The excitement woke me long before the alarm sounded. Unlike the morning before I didn’t wake from a glorious 5-4 winning dream, instead I woke up calm, but it was a lie. It was League Cup final, the lesser daughter of a beautiful clan, but a beautiful daughter she remains. What happened in the next few hours would be scratched into history, but forever clawed into my soul. Spurs at Wembley glory guaranteed, even if it didn’t happen on the green stuff.

The issue with reminiscing after a final defeat, not something that I have worry about often, is there remains nothing left to analyse. The tactics, the goals, the post-match comments have been dissected, but what we forget in and among the depressing celebratory images of them lot rolling around the pitch with joy, is what the day means. The lingering effects of the defeat, for both good and bad, will resonate for quite some time.

Wembley felt how White Hart Lane felt to me in my early teens. Vast, imposing, dominating and owning the area, but instantly homely

As a cup final virgin of any sort bar a few schoolboy outings at Wingate & Finchley or Southall stadium, the closer the game came the more the occasion enveloped me. Meeting friends, catching the eye of fellow supporters, hearing a distant chant even an hour plus away from the ground made the journey even more special. Wembley has always been close to my heart, I saw my first real game of football there, I saw Spurs for the first time in my life there and it has been part of supporting Spurs.

Some of our greatest moments happened there and even though in more recent years it has broke us more often than not, it remains a sacred place. Many criticise Wembley and romanticise about “old Wembley” but stood in “new Wembley’s” shadow, peering up towards the arch you can’t help but be impressed. If you are playing in a final you want it to be played somewhere out of the ordinary.

On Sunday as I marched up Wembley Way, Chelsea fans hushed in their progress whilst Spurs sung up, it felt like home. It felt how White Hart Lane felt to me in my early teens. Vast, imposing, dominating and owning the area, but instantly homely. Like Hodor from Game of Thrones, big, warm and honest, but with the ability to snap you like a buffalo wing.

This was basically what happened to us that rain swept afternoon. We walked out into the arena and were undone by experience and an ingrained belief that winning isn’t something you earn but something given to you because of who you are. Chelsea may not have been the all-conquering force they once were, but Mourinho has managed to tap back into that sheer winning arrogance. We have seen flashes of this in our emerging team, points collected from losing situations, refusing to accept the inevitable, but we are quite some distance away from where Mourinho and Chelsea stand.

On New Year ’s Day we had a wonderful vision of Mourinho getting his backside smacked, but very few managers have managed to pull this trick of twice. Those that have can be counted on one hand, and those men were aided by some of the greatest footballers to ever kick a ball. The very fact that Mourinho grounded his ship to sink ours is a small victory, well perhaps that is too far, but it is a nod to our improvement.

As the game moved from nerves and hope to stress and then acceptance, I couldn’t help but be proud of our team. Over the past few years we have had to struggle with watching some players who get paid to play the game you love, for the team you love, devoid of care or consideration for the shirt. Now however, maybe we have been fooled by a marketing genius but I honestly believe they care, that they if they weren’t blessed with skills beyond mere mortals, they would’ve have been singing along with the rest of us. Kane, Mason even Townsend who I have a love/hate relationship to match even my most fierce of puberty driven tantrums towards my parents, I have genuine affection for.

I know another year of transition is not what we really wanted, but perhaps this time we have made a real change? Perhaps this time our transition will become traction?

How can you not have anything but affection for them? After all these are Spurs lads aren’t they? After decades of doing things the wrong way perhaps we have finally decided to do things, if not 100% the right way at least as ethically responsible as possible?

The summer of the seven we chased the sun and got burnt, but we learned from it and have emerged stronger for it. The pride I have for my team today, at this very moment, still with the lingering effect of a glorious day with my friends supporting the team I love, I am still proud.

Random office people:

“You must have been disappointed?”

“Sorry for you?”

“That was a shame…”

“Oh well”

Me:

“No it wasn’t actually. It was great.”

There is glory in defeat. There is enjoyment in losing. Not every victory is crowned with a cup.

The Tottenham we see now is far removed from that which started the season, which gives me hope for next year. I know another year of transition is not what we really wanted, but perhaps this time we have made a real change? Perhaps this time our transition will become traction?

Anyway we have a few more months left to go, a few more games to see the work in progress to take shape. A cup win on Sunday would have been glorious, but this time the foreplay was enough, I know we will go the whole way soon enough. Spurs are worth waiting for.