On a weekend giving more attention to cups than Michelle Mone, one is hastily wheeched back to halcyon days of a first introduction to the world of knockout football.

An era, through the warped mind of a boy from Carluke with a Motherwell and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle fixation, defined by big crowds, stories of days gone by and harrowing eye-witness accounts of being skelped on penalties by Alloa on a dour Tuesday night.

The big yin may be at Hampden on Sunday between Celtic and Aberdeen, two Scottish heavyweights slugging it out for the chance to get their hauns on the first piece of silverware with both citing this as a potential rocket to blast them towards even more success.

But the real magic of it all surely lies in Saturday’s modest and understated offerings. Assuming one of the William Hill Scottish Cup ties survives a winter that threatens to make Winterfell look like Magaluf in June, this is where the true romance of the cup lies.

For a boy from Lanarkshire, romance was lost on me. Your average Carluke lothario earned the title by bouncing out of the Wee Thackit of a Friday evening before offering some young damsel a bite of his fritter roll. Well, at least that’s what dad told me.

Glasgow Times: The William Hill Scottish Cup trophy

You can only imagine the amazement and bewilderment at the age of just 10 at the hurricane of emotion whipped up inside at my first ever cup game. It came in a dramatic day at Fir Park – dramatic because Motherwell almost looked like winning – when Hamilton Accies came calling in the Scottish Cup. In my mind’s eye, this fixture brought a crowd to Fir Park only comparable to the queue for the mint imperials at a Cliff Richard gig.

The game itself finished in a draw but, it’s rare the memories of such occasions are defined by the irrelevant details pertaining to matters of sporting proficiency. Normally heart-warming tales are founded upon mishaps, near-misses, calamities and tales of woe. Or maybe a bit of each rolled into one.

The replay of the aforementioned game took place at Broadwood on a cold February night. Don’t ask me what the score was, what the formations were or even what colour the grass was. My only memory is sprinting through the car park with mum to hear the noise of an Owen Coyle goal fly in from the other side of the stand.

From there a romance with a fickle mistress blossomed.

It is a love affair, fuelled by the tales of past glories and the odd story of David v Goliath results that keep you coming back for more. I was brought up being brainwashed by the legend of cup-crusaders Motherwell on the way to that iconic Scottish Cup win of 1991, recollections of open-top buses and Stevie Kirk winners.

Glasgow Times: Phil O'Donnell's header puts Motherwell 2-1 ahead during their 4-3 Scottish Cup Final victory over Dundee United in 1991

Not since Craig Whyte arrived at Ibrox with a chequebook and a straight face has someone been misled more.

The romance of the cup is an enduring passion, forged on the sodden terracing at Stair Park, welded together by the array of emotions that can only be experienced from celebrating with unbridled joy an extra-time winner on a cold night at Cappielow while at the same time experiencing a warm and wet sensation running down the back of your leg. Well, at least that’s what dad told me.

It is for this reason that it is only right that the crowd at tomorrow’s final is split down the middle, allowing as many fans, young and old of Aberdeen, to see their team have a shot at it. So what if they’re home gate on a Saturday is lower, that’s not what this is about.

The SFA were right to split it right down the middle and it will make for a far better spectacle. If a life-long tryst between boy and cup can be forged in a Cumbernauld car park, then just imagine the generation of future disciples that can be captivated by such an occasion.

Sadly doing this gig does not fully desensitise you to the pain of being papped out a cup by some wee diddy team.

As part of my job I have been to more cup finals than that young boy’s heroes have managed since 1886. They are grand showpiece, potentially once-in-a-life-time moments and, perhaps one day, this young Lanarkshire laddie may well see his team win one of them.

Until then, I’ll content myself with being love sick.