Wembley, 30 May, 2009

Off, then, to Wembley for the second time in seven days. Last week it was the Division 2 play-off, but today it's the FA Cup Final. Or the FA Cup Sponsored By E.On Final, as nobody calls it outside the E.On marketing department. Hurrah. I never get bored of them (FA Cup Finals, not E.On).
Chelsea v Everton hardly sets the neutrals' pulses racing, but at least it involves one team who're not in the big four, even if Everton are nobody's underdogs and once they move to the new stadium there may be no stopping them. And I quite like both: Chelsea have that gang feel all successful football teams need - Manchester United have it; Arsenal don't; Liverpool are somewhere in-between - and Everton have proved me wrong about Steven Pienaar, but right about Leighton Baines and the injured Phil Jagielka.
Hold those offerings of sympathy, but the food has gone downhill at Wembley. They must have changed - not to be confused with upgraded - caterers. I try some unidentified chicken arrangement before-hand. It's disgusting. And it's hot dogs at half time, which I adore, but that's just me. It really is. The coffee's nice though.
The ST are mob-handed. Apart from myselfy, there's Walshy, there's Glanvilley, there's Nothcrofty and there's Townsendy. We rarely contact each other during the season, so bar e.mails and the odd call, so there's much to discuss, some war stories to swap but, great as it is to see them, there is a certain amount of work to be done.
I don't bother watching the game's big picture. Instead, I'm looking at 22 little games to write a piece on each player, whether it's John Obi Mikel floundering, Louis Saha giving up after scoring or Ashley Cole, finally playing like he did at Arsenal.
Afterwards, I skip the manager's press conference in favour of the scrum for player interviews. The Everton players don't really fancy chatting, but Phil Neville does the decent thing, says the right things - they were deservedly beaten but hardly disgraced - and they're all soon heading back home to count their money and their bruises.
My deadline is 6.15. John Terry has spent much of the post-match period playing with his kids on the pitch and the Chelsea players start dribbling out at 7.30 shortly after Roman Abramovich.
"Could I have a word Roman?" he smiles and walks on. Technically speaking, that isn't ignoring me.
Frank Lampard is his usual polite and eloquent self, but he had just scored the winner. Even so, he's modest in the way the truly gifted don't always have to be. He might actually be a lovely man. I think I'm the last one out of the ground.