Remembrance of things passed

'I didn't really mind which team won. If Wrexham weren't playing, I couldn't really support anyone else'

Reports of the last England game at Wembley said that souvenir-hunters were so intent on securing a relic of the historic last match, that the programme-sellers had run out of programmes way before the kick-off. (Typical of England planning, somehow, that nobody had foreseen this clearly foreseeable eventuality.) And almost as if by telepathy, my own Wembley souvenir floated to the surface last week.

Reports of the last England game at Wembley said that souvenir-hunters were so intent on securing a relic of the historic last match, that the programme-sellers had run out of programmes way before the kick-off. (Typical of England planning, somehow, that nobody had foreseen this clearly foreseeable eventuality.) And almost as if by telepathy, my own Wembley souvenir floated to the surface last week.

I didn't even know I still had it, but from nowhere, from the back of some drawer or bottom of some bric-a-brac-filled basket, there came into view beside my bed a battered cup final ticket. "The Football Association Cup Competition - final tie," it says, "Saturday May 3 1952. This portion to be retained. (See conditions on back.)"

Yes, I was there that day, on 3 May 1952, as a very young lad, because my father took me to see the game. I only hope I thanked him for it, because I can remember even now that it was a wonderful day. What made it wonderful, among other things, was that we had to travel a long way to get there, driving all the way from Wrexham to Crewe just to catch the train to London. He insisted that we got to Crewe to catch the Irish Mail. "They always serve a wonderful breakfast on the Irish Mail," he said, "to impress the Irish passengers who have just got on the train from Holyhead after leaving the ferry."

That strikes me now as shaky reasoning, but I believed him then, especially as we did indeed have a slap-up breakfast on the train - I have a persistent visual memory of steaming quantities of freshly cooked scrambled egg being borne on a silvery tray by a rock-steady steward. I can't remember anything of the rest of the journey; the next memory is of walking up what seemed an endless avenue to Wembley Stadium itself, a bit like going to a Nuremberg Rally, except that instead of storm troopers they had men selling souvenir programmes, rosettes, flags, rattles and all the fake battle honours that sports fans pay out good money for.

"Shall I get one, Dad?" I asked him.

"Not much point unless you support one of the sides," he said, so I didn't, because I didn't really mind whether it was Arsenal or Newcastle United who won. Newcastle were slightly the more romantic side, because they had the mighty Jackie Milburn playing for them, but if Wrexham weren't playing in the final, I couldn't really wholeheartedly support anyone else.

When we finally got to the stadium, which was a huge, ugly concrete monstrosity smelling alternately of cheap cooking-fat and male urine (I can't swear to noticing all that then, but I never met a football ground of which it wasn't true), we went into the South Terrace by turnstile K, and entrance 37, then went to row 28, and I sat in seat 147, or at least so my ticket informs me. There were bands and singing of hymns and announcements and a lot of noise, and then the game started, and shortly after that, Wally Barnes of Arsenal broke his leg. That's the only specific image I have retained of the game, the poor man being carried off and not replaced, because they didn't have substitutes in those days.

It's odd that the one Arsenal player I can remember is the one who was taken off. Otherwise, I have memories of only the Newcastle side, of the battling Robledo brothers, of the gliding figure of Jackie Milburn (whose initials, I was very impressed to note, were JET) but above all of the left winger George Mitchell, who seemed able to get past everyone, and who I thought was wonderful (but I thought everything was wonderful that day - going to London, being in the biggest crowd in the world, being with my dad, the genius who had got two tickets for the cup final, going home late on the train...).

I was going home late on the train again last year, when I fell in with some young Newcastle fans. I told them I had only once seen their team play, but it was in a cup final. In 1952. They goggled. "I saw Jackie Milburn in action," I said, "but the man I thought was the best was the Newcastle winger, Mitchell."

There was a baffled silence, then one said: "Oh, aye, Mitchell. My dad was always going on about how good he was."

It's at moments such as that that you suddenly realise you crossed the generation gap years ago and you will never be a son to anyone again, except in your memories.