The sun is shining as a father and two kids walk up the steps to the train station. All of them are kitted out in black Crystal Palace away shirts. It’s FA Cup final day, and when the chariot to London Victoria arrives, it is already full of similarly eager Palace fans.
Contrary to what the stipulations of the M23 (or A23, as it really should be) rivalry suggest, there are plenty of Palace supporters making their journey to Wembley Stadium from Brighton. They may not willingly show it off too often on the streets in Sussex, but they still exist.
This is the first surprise on a weekend of (mostly) sheer delight and unfiltered fandom. And this is a story of how that was shown across two days at Wembley for both FA Cup finals.
Whilst I was told across three years at university that it is almost sinful to reference yourself as ‘I’ in an article, indulge my vanity for two days of experiences, colour, emotion, and London success. There is so much to be told from two days and 180 minutes (plus over half an hour of added time) of football.
When the train doors opened at Preston Park station (the first one away from Brighton heading towards London) at 11:26am, I was already hearing the first cries of ‘EAGLES.’ That would pierce my ears pretty much non-stop for the next 12 hours.
Forty-five minutes later and the number of groups of varying sizes had increased. Some were getting off at East Croydon and some stayed on into central London. This is where individual plans are set in place with the destination of Wembley. Be it via the pub, fan parks, or elsewhere, most had a crate of some sort of beer and were headed for the summit of English football.
Bottles of Estrella were littered about the place (and put in the bin). Cans of San Miguel were everywhere. Fans followed and chatted with optimism and hope. This was a day out and an adventure before the football had even begun.
Be it Willesdon, Marylebone, Victoria, or Clapham, the routes were full of Palace tops, old and new. The odd sky blue City shirt did start to appear but they were outnumbered. That seems apt.
‘South London takeover’ was how Palace described their semi-final against Aston Villa. The same was appropriate here. It is simplistic, perhaps, to say that this just meant more to everyone from Selhurst Park but it certainly seemed that way.
City have been to Wembley 31 times now since 2011. That averages out at nearly twice a season. The journey is long. It is expensive. And when you have won the Premier League as often as they have, as well as both domestic cups and now the Champions League, it is harder to be excited about such an occasion, even at the end of such a horrible season.
You can sense that sort of tiredness. Palace, on the flipside, made the most of their semi-final, not being too sure that it would lead to this second visit. I was also there in 2022 when they lost to Chelsea, and it was a similar day.
Palace dominated the noise and the build-up. This was their opportunity to make history and for Chelsea it was trying to hit expectations. Palace were louder, they seemed to enjoy it more, and they lost. That didn’t make a difference.
Whilst it would have been gutting for them to fall short as well here, it was still a grand moment. The same really can’t be said for City.
Maybe that is why there was more Palace singing and chanting around Wembley. The buzz was for them. This is not to say that it didn’t matter to City, and there will have been those who experienced this all for the first time and don’t have that fatigue. It will still have hurt, but Palace were doing something incredible here.
The walk from Wembley Stadium station, not down Wembley Way from Wembley Park, this time, was like witnessing a fun fair. Ice cream, parks full of kids (City and Palace bonding over the love of the seesaw), and a queue outside Greggs, of course.
There was hope and bristling energy. You can lose the football match, but never these memories or feelings. It was also just a glorious day in the sun.
That was where I lost touch with the build-up and went to the sheltered media side of things. Around three hours before kick-off, the press room was already practically full. The attention on what has historically been the spectacle of the football season.
Scheduling ensured that there was only one other professional match in England on at the same time, and that was in the League Two play-offs. This was a day centred around City and Palace, and it felt like that.
Stuart Pearce discussed tactics over a burger whilst Mark Schwarzer (sporting a protective boot on his ankle after tearing a tendon playing padel; he will be out for another three weeks after missing three, by the way) laughed off one journalist suggesting that all the final underdogs should be backed. Palace have made a start with this one man saying Tottenham (apparently a clear underdog?), Real Betis, and Inter would all follow up.
Reporters turned up with stories from the Box Park or slowly filling Wembley Way. The minutes ticked by and the stadium gradually developed a din. The flags came out early. The chanting and cheering was relentless.
Palace players were cheered when they came out. They were cheered when their names were announced. Then they were cheered back to the changing room with a rendition of Glad All Over which would have been well placed at the end of a big Premier League win.
It was a reception and a message that the 12th man was here and probably acting more like a 13th or 14th, such was the atmosphere. When the (totally needless) pre-match DJ had finished, the national anthem was sung, and the handshakes were done, Palace had completed a moment that will never be forgotten.
In the process of the niceties, they unveiled yet another wonderful tifo. It depicts a man and his children celebrating a goal from a historic win over 14 years ago at Old Trafford. That man died in 2017 but his children were at Wembley all grown up here. They didn’t know about the arrangement but recognised the picture and were brought to tears before the game had started.
It was pure fan emotion and rawness. The message “Wembley will shake…And it will be beautiful” was symbolic. It outdid Palace’s semi-final effort and those of their opponents across the two games, as well as leaving Arsenal’s Champions League failure in the dust once again.
Blue and red flares were let off, filling the ground with smoke and pyro smells. Fireworks snapped me up from recording videos of it all as kick-off approached. The Palace fans launched into singing ‘We love you’ as soon as Stuart Atwell blew his whistle to start.
The supporters in the west stand never stopped. They only got louder. Eberechi Eze’s goal made the whole place tremble. It is a noise unlike anything I have heard before. That laid the foundation for a backline effort for the ages.
Every clearance, pass, tackle, and save was celebrated. Dean Henderson’s stop to deny Omar Marmoush from the penalty spot was treated like a goal.
The emotion and energy from that half alone will be forever ingrained in thousands of people’s memories, including mine. The second half passed in a blur. Extending the agony of Palace fans, who had hardly seen a kick other than to momentarily go 2-0 up (another ear-piercing scream followed), 10 minutes were added on.
The goal-saving blocks from Daichi Kamada and Chris Richards will be etched into history. The carnage at full-time was irreplaceable. Supporters broke down and hugged anyone they could reach. At least one writer in the press box couldn’t hold the tears back either.
Eze lost control of his body as he tore about the field. He ripped his shirt off and danced in front of the Palace fans. He took selfies with photographers. Chills went down the spine of everyone who had witnessed a moment which can never be recreated. Palace had won their first major trophy and it can never be taken away.
I have no affiliation with Palace. The only connection has been to the numerous Chelsea loanees there in previous years. Yet it was impossible not to be happy for Palace. This was a win for football and to be there was a special moment.
The players and coaching staff soaked it all up. Nobody of a Palace persuasion left and each and every player was given a victorious cheer (or several) throughout the following hour as the trophy was lifted into the air hundreds of times.
Marc Guehi, the captain, could hardly see but still went to embrace every member of the backroom and coaching staff. Jean-Phillippe Mateta was in a world of his own with a selfie stick and a flag around his head. Wembley shook…And it was beautiful.
As the celebrations gradually died down outside, and journalists headed to press conferences or simply elsewhere, staying outside to see the Palace players huddle in the centre circle was as wholesome as it gets. It was the culmination of hard work, togetherness, and effort. It was history.
Leaving Wembley past 8pm, after writing about Eze in a much quieter press room now only occupied by a few bodies (including Marcel Desailly), I saw packs of fans taking photos around the stadium. On the stairs, down Wembley Way, and anywhere they could think of. There was hugging, singing from the many pubs around the stadium, and probably the best queue to the tube that there will ever be.
It is a horrible place to get out of, is Wembley, but even after all this time there were so many Palace fans who had stayed the entire course. Their effective ultras section were still bouncing up and down behind the west end goal when I departed. They outlasted many of the cleaners. The party was only just beginning.
City supporters did not let the result stop their own evenings. A bar full of them was still loudly singing away to Sweet Caroline a short distance from Wembley. There was no animosity here.
Hardly a hint of fighting was spotted during the day and instead, Palace and City fans chatted on the way back. Waiting at a bus stop and walking to the tube, they shared thoughts on the game and the state of the world.
Smartly, I went in the opposite direction to most, heading north to a hotel. It allowed for a period of rest after a day of sapping intensity. Sport is powerful in these moments and propels people forwards, providing energy and uplift where nothing else will. I can only imagine just how draining it might have been to have a dog in this fight, let alone to have been a player running around rather than just watching.
That is the sort of life that came from this day. It transmitted itself to me as a piece on Guehi was written late into the evening. A drink and a pizza fuelled things over the finishing line before settling down to do it all again on Sunday.
A shoddy cooked breakfast with maybe the worst scrambled eggs ever was one way to start as I made my way back on the train and tube towards Wembley. The atmosphere at 10:15am was immediately different.
There were blue and red shirts congregating in a way that men’s matches really would not usually allow. There is no sense of danger for the women’s FA Cup final and the world is a better place for it.
The feeling, walking around the fan parks, is more of a low-key festival with bucket hats, music, and places to take pictures. That was all there on Saturday but is much busier and the centre of attention for even more families with even younger children this time.
The queue for Greggs is still long but instead of a divide, there is an alignment of joy being spread. A scarf seller points people to his rival and Chelsea fans decked out from head to toe in blue, tattooed and painted with the club’s colours, attract attention.
Pictures are taken with a man giving off what can only be described as immaculate vibes. A lady in a blue dress and a wonderfully created Chelsea hat walks down Wembley Way for the game.
The grey skies and earlier kick-off mean there is a subdued but still excited air. Kids are asking their parents questions in innocence. It is great. Almost 75,000 would pack in for this game and the noise was electric.
I hang around outside for much longer this time as things really start to fill and build-up. At 12pm I head inside for a round two of burger and chips. There is no salad bar this time, which is disappointing as it was the best part of Saturday’s food. There is a better half-time collection of cakes, scones, and doughnuts, though.
Chelsea women do their business. They win in typically ruthless fashion by the end and get two late goals in front of their own fans. The screams as Catarina Macario headed in the second with five minutes left were extraordinary.
Sonia Bompastor’s players threw themselves into the corner. The west stand had won again and made an ocean of blue with flags and flailing arms.
Chelsea’s women have always got this part. They are accessible and open. They spend incredible amounts of time accommodating children with selfies and signatures. Lucy Bronze was called on for 20 minutes as she did media duties and took pictures with the trophy afterwards.
Children shouted her name as she walked off, forced to leave some behind. They do their best and should be admired for this part. It is not their job but Chelsea’s women always give back.
Serena Williams was wise to wait a while before she went pitchside with her husband and the new minority investor in Chelsea, Alexis Ohanian. She spends time taking pictures with everyone as they go past and those who stayed longer than the rest will have seen scenes from a fairytale as Lauren James sat in the sun with her teammates.
Some of the Chelsea players took their time in groups of four or five, chilling on the grass with their feet up. The ribbons of silver from their trophy lift remained on the pitch as slowly but surely, the ground emptied.
As I left once more, this time at 5pm, the sun was still out, as it had been since just before kick off. One group were playing with an inflatable football at the bottom of the steps up to the stadium. More pictures were taken and the walk up Wembley Way was full of happiness. Lifelong core souvenirs.
When I reached home at 8.15pm it was then that I realised how lucky I had been to have this whole Wembley experiment. Eight written articles, one missed penalty, four goals, two London winners, 44 players (plus substitutes), at least nine coffees, 18 sugars, two burgers, around 30,000 steps, two buses, seven trains, one bad breakfast, and 12 hours at Wembley later, the double FA Cup final weekend was completed.
To witness Palace’s biggest moment, probably ever, is something that will never leave me. To see the lifetime of memories in the Chelsea end after a season of unbeaten domestic dominance is humbling.
Sport and football really are great. To see these moments live and to be close to the action is truly an honour and one that will never tire of being so.
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