LONDON — Two years ago on this stage, the occasion had gotten to Newcastle, as it would any others in their first major final for a generation, bidding to end a lifetime’s agony for their supporters. Not this time. On this day, Newcastle played the men, not the moment.
That those in red were found wanting, utterly spent from Tuesday night, will barely qualify as a footnote to history on Tyneside, the first major trophy most in Wembley’s scarf-aloft West Stand will have seen Newcastle win. It was done so in the fashion that makes this team such a hellacious opponent for the Premier League’s best.
From the outset, Newcastle ran harder, defended in greater numbers and attacked with more physicality than their opponents. For all the riches that their Saudi owners have lavished on their playing staff — and those scarves gifted by Sela were a reminder that this will be a soft power triumph for PIF along with an unforgettable day for supporters — Newcastle are absolutely prepared to line up in the nastiest mid-block they can find. Think you can find a way through three giant midfielders or around fullbacks perfectly prepared to stretch the laws of the game? Best of luck.
It works home and away in the Premier League, so why shouldn’t it at Wembley? Against Manchester United two years ago, it hadn’t, Eddie Howe hinting in the lead-up that emotion had gotten the better of his side that day. It is hard to snarl in the other guy’s face when every kick of the ball seems so highly charged. There had of course been major absentees that day but there were Sunday too. They didn’t matter a jot. Within a few minutes it was apparent that Newcastle could cope without Sven Botman and Lewis Hall, that Harvey Barnes would charge up and down the left doing his best understudying for Anthony Gordon.
Of course, for all that this was Newcastle’s day, it cannot go unremarked that they ran into Liverpool at the right moment. Defeat to Paris Saint-Germain had charged a heavy price to the Premier League leaders. Two hours at the highest level of football had sapped energy levels across the team, Sandro Tonali swooping in to claim possession that might otherwise have been Alexis Mac Allister’s or Ryan Gravenberch’s. There was much mirth in the Geordie end at the sight of Mohamed Salah running out of steam not once but twice in the opening 10 minutes.
Liverpool were having to hit balls into the channel for Salah to chase given how little joy they were getting between the lines. Howe had no compunction fielding his back four in a mid-block, sticking a line of five yards ahead of them and challenging the opposition to find the gaps. They usually do. They usually have Trent Alexander-Arnold. Shorn of one of the great passers of his generation, it was no wonder Liverpool wheezed their way around the final third, looking for lanes into the penalty area that Tonali and Joelinton would snuff out in a flash.
Not until Diogo Jota hooked a Luis Diaz flick on goalwards did Liverpool register their first shot of the match. Those were their first touches in the penalty area too. By then they were already a goal down.
Caoimhin Kelleher’s goal had hardly been under siege before Jota’s shot though. A generous assessment of Liverpool’s first half might have been that all the sideways possession allowed them to conserve energy, to drag this game to a stage where their strength in depth could be deployed from the substitutes bench. If that is going to work, however, you need to be faultless defensively. In particular, there is going to have to be a plan for when the biggest outfielder on the pitch trundles up for set pieces.
Dan Burn had already gotten free to meet one delivery, thudding a header into a spot where all that was required was for Bruno Guimaraes to connect with a more meaningful flick. There are no mitigating factors When Kieran Trippier delivered a corner from the left the Blyth Lion opted to cut out the middle man, larruping a header low into Kelleher’s bottom right corner. Cue a collective unshirting of Magic Mike proportions.
It perhaps did Newcastle well to return to the dressing room a few moments later, Jota’s miss ringing in their ears. Liverpool took to the field with a little more urgency and their opponents were utterly unperturbed. Instead they used a more open contest to their advantage, Tino Livramento and Barnes combining down the left for the former to hang a cross to the back post. Jacob Murphy outjumped Robertson, Alexander Isak had dropped off Virgil van Dijk and drilled home.
It really could have been easy sailing from then on out. Howe’s team are as adept as any in England at shutting down games by fair means and foul and Liverpool looked spent. For the most part Newcastle played those last moments to a tea. The walls of Wembley rattled as Nick Pope rose to meet a high ball, dropping to his knees to eke out the clock and perhaps begin the celebrations.
Then Federico Chiesa ghosted in behind to halve the arrears, the dodgy audio setup that John Brookes had been equipped with briefly afforded hope for the red end. This would test Newcastle’s mettle. Somehow, the outstanding Tonali still had reserves of energy to drive his side forward. Joe Willock contrived to force dead ball after dead ball. Callum Wilson added a few seconds by veering for the corner flag, not the goal. Tonali’s bootlaces happened to undo themselves at just the sort of moment that would kill a few seconds more.
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Were those last seven minutes a bit harum scarum? Of course, but given the prize on offer, Newcastle could be forgiven a few nerves on the one-yard line.
After all, for the proceeding 94 minutes, they had played this as just another match, safe in the knowledge that when they play their way they routinely make life hell for teams such as Liverpool. Newcastle had been utterly unencumbered by the weight of history, by what it might mean if they failed, and, more intimidatingly, what it might mean if they succeeded. They are about to find out.
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