The Watford Observer is serialising the sixth Tales From The Vicarage book, titled Rocket Men, featuring interviews with Luther Blissett, Ian Bolton, Ross Jenkins and Steve Sherwood.

Here, Mike Walters looks back at Steve Sherwood's agonising absence from the 1987 FA Cup semi-final, as a wine waiter took his place at Villa Park.

Safely cocooned in mid-table, the season boiled down to a semi-final against Tottenham at Villa Park. When first-choice Tony Coton’s season was ended by a broken thumb, Watford were relieved that Sherwood was available to provide experienced cover.

But, unbelievably, the injury curse struck again.

Sherwood, diving to his left in a shooting-practice drill, caught his little finger in the ground and dislocated it badly, almost at a right angle. Immediately, he knew it was potentially serious in terms of playing in the semi-final, and the nearest hospital was almost an hour away.

“The key with dislocations is to get the joint reset as quickly as possible, so the delay wasn’t great because the swelling takes hold,” said Sherwood.

“Fortunately, the glove gave me more protection than the flimsy things we used to wear and we managed to keep it iced. Once the finger was straightened out, I always thought I was going to make it.”

Taylor, forced to seek cover for Sherwood sounded out 41-year-old Pat Jennings about coming out of his short-lived retirement to take a curtain call against his former club, and sent 45-year-old former Arsenal man Bob Wilson a distress flare.

Both veterans politely declined, and with time running out, Taylor found emergency cover in the unlikely setting of an Ebbw Vale wine bar, where Hornets chief executive Eddie Plumley’s son, Gary, ran the front of house. Plumley had performed capably against Watford in the Fourth Division for Newport County ten years earlier, and as a free agent he was available to sign non-contract forms.

When Plumley hooked up with the Hornets squad, Taylor was impressed with his attitude in training, but the general consensus among the players was that Sherwood would play against Tottenham if he was passed fit.

“On the Saturday morning of the game, it’s wet and windy, it’s horrible, but I go through my routines, do some work on crosses and it’s all fine,’ says Sherwood in his unhurried recollections of a momentous day.

“Then, at the end of the session, Graham asked me to lie on the ground, with my injured hand outstretched, and he kicked a ball against it as hard as he could. There was no discomfort, and I told him, ‘Yeah, it’s fine. No problem.’

“I went back to the hotel feeling chipper and there was a knock at the door and our physio, Billy Hails, said the gaffer wanted a word in his room.

“I just thought he was going to confirm I was playing, and at first there was no sign of anything to the contrary. He asked me, ‘How is it?’ and I replied, ‘It’s fine.’

“That’s when he dropped the bombshell. ‘Well, I can’t tell you the reason, but I’m not going to play you.’ I was so shocked, I couldn’t even speak. I didn’t have a go at him or anything.

“When I went back to my room and told Simsy the news, he looked as startled as me and he said, ‘So this wine waiter is playing in goal instead of you?’

“I don’t think I’ve ever felt as bad watching a game of football as I felt that afternoon. It was just horrible, wishing I was somewhere else, and of course it was a terrible result.”

Taylor’s confidence in Plumley, as it transpired, was misplaced. He was a bag of nerves. From Tottenham’s first meaningful shot, a speculative effort from distance by Clive Allen, the wine-bar sommelier could not hold on and Steve Hodge devoured the rebound.

Plumley was blameless when Allen tried his luck again two minutes later, and the debutant was stranded by a wicked deflection off John McClelland, but even the stealthiest contraband dealer should not have been able to smuggle a cross-shot between keeper and near post, as Hodge did to make it 3-0.

As a contest, it was over before the interval, Watford lost 4-1 and Sherwood’s dream of returning to Wembley evaporated.

“On the Sunday morning, I got a call from a guy on the News of the World offering me money to slag off Graham, but I wasn’t interested. I told the fella, ‘Look, all I can say is that I was fit enough to play, but if you are looking for someone to trash my manager for the last ten years, you’ve come to the wrong guy.’

“Hurt as I was, after everything we had achieved together, I wasn’t going to sell him down the river for 30 pieces of silver.

“But from one end of the spectrum – feeling on top of the world when we won promotion, qualified for Europe and reached the Cup final – I had gone to the other, where I really couldn’t have felt any worse.”