On the occasion of the "2nd" anniversary of that wonderful day in Cardiff (it was 29th February 2004), I thought I'd share an extract from my book "You Are My Boro: The Unlikely Adventures of a Small Town in Europe".

From Chapter 11 - 2003/4 - We DID Overcome.


And so it was upon us: The League Cup, or, to giveit its sponsor's name, the Carling Cup Final. Could it happen this time? Could128 years of hurt finally come to an end? The portents were good, not least inthe fact that we would be playing at the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff rather than Wembley, which was stillundergoing complete and very expensive reconstruction. There was also the dateof the game: the leap year extra day of 29th February. It was a raredate, and maybe something rare would happen.
I managed to get myself a ticket, having made theprudent decision to buy a season ticket halfway through the season and thus improvemy chances if we'd got there. There was a decent allocation for real fans atLeague Cup finals in Cardiff.I think both sets of fans were allocated nearly 30,000 tickets, so a goodnumber got to go to the match. I'm sure there were those who were unlucky orwho just couldn't make it at all, and I believe Bolton had some problems withtheir allocations. Such is life with cup finals. They are logistical challengesgiven the short time scales that are often at play; there's no doubt of that.
In the weeks leading up to the game I had been askedif I wanted to go to a BBC Radio 5 Live fans' forum being held on a midweeknight at a pub in Bolton, so I joined about a dozen other people who ran,contributed to or posted on FMTTM's messageboard, including the likes of RobNichols and the legend they call Uncle Harry. We made our way over the Pennines with a "pies and peace" offering of some localpork products and found the venue. It was a large, modern pub with a cavernousopen area. A group of tables was set up at one end of the room where thepresenter, Jonathan Pearce, took up his central hosting position between MarkLawrenson, Craig Hignett, Stan Collymore and Bolton legend, John McGinlay. Infront of them were several rows of chairs seating Boltonfans. The small Boro contingent was ushered upstairs to a mezzanine areaoverlooking the main floor.
The show was lively and the banter wasgood-spirited. There was a roving reporter called Clem (himself a Teessider)who mingled with the fans when prompted, asking various questions and wanderingaround with the obligatory large microphone and headphones worn on one ear.During one such walkabout, Clem came towards me and thrust the microphone undermy mouth, asking who I most feared from Bolton. My first, instinctive answer of"Peter Kay" raised a laugh in the crowd, although Mr. Pearce didn't look tooimpressed down on the main floor, but I soon gave a real answer and named KevinDavies as someone who would definitely cause us problems in the game. He hadbeen a thorn in our sides before, and I knew he was the kind of playerdefenders hate to face: a big, bustling nuisance who doesn't know the meaningof a lost cause.
After the show we found out that the actual LeagueCup trophy was there (it could have been a replica, of course, but it lookedreal enough) and a few of us had our photos taken gurning over the trophy withthumbs aloft and so on. Craig Hignett, ex-member of the dynamic strike duo of1995-96 named the Midget Gems (partnered by Nick Barmby), came and chatted withus for a while and posed for more photos. A few drinks were imbibed and it wassoon time to head back to the North East.
For the match itself, I decided to head down thenight before the match and stay in a Travelodge just off the M4. This meant Icould get into Cardiff nice and early without worrying about driving a long waytwice in a day, especially as the weather had turned wintry. I gave anothercouple of Boro fans a lift down as well, and they stayed at the same hotel. Nextmorning we ate a hearty breakfast in the Little Chef next door and headed intoWelsh Wales. I had never been to Wales in my entire life, and hoped I wouldn'tbe accosted by enormous unintelligible signs emblazoned with thirty-letterplace names (made up of the letters H, L and U, mostly). It wasn't like that atall, of course, and it didn't take long to cross the Severn and get to Cardiff.
We were directed to car parks on the outskirts ofthe Welsh capital city, from where we could catch buses to the city centre. Itwas all fairly well organised and we got into the heart of the city with a goodfew hours to spare, and found that it was already buzzing with football fans.The strange thing was that it seemed to be all Boro. There were very few Boltonfans to be found, and all the pubs were awash with the reds and whites of Middlesbrough. There was a convivial and excited partyatmosphere all around.
I headed to the Cardiff branch of the British Legionwhere a few people I knew where going to be meeting up for a few drinks. When Igot there I found that they had a German beer called Bitburger which I hadn'ttasted since I was a young slip of a lad back in the late 1980s. My excitementabated a tad when I found out that it was an alcohol-free version, but I stilldrank it. I was high enough on expectation as it was, and had to drive homeafter the game anyway.
Everyone was itching to get to the match, and therewas an amazing feeling of optimism amongst the Boro fans. It was moreoptimistic than the feeling I'd witnessed back in 1997. It wasn't justoptimism, actually, it was belief.This was our time, and I don't think we'd ever felt so sure of it. As kick-offtime approached people finished their drinks, exchanged handshakes, hugs andback-pats and headed towards the venue for the cup final.

The Millennium stadium is an impressive venue, withhigh, white steel columns in each corner and polished black cladding around thetop of the stands. On the day of our final it had Carling Cup banners drapedfrom various structures. I made my way into the ground and up to my seat, whichwas high up at the back of one of the end stands. The retractable roof wasclosed for the match, and from the roof hung two huge banners bearing the clubcrests of Bolton and Boro. The centre circlewas covered with a huge circle of cloth bearing the name of the sponsors. Thestands were soon full of hopeful fans, decked out in their red and whiteshirts, hats and scarves and waving their flags. The atmosphere was cracklingwith expectancy and nails were bitten as news of the team selections camethrough. Hopes and dreams by the thousand were ready to pour out onto the pitchwhen the teams appeared.
The teams emerged a few minutes before kick-off to abackground of vivid, moving colour and colossal noise. Fireworks erupted fromthe pitch and flash-bulbs by the thousand lit up the stands. The two teamslined up along the pitch, one on each side of the half-way line and did all thepre-match presentation stuff they like to torture us all with. Get on with it,will ya?
When it did start, it started better than anyonecould have dared to imagine. In only the second minute Danny Mills knocked along ball forward from right back. It was headed back into midfield whereMendieta suddenly had acres of space. He curled a gorgeous ball out to Zendenon the left wing, and Zenden whipped a wicked low cross into the six-yard boxwhere Job slammed it home to give Boro the lead.

If that was good, better was to follow. French WorldCup winner Djorkaeff had a chance for Bolton, saved well by Schwarzer to hisright, and from the resulting corner Boro won a free kick for Bolton naughtinessin the area. A bit of head tennis ensued before Mendieta slid the ball intowards Job who was lurking in the area with his back to goal. As he tried totake the ball to one side, he was floored by a clumsy tackle from behind and refereeMr. Riley pointed to the spot. Oh. My. God. We had a penalty.
Zenden took the responsibility on his shoulders andstepped up to take the penalty kick. As he kicked his standing foot slipped andhe did actually strike the ball twice, but the contacts were so close togetherit was only visible on a slow-mo replay, and the ball ended up in the net. Onlysix minutes had passed, and the Boro fans could barely contain themselves. Ifound myself hugging the bloke next to me, who I'd never seen before and havenever seen since. I would have apologised, but he was hugging back with greatenthusiasm.
On 21 minutes Boltonwoke from their stunned stupor and hit back. It was a goal out of nothing byKevin Bloody Davies (didn't I warn them?) with a weak, long-range shot fromwide on the right. Schwarzer made a bit of a boo-boo of it, misjudging thebounce and letting the ball in at his near post. He was visibly annoyed by themistake, kicking the goalpost in frustration. Of course Bolton came at us hard afterthat. They launched a series of attacks in their usual, Big-Sam-drilled way,but we stood firm. Schwarzer was a man possessed, making a series of greatsaves to quell the white-shirted hordes, and we made it to half time with thelead intact.
The second half wasn't half as hairy for Boro as itcould have been. Bolton soon ran out of steam. They kept pressing for theequaliser, but Boro kept breaking quickly, and could well have scored a coupleof goals up at the end of the ground where our nervous fans were seated.Mendieta had a couple of good chances and Juninho made a couple of trademarkmazy runs, but the third goal wouldn't come. Ricketts came on for a bumblingcameo and our nerves were shot. Regulation time ran out and Boltonhad four minutes of injury time to try and draw level. They threw everythingforward, and there was a horrible, heart-in-the-mouth moment when Ehiogu's armwas struck by a goal-bound shot as he lunged across to block it from almostpoint-blank range. Mike Riley waved play on and we were so, so close to Paradise. The strains of "We Shall Overcome", thatprotest song of the civil rights movement adopted as an anthem of valiantdefeat by Boro fans in the past, wasn't going to get an airing today. PleaseGod, I can't say I really believe in you, but please: not today.
The roar at the final whistle was like nothing I'veheard before or since. The release was immeasurable. Finally, finally, Middlesbrough had won a real trophy. Mickey Mouse trophymy arse. I stood with arms aloft and screamed until my lungs burned and my headspan, then had to sit down to get my breath back. It was then that I wept likea big bloody baby, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'd not been a Boro fan forvery long compared to many of those around me, but at that moment I felt 100%Teessider.
I'd seen cup final defeats and relegations, and thiswas sweeter and more real thananything I'd ever felt as a football fan, even in my foolish and misguidedyounger years. I can't imagine a Manchester United or Chelsea fan knowing howthis moment feels. They win trophies all the time, so they get used to it. Hardtimes for them are going a season without winning a pot, whilst the majority ofclubs just want to survive and go on the odd cup run, hoping to get a fewcrumbs thrown their way now and again by Sky Television.
The celebrations were long, lusty and loud. Longafter the Bolton fans had vacated their halfof the stadium to trudge home feeling hard done by (been there, done that), thestadium rocked to the Boro rhythm. The players partied on the pitch as much thefans did in the stands, with a beaming Juninho laying the ghosts of Elland Road torest. You could see it meant a lot to him. I rang my parents on my mobile,giving them a replay of my full-time roar, but with all the noise around me, Iwasn't sure who I was actually speaking to. It could well have been theanswering machine.
The spectacular trophy presentation ceremony sawGareth Southgate lift that glittering piece of silverware high above his headas fireworks shot towards the dark voids of the roof. Steve Gibson, the lad whocame from the tough, working-class Middlesbrough estate of Park End to becomeone of the most popular chairmen in the modern game, was persuaded to come upto the podium and was lifted shoulder-high by the players. As for SteveMcClaren, he hadn't been universally popular with fans of the club, but he haddone the one thing no other manager had managed before: won a cup.
 It was alljust flipping fantastic, and I am so glad and I feel so privileged that I wasthere to see history being made. 
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