Live from the Carabao Cup final: Focus, aggression, joy

For many, seeing the Toon finally bring decades of frustration to an end is about much more than winning one piece of silverware, it’s a chance to finally change the narrative of the North East.

In this blog, Class of 1996 graduate, journalist and lifelong Newcastle United fan Jon Bennett recounts his experience of seeing his beloved team lift the Carabao Cup from the stands at Wembley. After 70 years of hurt, what does the win mean for the club and the city?

A long line of missed opportunities

On the Tube to Wembley, between the endless chants of Sandro Ole Ole Ole, you could hear the same conversation again and again. “I don’t care if we win, I just want them to turn up”. The first part of this mantra was, of course, ridiculous – the desperation for Newcastle to win was so enormous I’d woken up two days in a row literally dreaming of Wembley – but the second part of the sentence is key to telling the story of why this mattered so much. 

The endless agony of being a Newcastle fan isn’t related to not winning trophies – most football supporters don’t see their sides win anything – it’s about the way in which we’ve blown opportunities in manners so demoralising that it’s scarred successive generations of fans, and the region as a whole. Consistently being the ‘nearly men’, the Entertainers, the daft Geordies who are great to watch but lack the savvy to get over the line – that sort of repeated failure eventually seeps into the collective psyche. 

Eddie Howe has done many remarkable things since he took over at Newcastle United, but I’d argue that tackling this damaged sense of self is the most astounding, changing the way in which a city views itself, reminding us that, whatever Mike Ashley thought, ambition is vital, not naive. 

Dysfunctional misery

“What a way to take the edge off my finals and having to graduate,” I thought, imagining the international games following the open top bus tour parading the league trophy. But, as everyone knows, we blew it in a way so catastrophic - so bloody needless and ridiculous - that even three decades later the footage of a doomed Keegan saying “I’d love it if we beat them” has become synonymous with catastrophically throwing away victory. 

It’s something we never shook off.  Yes, Shearer arrived but Keegan quit and when we went to Wembley in ‘98 and ’99 it was never the same. The ‘anything could happen’ optimism had gone and I went there knowing we didn’t have the savvy to dominate and force a win.

There was hope when Bobby Robson was in charge, but after he left and Ashley arrived, I and thousands of other fans drifted away, telling myself it was easier to just accept we’d never win anything in my lifetime. 

I felt abandoned by my own club, and having moved to London in 2000 to pursue my journalism career, it was easy to choose not to limp on in this dysfunctional misery. We told ourselves it was over, but in truth, being a football fan is like the famous line in Hotel California: you can check out, but you can never leave. 

“We’re not here to be popular, we’re here to compete”

That’s partly what makes Eddie Howe’s achievements since he took over so incredible. Many commentators have talked about the paradox of this determinedly calm man somehow knowing exactly how to both provoke and channel an emotional tidal wave, unlocking something in me and thousands of other supporters. 

When, not that long after taking over, he said in a post-match interview “we’re not here to be popular, we’re here to compete” I had a response that was essentially involuntary, waking something inside me that had been dormant so long I’d forgotten it was even there. You could feel that he got it, got us and that through sheer force of will he was trying to make the club, the city and the region reimagine what was possible. I couldn’t resist.

Howe saved us from relegation and then turned us around. It was the first time I had seen Newcastle play football that wasn’t just thrilling, it was tough. 

That’s what was so crushing about the last Carabao final two years ago.

We had a team that seemed so different, that prioritised competing, but when it came to it against Man United yet again they just didn’t really turn up. In truth, the fans – so shocked to reach a final they were emotionally spent and hungover – didn’t turn up either.

This time felt different. Yes we were facing Liverpool, unquestionably the best team in the country this seasons, but we knew that whatever the odds on our day Newcastle could beat them.

I went to both games with Lee (pictured below), a friend I’ve known since school, who has lived in London as long as I have.

Walking up Wembley Way we both said how different it felt. There was a focus and an intensity, rather than just happiness to be there.

When Liverpool started to sing ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ before kick-off, the response was immediate and overwhelming: 40 thousand Geordies roaring back at them, an enormous primal growl that seemed to say “not this time, you don’t...”. 

And this time the whistle blew and it didn’t happen.

From the minute we kicked off you sensed that the team had also decided “nah, you’re not having this”. That enormous wrecking ball Joelinton, a man with a chest so huge he looks like he’s stuffed a Mini under his jumper, was everywhere, like someone had turned that “Get Into Them” flag into human form. We were faster, sharper, savvier, hungrier… but edging close to half-time, we still hadn’t scored. 

The end is a blur. We stayed as long as we could until eventually it was time to go. On the way out I thought I spotted an old friend of mine further down the escalator. I shouted “Richard” and he turned and somehow, like a mad Spike Jonze video, desperately ran back up the escalator as it sped down, somehow arriving in the middle, hugging us and shouting repeatedly what everyone was thinking.  “We did it man Jon, we did it, we actually turned up”.

We don’t really know right now what this win means for Newcastle, we will only see the true impact on the region with the passing of time. But what is obvious to me is that, during the Ashley era, the club and the city were estranged. My home seemed a less colourful, joyful place. It’s extraordinary that a community the size of Newcastle is represented by only one club, and when the team is winning and has players that are trying, you can feel it in the air. This may sound trite, but it gives the city a sense of hope and energy and pride. And when those types of emotion are channelled they can result in seemingly unthinkable things happening. Like, for example, Newcastle winning silverware in my lifetime.