Part 3: What goes up…
The day of the cup final arrived and Paul was disappointed to learn that he’d only be on the substitute bench for the big match.
“We don’t want to risk playing you from the start, Paul,” explained Luca Vieri, the Oakdale coach. “The last thing we want is for you to break down and have to sub you after only twenty minutes.”
Paul accepted his decision and took his place on the bench. He looked up at the giant electronic scoreboard:
FA Cup final 2003 - Manchester United v Oakdale
He was filled with a mixed feeling of pride and frustration; proud to be involved in probably the world’s most famous domestic cup final, but frustrated at not starting the game. He clung to the belief that he’d get on at some point; he just hoped it wasn’t going to be because Oakdale were being thrashed!
The game started at a frantic pace; both sides being roared on by the capacity crowd inside the Millennium Stadium. United drew first blood, scoring after just 12 minutes when Oakdale’s defence appeared to go AWOL .
It didn’t take long for Oakdale to hit back, though. Just five minutes later, Franco Goala, Paul’s usual strike partner, struck a superb free kick into the corner of the United net, 1-1.
After such a promising start the remainder of the match was something of an anti-climax. Both sides seemed to lose their way and the game plodded along boringly. At the final whistle the teams were still deadlocked at one apiece. Extra time would be needed. Luca Vieri decided it was time to introduce Paul to the proceedings - hoping he may be able to liven things up a little…it didn’t work. Even Paul couldn’t lift this second rate show above a mediocre level.
Both teams continued to make uncharacteristic schoolboy errors and eventually, and to most of the crowd, thankfully, the game ended - still deadlocked. With no replay, the match, and indeed the destination of the cup, would have to be decided by a penalty shootout.
The first nine penalties were converted with ease. Both sets of players showing a little more class at converting the penalties than any of them had shown during the match itself. With the score at 5-4 to Manchester United, Paul stepped up to take Oakdale’s final regulation spot-kick. He had to score to keep Oakdale’s dream of lifting the cup alive. He placed the ball on the spot and took a few paces back. He jogged nonchalantly up to the ball and side footed it towards the goal. The United ‘keeper dived the wrong way - surely Paul had scored? But no, the ball cannoned back of the foot of the post and the match, and the cup, were lost. Paul sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands. After a season of such promise, such high hopes, Oakdale had eventually ended up empty handed.
The coach ride home was like a funeral parade. The silence was deafening. No one could quite believe that they’d gone through a hard, long season only to end up with nothing more but memories and a runners-up medal. To most clubs, finishing third in the league and reaching the FA Cup final would be classed as an enormous achievement, but to Oakdale this signified nothing more than failure.
Paul returned to his apartment at around midnight. He’d spent the last few hours drowning his sorrows in the local pub. Drunk, tired and disappointed, he headed straight for his bedroom. On entering he could hardly believe his eyes - stood at the end of the bed, wrapped in only a flimsy bed sheet, was Claire, his doctor’s receptionist.
“Claire! What?…How?…” Paul couldn’t find the words.
“I told the security guard I was your sister so he let me in.”
