I've been reading a wee bit of Fever Pitch - Nick Hornby's classic account of a life defined and ruined by football – and I've just got up to the point at which, in May 1988, Arsenal get beaten by Luton in the final of the League Cup. Now, that may not mean much to you, but it reminded me that, the following August, I went to Kenilworth Road to watch those mighty cup-winning Hatters.
My first ever football match, 20 years ago.
It was my next door neighbour (George) who took me – I think he'd been at Wembley for the final, too – and we stood just behind and to the left of one of the goals. Luton, the League Cup holders, were playing Wimbledon, the FA Cup holders, but my only real memories were of Luton's artificial pitch, and the fact that Wimbledon no longer had Dave Beasant (the only keeper, at that time, who had saved a penalty in an FA Cup final). I think it was a pretty rubbish match, and I've got a feeling that it was 0-0.
But it was TWENTY YEARS AGO. For heavens' sake! I am 27. Goodness me. How time passes. But then, football goes on for ever …