22nd January 2014, a date that will live long in the memory of any Sunderland fan.
If there was ever a more “Sunderland way” to win a game, this was it. But in the end it made the achievement all the sweeter.
Going into the game a one goal advantage at the home of the champions hardly seemed enough. But this was not the Manchester United that struck fear into the heart of teams up and down the land. This was a fragile team who had already been dumped out of the FA Cup by Swansea on home soil and were struggling in the league by their standards under new manager David Moyes.
It was still set to be a hard task to defend such a slender advantage at Old Trafford, but the 9,000 traveling Sunderland fans did so with cautious optimism as well as mere blind hope.
In the build-up to the match, Sunderland was a great place to live, there was an indescribable buzz around the City which only intensified as the day moved closer.
On the morning of the match itself, I woke early. Although the buses to Manchester did not depart until 2pm I couldn’t get back to sleep. So many possible emotions swirled around inside my head and settled in the pit of my stomach. The thought of 9,000 Sunderland fans belting out Wise Men Say was spine tingling just to think about.
I couldn’t remain inside kicking my heels and I did what any self-respecting Mackem would do given the circumstances and messaged my mate before heading to a pub in the town before departing for Old Trafford.
As we sat over a lunchtime pint, we discussed every possible scenario at length, most pessimistically talking about the defiant pride a defeat would bring and whatever happened we’d done well to get this far.
Victory? Such a thing could not be contemplated. Even the thought of it was stomach churning, this just didn’t happen to Sunderland, did it?
After what seemed like a lifetime of waiting around we left Wearside. As corny as it sounds it very much had the feeling of a tribe going to war as a procession of buses streamed out of Wearside on their way to “enemy territory”. Although our particular regiment was soon halted by our first comfort break of the journey. Was this nerves or had too many people indulged in some lunchtime settlers?
Once outside the stadium the magnitude of the situation hit home with the force of a sledgehammer. As soon as we got off the bus, loud chants were being started off everywhere you looked. People were grabbing each other and shouting things like “Haway! We can have these, man!”
As the players completed the warm up they received a hero’s reception as they applauded the travelling fans, which was only topped by the welcome they got when they walked out into the Theatre of Dreams. The roar was absolutely deafening. A simple battle cry of “Ha’way The Lads” went up and for the first but certainly not the last time that evening the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
After a fairly uneventful start to proceedings, every Sunderland fans worst fear was realised. Former Sunderland man Jonny Evans drifted into an unmarked position at the back post and nodded home to give United the lead.
Under Sir Alex Ferguson, this would be cause for the floodgates to open and United would lay siege to the Sunderland goal. However, this was not the Ferguson side which exuded self-confidence we’d become accustomed to. This side looked as though they’d forgotten how to win.
Although the Wearsiders were well-organised and difficult to break down, United lacked the swagger and belief to break them down and were restricted to long shots. In fact, Sunderland very nearly secured their place at Wembley inside the 90 minutes when Marcos Alonso fizzed an effort across the face of goal.
But as is typical of the Black Cats there was one final heart-stopping moment. Hernandez broke away from the midfield and bared down on the penalty area, only for John O’Shea to stop the Mexican in his tracks.
The Red Devils had a free kick on the edge of the area with the last kick of the game. If they scored, Sunderland were out. 75,000 people held their breath. I could hardly watch as Januzaj stepped up.
On reflection it was a tame effort, chipped up in the air which forced Mannone into a routine save. But in the moment, time seemed to stand still as the ball hovered in the air for what seemed an eternity. When the Italian leaped through the air and pounced on the ball. It felt as though we’d scored a goal. Wearside breathed again and an ear-splitting cry of “Ooooo Vito Mannone” echoed from the Sunderland end. It was tense but we took the game into extra time.
Incredibly rather than try to take advantage of Sunderland’s tiring legs, United seemed ready to settle for their away goal superiority and the visitors enjoyed most of the possession roared on by their travelling support.
But despite this territory and Bardsley flashing a shot wide of the post, David De Gea was not tested and it looked as though the night was to end in pride but ultimately in defeat.
All throughout extra time the away end tried to suck the ball in, every single chant Sunderland chant known to man was recited and the roar every time we attacked made the foundations shake. With ten minutes left, Wise Men Say was belted out and for the first time on the night I choked up, I looked around and thought to myself, “God I wouldn’t swap this team for the world.” The passion and pride at the performance was such that if we hadn’t found the equaliser this would have still been a night to remember.
But then the unthinkable happened. Bardsley won a tackle on the edge of the penalty area and the ball found it’s way to Ki, who kept a cool head and found Bardsley once more.
What happened next was a quite simply pure ecstasy. A weak shot from an energy sapped player somehow evaded De Gea;s grasp and nestled in the bottom corner. An explosion went off in the away end, bodies flew in every direction. Stanger’s hugged each other and shouted themselves hoarse. Grown men welled up with raw emotion, the players jubilantly celebrated and first team coach Tarrico sprinted down the touchline and sunk to his knees in front of the travelling support, drinking in the emotion of the moment. Such were the celebrations, I inadvertently bust a friend’s lip and badly bruised another one’s leg. (if you’re reading this, sorry once again!) We had done it!
But of course we hadn’t. Just a minute later Hernandez sidefooted home to take the game to penalties. Suddenly, after all the chaos of the celebrations just a minute earlier, most fans fell into a stunned silence. Many were just picking themselves up after the wild celebrations of Bardsley’s goal. Typical bloody Sunderland.
However, the fans and the players picked themselves up for the shootout, which was both the worst and the best of all time. Gardner and Fletcher missed for Sunderland before the Scotsman’s namesake converted for United. Surely this was it. We’d come so far, done ourselves proud but ultimately it hadn’t been enough.
But Alonso and Ki dispatched their subsequent penalties and United kept on missing. Giving Adam Johnson the chance to seal Sunderland’s place at Wembley. The Easington-born winger stepped up, but could only tamely hit the shot at De Gea and again we had blown it.
Only seconds later the unthinkable came true. Rafael struck a penalty to Mannone’s right, but the Italian was equal to it and clutched the ball to his chest like a chocoholic clutching a pound Easter egg.
Again, indescribable scenes were generated in the Sunderland end. Incredibly after the emotions of the previous twenty minutes, we had defied the odds and done it. People hugged each other once more, tears streamed down the cheeks of thousands of Sunderland fans, pensioners who feared they’d never see their club at Wembley again were overcome with emotion, kids who had never seen a cup final leaped up and down screaming and the more emotionally drained amongst us simply drank it in and almost collapsed with the enormity of it all.
Chants of “Oooo Vitto Mannone” and “Que Serra, Serra, whatever will be will be we’re going to Wembley” echoed each other from the two tiers of away support as the players and coaching staff celebrated wildly in front of them.
When asked if they could go all the way Gus Poyet beamed “why not?!” In that moment, years of hardship, frustration and underachievement were forgotten as this special night set up a weekend at Wembley which no fan will forget in a hurry. Once again proving, that we should NEVER give up on Sunderland.
