We should have known that Newcastle United’s sweet release from the torture of seven decades without a major domestic trophy would not feel like any old redemption.
Rolling back a generation of the bitterest pain with a performance to match the scale of the achievement was one thing. That it was local boy Dan Burn who untwisted the helix of Newcastle’s DNA to send them on their way gave it a flourish that might make the schmaltziest Hollywood scriptwriter blush.
It was that kind of evening at Wembley, where grown men with black and white scarves wrapped around their necks wept in the stands and on the pitch. At full-time Bruno Guimaraes – the captain-warrior who, along with the ravenous Joelinton, set the tone for Newcastle’s brilliant win – lay prostrate on the turf, crying ecstatic tears.
Others blinked, unbelieving that they had seen out a final, nervy five minutes. But few beamed as widely as Burn, the lifelong Newcastle fan who must have feared moments like this would evade him. Little did he know destiny had other plans.
Forty-five minutes of a frenetic, frantic final had expired when Newcastle won the corner that bent this final in their favour. Kieran Trippier, dredging the tank to snuff out Liverpool’s red arrows with a performance as good as any he’s supplied in black and white, fizzed the perfect ball into the penalty area and it was 6ft 5ins Burn, somehow overlooked by a sea of overworked Liverpool defenders, who met it with the perfect attacking header.
The roar that followed felt like a jet engine engaging and Burn could have taken off, such was the velocity of his celebration run.
You couldn’t say he didn’t deserve his moment. Overlooked and written off by his home-town club, Burn rebuilt his career as a gangly teenager at Darlington, combining football with a part-time job pushing trolleys at Asda. He was the gangly kid whose family home in Blyth had a Newcastle crest engraved on the front door. Now he is a central part of that club’s history, the man who will never have to buy another drink in the city in his entire life.
In the executive suites, Alan Shearer bounced with joy. Newcastle’s record goalscorer is one of those greats who tried and failed to score in the 49 years since Alan Gowling’s consolation against Manchester City in the 70s. But once the dam was broken, the goals positively flowed.
The second – perfectly timed after the euphoria of half-time – was a wonderful sweeping shot by Alexander Isak that felt like more of a logical twist in this tale. Isak spun away to celebrate, jabbing his thumbs backward with an expression that suggested total confidence that he would impact this game.
There was, inevitably, late anguish. Federico Chiesa’s goal brought Liverpool within sight of dragging Newcastle back down to earth but in truth, they were rarely knocked out of their stride. Two years on from freezing on this stage, Newcastle looked like they belonged.
For that Eddie Howe must collect all of the credit. The first English manager to win a major trophy since Harry Redknapp in 2008, can anyone now doubt his credentials as the best homegrown coach of his generation?
Howe, like his talisman Burn, got here the hard way. He was not special as a player, injury ravaging his chances of ever playing at the top level, but as a manager he finds himself immortalised in his adopted home of Newcastle.
He set up his team perfectly here. It is only a fortnight since Liverpool ripped them to shreds but he had absorbed those lessons.
His team hunted in packs, none more than the magnificent Joelinton – whose primal scream after shutting down a Liverpool attacking foray is a contender for a statue at the new stadium. But they managed their aggression, ensuring Newcastle were not burned out by the time the second half began.
Tactically flawless, they traversed the mental tightrope just as adroitly. Howe had kept his players away from the capital on Saturday night so as to keep it feeling as if it was a normal Premier League engagement. The emotion ebbed and flowed, a pre-match tifo urging them to “Write their names in Newcastle history” cited as motivation by Burn, but Newcastle never allowed it to overawe them.
So what now? They sunk beers in the mixed zone but there was also reflection. One player, passing through, exchanging high fives, said he felt numb. You suspect it will be a while before they truly grasp what they have achieved.
Two years ago I sat with Burn in a cramped dressing room at the club’s Benton training base. About halfway through an engaging hour or so in his company, conversation turned to what it would mean to be part of the group that ended Newcastle’s long wait for silverware.
“They will be gods,” he said quietly in almost reverential tones. Now he belongs in that pantheon.
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