A bit long and flowery, but for those of a nostalgic bent it may raise a smile. Did for me anyway.
Plucked from an article on the Guardian website about memorable League Cup goals -
Outside of love, it's fairly clear that there's nothing in the world better than sport. Only religion and politics provoke anything like the same extremes of emotion, but generally without quite the same levels of levity, spontaneity and brilliance. As regards the other comparators, sex, drugs and alcohol are largely ephemeral, and though the arts are transformative and emotive, they remain a degree removed. If the Olympics proved anything (they didn't) then it was this.
It therefore follows that goals are the zenith of existential experience if a picture is worth a thousand words, then a goal is worth several infinity. And for any member of the Swindon lot, the one scored by Don Rogers at Wembley in 1969 corresponds to several infinity plus one, the high watermark of humanity. It's fashionable to say that football nowadays is nonsense, but that's not quite so, though mortifyingly many things about it are revoltingly nonsensical. What was different then, though, was that the joybringers were more evenly spread. Tony Currie, Frank Worthington, Peter Osgood, Stan Bowles, Rodney Marsh, Eddie Gray and George Best played for a variety of teams, and even Arsenal had Charlie George as opposed to the periodic Le Tissier and occasional Okocha of more modern times.
Rogers first of Swindon Town, then of Crystal Palace, QPR and Swindon Town again was such a player. Born in Paulton, Somerset, he was allowed to sign for his local club imagine! as opposed to being holed up in some academy having the flair coached out of him, then force-fed tactics in a hydromassaging swimming pool treadmill, with agents and benjamins spilling out of his hair like nits. Swindon were in Division Two at the time, but were relegated in 1965, subsequently finishing seventh, eighth and ninth. In 1968-69 they would be promoted, but the enduring memory of that season is their League Cup triumph.
Wins against Torquay, Bradford, Blackburn and Coventry earned them a quarter-final against Derby, a single deflected goal enough to win a replay and setting up a semi-final with Burnley. Each side won its away leg 2-1, but Swindon somehow fashioned a 3-2 replay result to earn a trip to Wembley, where they would play Arsenal, who were two seasons away from winning the league and Cup double, and the majority of that team not squad was already in place. Goalkeeper Bob Wilson and defenders Peter Simpson, Frank McLintock and Bob McNab were protected by the midfielders George Armstrong and Peter Storey, with the striker John Radford also starting, and George Graham was sub. Swindon were outsiders of Holden Caulfield proportions, and even 20 years later, a regional programme marking the occasion talked of them "actually reaching the League Cup final, against every conceivable chance".
In the weeks leading up to the game the town was gripped with what must mandatorily be described as Cup fever. Entailing bunting, banners, ticket hunts and a post office special issue, people actually cared, and not because other people were watching. Arsenal's game the previous week had been postponed due to eight of their players suffering with flu, and they were not amused when a combination of heavy rain and heavy horses of the year left the pitch looking like an aerial view of the globe. Peculiar though this appeared, it remained less so than a colour scheme dictated by competition rules stating that in the event of a clash, both teams must use a change strip. So Arsenal played in yellow and Swindon in white, or for those watching on telly, Arsenal wore off-white with increasing black and Swindon wore white with increasing black. The game was almost certainly the least television-friendly of all-time, and accordingly, one of the most television-friendly.
It proceeded as you'd expect Arsenal dominating, Swindon resilient. "Arsenal murdered us," admitted the defender Peter Burrows. But behind him, Peter Downsborough was in remarkable form, somehow stopping everything; "What a goalkeeper!" rhaposidised Brian Moore. Then, on 35 minutes, the players contrived the most remarkable of goals, scruffier than Smudge in Bash Street, and suddenly Swindon were ahead, Roger Smart ecstatically thumping the ball against the net though he'd already run it well over the line.
The second half was more of the same. But Swindon held out, until, with four minutes remaining goalkeeper Downsborough fumbled, the ball looped up, and Bobby Gould headed the equaliser. "My goodness is he pleased with life!" shrieked Moore. "He's crying! Bobby - Gould - is - crying!" Yet, in extra-time, Arsenal tired and Swindon did not, on account of gruelling Thursday training sessions and the experience of playing on the County Grounds bog every other week. As they increased the pressure on the Arsenal defence, a Smart header hit the post, and after the resultant corner remained uncleared, yet another goalmouth scramble produced a chance for Rogers, which he slotted it like it was nothing. It was not like nothing.
In the second period, Arsenal dredged up sufficient reserves of energy to once again exert control, Swindon serried in their own half. Then, with 11 minutes to go, an attack broke down and the ball was cleared to Rogers alone in the Arsenal half and haring towards Wilson's goal.
Like the power of love, one-on-ones are a curious thing make one man weep, make another man sing, just ask Gordon Smith. Strikers spend entire games making runs to facilitate precisely such an eventuality, yet when they arrive, they can be as undesirable as radioactive herpes. Some situations, there's space but not time; the striker must make up his mind in an instant and then shoot, because he's so near to goal. Other occasions, there's a defender in pursuit, the striker's mind focused on making sure to get in a shot, rather than what might happen subsequently.
But none of this applied to Rogers; no one was catching him, and initially, no one seriously attempted to catch him. He had a full two seconds, alone with his thoughts and the ball to contemplate how he might address the moment that would define his existence and indelibly enhance that of thousands of others
and he annihilated it with an ιlan of chilling understatement. As Wilson came out, he shimmied a hip inside, outside and inside again, nipped back outside, this time taking the ball with him and leaving the thoroughly diddled Wilson contorted in a limbed heap, then clipped rather than rolled it into an empty net. Game over, life and legacy secured
