[Wembley Way. Saturday May 19. 14:32 BST.]

Frank Whitlock was seventy-three years old and Margaret had been dead since November and she had bought the hat thirty years ago at the official stall outside the Royal Box end, and the hat was in the bag at his feet because he was going to put it on at five past five and not before.

His son David next to him in the queue. Forty-five. Born the year Palace went down for the first time. Had not been given a choice in the family.

In front of them was a man in a half-and-half scarf with his daughter on his shoulders. The daughter was perhaps four.

Frank had seen the dad at the 2016 Final in the same scarf with the same daughter who had then been a few months old, and the dad in 2016 had spent the last ten minutes of injury time at Wembley with his head turned so the baby could not see him crying.

Frank had been crying too. Margaret next to him with her hand on the back of his neck.

He was seventy-three years old now. His GP had told him in February he had three good years left if he was careful. Margaret was not at Wembley.

He was at Wembley with David and the hat in the bag, and Crystal Palace had been an FA Cup Final twice in his life and had not finished it twice in his life, and Frank Whitlock was not interested in spending the rest of his three good years watching a football club that did not finish things.

David put his arm round his shoulders.

"All right, Dad."

"I am all right, son. I am all right."

He was not all right yet. The bag was on the ground between his feet. The hat was in the bag.

He was going to put the hat on at five past five.

[BBC Studios. Manchester. 15:47 BST.]

The pre-match panel was Henry, Carragher, Neville. The presenter ran the graphic.

Daniel Walsh’s photograph. Four columns next to it: CARABAO CUP - WON. EUROPA LEAGUE - FINAL. PREMIER LEAGUE — 2ND. FA CUP - TODAY.

Across the bottom: AGE: 28.

The studio held it on screen.

"Jamie."

Carragher did not look at the camera. He was looking down at the desk.

"I have been a pundit on this network for six years. I am running out of vocabulary for what we are watching."

"Thierry."

"Klopp at Mainz was thirty-three. Pep at Barcelona was thirty-seven. Conte at Bari was thirty-seven. The youngest manager in the last twenty years of European football to manage a season comparable to Daniel Walsh’s was Pep at Barça B in 2008 and Pep was thirty-seven and Pep won a title with the world’s best players coming through the academy. Walsh is twenty-eight and he is doing it on fifty million pounds and the club is one hundred and thirteen years old."

Neville cut in. He did not wait for the presenter.

"Thierry. One number."

"Yeah."

"This club has won one trophy in one hundred and thirteen years."

"Yeah."

"One. The whole history. They are about to play their third final this season."

Carragher: "Their fourth competition. Three trophies if they win tonight. Three. I do not have anything else. I want to listen."

The presenter waited a beat. Then: "Gary."

"I will defend Chelsea and Manchester United for ten seconds and stop. The clubs that spend two hundred million per window do it because their boards demand the success the spending is meant to buy. They do not always get the success because the spending is not coaching. The coaching is what Daniel Walsh has been doing since August on fifty million pounds. That is the ten seconds."

He stopped.

"Carragher and I have done a lot of these panels. We are not telling you we have seen this before because we have not seen this before."

"And the cup tonight."

Henry: "Three-one Palace."

Carragher: "Three-nil."

Neville did not predict. He shook his head.

The presenter went to the team news.

"Tammy Abraham."

Neville: "Starting up top for Chelsea. He was on loan at Palace from August to January. He scored against Stoke at Selhurst in August on debut. My old contacts at Cobham tell me he has been working on the back-post header for four months. He scores from a back-post header tonight."

The presenter went to the break.

[The Grove. The Function Room. 11:34 BST.]

Pre-match meal. Eleven thirty for the kick-off at five fifteen. The lads ate in silence.

I had been at the head of the table for fifteen minutes when Wilf, three seats down, set his fork down.

"Three-three, lads. Coppell’s side. 1990."

Mama looked up.

"Eighteenth minute Gary O’Reilly headed in from a corner. Mark Hughes equalised. We were level for half the match. Then Hughes did us again at sixty-two. Coppell brought Ian Wright on with twenty minutes left. Wright equalised. Wright again in extra time. We were three-two with eight minutes left."

Christopher: "Then what."

"Then Hughes scored the third one and we lost the replay."

He picked his fork back up. Looked at the plate.

"Today we are not playing for the eighteenth minute. We are playing for the eight minutes that came after Wright’s second goal. Today we are eight minutes."

The room held.

Mateo came in then. Iza was in the corridor outside the function room as far as the door because Iza had decided this was the lads’ room. He had one crutch. The brace on his right knee down to mid-shin.

The lads stood up.

He went to the head of the table where the chair next to mine was. Held the back of it with one hand. Did not sit down.

"Lads."

The room was quiet.

"I have one sentence. I gave the speech in Lyon on Wednesday. The Lyon speech was the speech. This is one sentence."

He breathed in.

"Tonight you play for the lads on the pitch in 1990 and the lads on the pitch in 2016. The lads who lost the cup twice. Tonight we win it for them."

He sat down. Iza came in then because Mateo had nodded at her.

The lads sat back down.

Wilf said: "Mama. Pass the salt."

Mama passed the salt.

The room ate.

[Wembley Way. 15:52 BST.]

The team bus turned off the A4089 at ten to four.

Frank Whitlock saw it come round the corner from the Holiday Inn end of the road. He had been at the curb with David for forty minutes by then because Frank had been at the curb for the bus at every Wembley match this season, and he was not going to break the habit on the day the habit had been built for.

Konaté was at the window.

Frank waved. Konaté did not wave back because Konaté did not wave from team buses. Konaté did nod once. The nod was the same nod Konaté had given him at Selhurst on the morning of the Atlético night in March when Frank had been at the corner of Holmesdale Road waving the bus through.

Konaté remembered.

Frank took the hat out of the bag.

Did not put it on. Held it.

David, next to him: "Dad."

"Yeah."

"Five past five."

"Five past five."

***

Thank you to Sir nameyelus for the constant support.