As a Newcastle fan, identifying the worst moments has never been difficult. FA Cup final failures, painful home defeats, and dreadful away days are abundant. Among them, the 4-0 humiliation against Wimbledon at Plough Lane during the post-Gazza 1988-89 relegation season remains particularly haunting.
But if those were the worst of times, there’s now no doubt about the best. Being at Wembley to witness Newcastle defeat Liverpool in the Carabao Cup final was a moment that once seemed beyond reach. Yet, here it was unfolding before my eyes. How would it feel? What would this elusive triumph be like?
The experience was surprisingly familiar. I had imagined it a million times. Years ago, reading an article about Newcastle’s 30-year domestic trophy drought, I had assumed the wait would end soon enough. After all, in 1974, Newcastle and Liverpool had won the same number of major trophies – 11 – proving Newcastle was still a club with ambition.
The trophy never came, and disappointment mounted as the years turned into decades. The number 70 became an inescapable reminder of the wait. Heading to Wembley, I was cautiously pessimistic. Liverpool was formidable, but Newcastle had defeated Arsenal, Nottingham Forest, and Chelsea to reach the final. There was hope.
Our Wembley record since 1974 was dismal an aggregate of 2-13. One of those rare goals, Rob Lee’s header against Chelsea in the 2000 FA Cup semi-final, had been my happiest Newcastle moment. After enduring Wembley defeats in 1998 and 1999, Lee’s equaliser had provided a fleeting surge of hope. That joy lasted six minutes before Gus Poyet ended the dream.
Through an Australian friend, I secured a ticket in the corporate section before kickoff. In a twist of fate, Rob Lee was doing the meet-and-greet. I shook his hand and shared my story. He smiled, acknowledging that his unwanted record as Newcastle’s last Wembley goal scorer had stood for too long. I joked that the ideal scenario would be Dan Burn breaking the record with a last-minute header. We laughed at the absurdity and went our separate ways.
Yet, the absurd became reality. Newcastle looked determined, while Liverpool seemed off their game. Before this match, I already regarded the Colossus of Blyth as a heroic figure rugged and resolute, straight out of Roy of the Rovers. So, when Burn rose to head in the opener, it was a storybook moment. Not quite the last-minute drama I had imagined, but enough to have me leaping from my seat, much to the annoyance of the Liverpool fans around me.
The final whistle signaled not just victory but the fulfillment of a lifelong dream. As the players celebrated and the theme from Local Hero played, emotions overwhelmed me. My Australian companion, puzzled by my reaction, had earlier asked what fuels this passion.
How does one explain decades of expectation, frustration, regional pride, and pure love for the game in a single moment? Between suppressed sobs, all I could manage was: “It just means so much.”
