
February 26th 2023 is forever etched in our minds. Nick Pope’s disastrous misuse of his quaffed and rather square forehead against Liverpool in a league match had left us with only Loris Karius between the sticks, a man not known for his match winning displays in finals to say the least. But, what of it? We were Newcastle United. Eddie Howe’s Shithouse Mags and proud of it, plus it had worked all season - this team of generational talent, local boys and excellently well-coached average Joe’s. Not Joelinton of course. He was a beast and still is.
We were going to deliver for the 50,000-60,000 folk rattling around in Trafalgar Square and we were going to do it against one of our oldest rivals. Manchester Red. It was to be the cherry on our proverbially iced cake of a season. Champions League qualification and a domestic cup win. The first time since 1955. This was going to show everyone in England and worldwide that we were back in the big time. Isak, Bruno, Big Dan Burn charging us all the way to lifting the League Cup. We all could smell it, taste it. It was a sweet cherry.
And yet, we slid to a dismal 2-0 loss. Karius played. Well let's say he was in goal that day. We didn’t turn up unlike the thousands who had that day to cheer on the mighty Mags, waving their scarves and creating a glorious exhibition of loyalty and fandom. What a sight it was all throughout the game and even at the final whistle - we cheered although our bodies groaned at the sight of Fernandes and co. collecting the trophy. Bitterly disappointing on a bitterly cold afternoon. Would we ever see the like again? And if we did - would we turn up?

So here we are 2 years later, post Arsenal in the first leg. Obviously well accustomed to controlling the new flying balls they use for the Carabao Cup (See Arteta Moan and Excuse Section online) and on the cusp of another wondrous day in London, that is if we can beat them in the second leg at St. James’ Park… which of course by writing if, I mean, when we beat them and Mad Dog can be let off his leash to thrust his hand down Arteta’s throat at the final whistle. Again, we will all begin to remember that sweet taste. The icing. The cake and the eating of it. We can do this. And we will.
So dare we dream again? Of course we dare. We are fearless, relentless, unabashed, unashamedly Newcastle United. We have a clear identity now. We play to win, we play to score and attack and harass our opponents. We smash teams before they know which way they are playing and with the flick of Paraguayan hand gesture revert to a 5-5-0 formation of solid defensive concrete wall defending. We have a manager and an ethos within our DNA now of learning from our mistakes and knowing what to do and when. But… But… wait, where is Nick Pope? Where is our Pinocchio legged shot stopper? Is this deja vu all over? Martin Dubravka, who has come in for the last 6-7 games and conceded only 2 goals at the time of writing may still yet wave himself off to some Saudi sunshine, so who do we have for this time around?
There is no concern for the team - the outfield 10. They are there. They can see the trophy. We have 2-3 of the best players in the Premier League at the moment. The best striker without a doubt is Isak but who will play in goal? Who will step up? Or should I say step in. Will it be John Ruddy? No, let's be serious here. Will it be Vlachodimos? An international goalkeeper who for some reason came to us in the summer and hasn’t really had a look in. Or will it be the redemption story we all wish for Mr. Nicholas Pope of Burger King Poll fame who arrives back in ready to lead the line and deliver us from evil (or likely Liverpool as they are known).

It will be, bar another big performance from the historically hapless Spurs, an incredibly in-form Liverpool team in the final. For me and I know a good few of you - this would make it all the sweeter if we can play the way we know we can. We need to play at our best and for the whole 90 or as it is nowadays 110 minutes. VAR may play a role but let us hope that this is not the case. Maybe Trent will be off to Real Madrid by then and their huff and puff has reduced them from Slot's slick winners into a bunch of goal-shy sloths. All we know is that we must turn up and have a goalkeeper, willing to play the best he has ever done.
He who dares wins Rodney. He who dares. It has to be Pope or Dubravka in between the Wembley sticks come the final. Unless we have another little twist and England’s U21 Euro winner, James Trafford, pops in for his debut and what a debut that would be. What a day it will be no less whomever it is. Let us have a day forever etched in our minds for the right reasons. Let us lose our damned minds with delirious glee and searing emotion from every black and white pore. Let us finally bring home to Newcastle, silverware - our beautiful cathedral on the hill deserves it. We, the fans, need it.
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