took research to find out that Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Tich were No 1 with The Legend of Xanadu that week.

But 7.30pm on February 21 is clearer than crystal. I can zoom into the black and white crowd and see myself in colour standing on the South Terrace next to my dad, ensnared by my first football match - Pompey (“our team, son”) against Fulham (“the ones in white“). It’s a fourth round replay of the FA Cup and I’m sharing the moment with 44,049 others although there must be more because I was lifted over the turnstiles for free like so many other young lads in those days.

The players run on to the pitch under the brilliance of the floodlights and I experience a jazz-like synaesthesia. I can feel the green of the pitch, hear the smell of cigarettes and beery breath, taste the hope and expectation, see the voices ebbing and flowing with the movement of the men in blue and white.

It’s like standing in the middle of a Jackson Pollock while the artist flings the colours on to the canvas. I know it is a place I will always want to be. And can I ask for anything more? Yes. Pompey win that night with a first-half goal from Mike Trebilcock, who had been an FA Cup hero for Everton just two years before.

The team that night is the poem at the top of this piece. They have all slipped quietly into the cornfields of Fratton’s field of dreams but at times I summon them back into the playground of my mind like a mantra. They may not be the best, but I treasure them as the first.

As I walk home holding my father’s hand, running to keep up with his get-home-quick stride, I know that football is some kind of magic and that the FA Cup is one of it’s finest tricks. I’ve experienced my first hit and I know I will be an addict.

But the 40 tournaments that have followed that cherished initiation have taught the boy a valuable lesson: football can also bring pain and suffering, teams can go down as well as up. There have been two first-round exits, three in the second, 17 in the third, ten in the fourth, three in the fifth, three quarter-finals and just one semi-final.

But now I can use a phrase laid down in the cerebral cellar some 40 years ago: “We’re in the final.”

Fast forward to the final day of this surprisingly successful season and by a twist of fate (it must be an omen) I’m at Fratton Park watching Pompey against Fulham again. As a guest of the club, I have an access all areas backstage pass and as I walk down Frogmore Road towards the stadium the old tingles return.

In the cynical world of journalism, few admit to being moved or starstruck but I can never help feeling just like that first night every time I step inside Pompey’s home. It’s no Emirates, but some of the Russian money is kicking in and the new offices, media centre and megastore show a club on the up and at ease with their lofty status.

There is curry and drinks for the men and ladies of the press, tea and cake at half-time. There was not much of that in evidence 20 years ago when I sat alone in the stands covering reserve-team games.

And before you know it, I’ve passed through the corporate wining and dining and I’m actually walking past the dressing rooms and into the tunnel. Yes, I’ve come through the wardrobe and will spend the rest of the day in Narnia.

If you wonder what the noise is during the rest of this article, it will be the sound of names crashing to the floor. Guy Whittingham, who scored a record 42 league goals for Pompey in 1992-93, is there along with Vince Hilaire, so beautifully rhymed with Fred Astaire in The Beloved’s Hello.

It gets serious as David James, who picks up seven Player of the Year prizes that afternoon, brushes past me with a hello and a cup of tea before the rest of the team shuffle past to do their warm-up as Abide With Me blasts across the ground. I fear I might swoon like a Victorian novel’s heroine suffering from the vapours. I'm brought round by the sight of Mohamed Al Fayed smiling at me, which is a bit disturbing.

Finally, King Harry of Portsmouth emerges to do a television interview with Kelly Dalglish. I’m no more than three feet away. Suddenly I’m transported back in time to the little boy holding his dad’s hand and the rest is a blur - I can‘t even remember the result although the Fulham fans seemed quite pleased at the end.

It is that feeling inside that all the suits forget when they concoct their IPLs and 39th matches. The beauty of supporting a club through good times and bad is that it takes you back to the child who was launched over the turnstiles into a world of dreams, the same dreams shared by your family, friends and everyone who has turned Portsmouth into an ocean in blue in anticipation of something we dared not imagine at Wembley on Saturday.

We don’t need to be called the Pompey Pirates and play in the Global Mega-League. Just an FA Cup victory every 60 years will do us nicely, thank you very much.