Source: Daily_Mail
Magician Hiddink rewarded for a spell of absolute brilliance
As the final whistle told its tale, the grey-haired gentleman began his stately walk across the Wembley pitch. His white shirt was stained with sweat, and his face glowed brightly after two hours in the unrelenting heat.
But he didn't mind at all.
For yesterday evening, in this fabled corner of north London, Guus Hiddink had earned his place in the sun.
Over the past few months, the Dutchman has taken a disruptive club and turned it into something made in his own image. He has given them stability, confidence and, above all, reason to believe that his influence will outlive his presence at Stamford Bridge.
It is a considerable achievement, but then Hiddink is a considerable manager. Doubtless, he will find it difficult to leave a place where his methods have been received with such rapture.
Certainly, he cuddled his players and clutched his trophy as if he were a Chelsea institution rather than a passing visitor.
But he departs in the knowledge that his reputation has been massively reinforced and his methods wondrously vindicated. And while he led his side through those celebrations, he was awarded the acclaim of large numbers of the visiting fans.
Even in their disappointment, they recognised a class act in the middle-aged magician.
It is possibly patronising to suggest that some of the Evertonians were wide-eyed in wonder. But they were. Before the match, they played their theme tune of Z Cars. It seemed utterly appropriate, as there was a period feel about their presence.
In the Premier League's New Order, they are the kind of club which wasn't supposed to turn up on a day like this.
And certainly they weren't expected to turn up wearing Fellaini wigs, those preposterously-thatched confections which were never intended for 90 degrees of shrivelling heat.
Then there were the banners, draped in blue profusion around the upper tier of Wembley's old tunnel end. They spoke of an age of innocence: 'Tim Cahill, coming to a corner near you' . . . 'Everton Are Magic' . . . 'And to think we're just a small club from Walton' (That, a rather neat dig at Liverpool's Rafael Benitez) . . . and the wonderfully gauche 'Ma We Won't Be Home For Tea -- Michael, Ronnie and Bradley Are At Wembley'.
With just a couple of exceptions, the Chelsea fans didn't do banners. And if they did, they would come up with something a tad more metropolitan than 'Chelsea Are Magic'.
So they are vastly different football clubs, separated by far more than 20 Premier League points. And that difference is faithfully reflected in the comparative resources of their respective leaders.
In Bill Kenwright, Everton have a chairman who has grown moderately wealthy by producing a string of West End plays and musicals.
By contrast, Chelsea have an owner whose inconceivable fortune was accumulated amid the chaotic collapse of the Soviet Empire.
Roman Abramovich expects and demands success. Kenwright simply crosses his fingers, smiles at his bank manager and hopes that fate will be kind.
Yet it was Kenwright who was first to his dancing feet when his team fashioned that simple chance which Louis Saha devoured with such emphatic efficiency.
It was an opportunist's goal, of a kind he used to miss quite regularly when he played for Manchester United, and it ignited an eruption of delight and amazement from the designated underdogs.
In years to come, when Kenwright is asked to nominate the single most ecstatic moment of his time at Goodison, he will surely point to the 25th second of the 128th FA Cup Final.
It would be simplistic to assert that things started to go downhill for Everton after that, for they played their football and made their chances and demonstrated just why they have become one of the most formidable teams in England.
But always the suspicion lurked that they would have to strike again, swiftly and damagingly, if Chelsea were to be conquered. But Chelsea are too strong, too disciplined to be so easily swept aside.
Sure, there was an extended spell of confusion, a spasm of disbelief that they could be so easily wounded.
But they worked at the basics, with Frank Lampard organising midfield and Florent Malouda running with mischievous intent at poor Tony Hibbert, who was enduring the kind of nightmare that infrequent visitors to Wembley should not have to suffer.
It was Malouda who was allowed an indecent amount of space on 21 minutes and given time to pick his cross.
Didier Drogba's header was as powerful as it was unchallenged. And then we knew it was over. No matter how the plot unfolded, Chelsea would not be beaten, their season would not pass without reward.
Their resources are too deep and their spirit too stern to permit further mistakes. Again, Everton were valiant, even heroic.
But the Lampard goal which ended the affair was as predictable as it was technically brilliant.
In time, it will become a vivid Wembley memory; Nicolas Anelka's short, square pass and Lampard moving right, stumbling, playing it back to his left foot, then driving the shot with pace and accuracy into the top corner.
A fine goal deciding a distinctly superior final. The Evertonians continued to sing, bellowing defiance beyond the final whistle.
So well did their team perform, that Michael, Ronnie and Bradley's missed tea seemed a small price to pay.
But the trophy went to the more accomplished side. Hiddink and his players deserved no less.
