As I watch his gangly frame lollop around the pitch like a neglected donkey, I catch myself having sinful thoughts

FAN'S EYE VIEW; No 140 Southampton Nicky Harris

When the Saints go marching in to Old Trafford on Monday night, form will not be on their side. They have not won a single trophy for two decades, nor (according to most pundits), do they stand a Matt in hell's chance of winning. What may favour them are the omens, and hopefully the Gods. (How could they fail to against the Red Devils?).

Saints were the last team to beat Manchester United in an FA Cup tie at Old Trafford and 20 years ago, on a glorious May afternoon, they were also the Second Division underdogs who stormed Wembley to beat United in the final.

I remember it clearly. It was the best game I'd seen up until that point. I was six, and it was on the telly, and my dad was somewhere behind the Royal Box. I sat at home looking for his yellow and blue hat, and on Monday, Saints will be wearing yellow and blue again. The yellow and blue will remind me of Bobby Stokes' goal that won the cup, and of the scarves and flags lining the streets as the double-decker brought us back that cup the next day.

Those were the days of Channon and Ball, Peach and Holmes, Osgood and Wells and Bowyer. In the years to come, I would see the Southampton pages of my Figarini Panini sticker album graced too by the likes of Kevin Keegan, Peter Shilton, Jimmy Case, Frank Worthington and Joe Jordan.

We've always realised the value of the elderly at The Dell, but it's also been a breeding ground, a nurturing centre, a place where talent flourishes before the cash comes in and steals it away. Alan Shearer, for example, and Tim Flowers, Mark Wright, Neil Ruddock, the Wallace brothers, Geoff Kenna, Andy Townsend, Dennis Wise, Paul Rideout (last year's Cup- winning goalscorer, incidentally).

And then, of course, there's a certain man from Jersey called Le Tissier. The man who has the crowds bowing down to him at corners. The man who inspires the name "Le God" on hundreds of No 7 shirts every Saturday. And the man who, increasingly, is frustrating the hell out of all of us.

Matty is, without doubt, one of the finest playmakers and goalscorers in the country. On his day. And, in these days where money is more than loyalty, no player deserves higher praise for sticking with his highly unfashionable, perennially relegation-battling club. Great respect to him for that.

But (and I'm on blasphemous territory here), our deification of the lad has perhaps done him no favours. The adoration, the total security of devotion regardless of performance. The pressure.

Sometimes, as I watch his gangly frame lollop around the pitch like a neglected donkey, I catch myself having sinful thoughts. I compose myself, trust that one day the talent will start to flow unabated, and I keep my unholy thoughts to myself. Then I hear someone behind me shout: "Oi Matty, do something. Don't just lollop around the pitch like a neglected donkey."

It's there. The doubt. The fear. The terrible possibility that he'll never make the England team and score the winning goal in the World Cup final. Maybe on Monday he could dispel all that with a couple of flicks of genius and send us to the semis.

Glory is not something we Saints fans are especially used to. I, for one, don't have a major triumph as my finest Southampton footballing memory. That honour goes to a 2-0 home win against Aston Villa in 1993, for no reasons other than it was a sunny day, a good match, and we won. Not much perhaps, if you're a Manchester United fan, but that's what it's all about for me.

I can rely on the Saints to be unpredictable. To lose at home against the odds. To win at times when they have no right to. And to take the FA Cup by the scruff of its neck and contest each round with the passion of... well, of a nondescript mid-table encounter, probably.

And that's what supporting Saints is like. I can't help it, it's hereditary. I've only ever lived in Southampton for three months in my life. I used my dad's season ticket five times last season (not bad considering I was living in Japan at the time.) I've only used it four times this season, but then Glasgow's a long way to travel from too.

But I'll be watching on Monday. In a pub, on the telly, thinking of '76 and thinking "Yeah, maybe we could do it this year." Maybe. My dad, a lifelong supporter, died last Monday - and he will be with the Saints on Monday night.