AH, ROBBIE FOWLER. Somewhere in London this morning, the eternal Scouse scamp will be put through his paces to see if he is fit enough to take his place in the Cardiff City squad for the FA Cup final. Even in the bleakest days for English football, when it was shot through with barbarism, the "Cup" was always associated with the more romantic possibilities of the game, when tiny clubs from England's forgotten hamlets could take the field against the giant city clubs.

The appearance of Cardiff is arguably down to the fact the superclubs no longer regard the FA Cup as a prestige acquisition as much as it is down to the bravura string of wins the Welsh club manufactured. But they, nonetheless, bring a novel dimension to the day of Wembley theatre and bring, too, the possibility of a last great day out for the most enigmatic and interesting English football player in the tinsel-draped history of the Premier League.

The fact Cardiff manager Dave Jones is prepared to wait until literally the last hour to see if Fowler can take his place could be perceived as sentimental but it is surely also down to the reluctance of a canny manager to turn his back on a proven talisman and a genuine icon. It is too much to hope Fowler's professional football life might finish on the same absurdly thrilling note of glory on which it began with Liverpool against Fulham some 14 years ago now. Fowler has been haunted with injuries this year and although his mind still probably moves with the ghostly sharpness of his younger self, that chubby frame has to be slowing up now.

It is probably far-fetched to imagine him even taking the field this afternoon, let alone popping up to score the winner against his old friend and former Liverpool team-mate David James. But in a way, whether or not Fowler plays this afternoon is not the point. The important thing is that, at the age of 33, having achieved something close to sporting immortality at Anfield and vast personal wealth, Fowler still desperately loves the game and simply wants to play. That quality alone is something worth celebrating.

Robbie Fowler was the Premiership's first teenage millionaire. Given the mind-boggling sums of money on offer in the Premier League today, that tagline seems almost quaint. But he led the charge of young bloods made instantly and unimaginably rich from the new money that flooded English football with the television revolution.

The opening act of Fowler's Liverpool career was so audacious, from the five goals against Fulham to the fastest ever hat-trick (four minutes 33 seconds, against Arsenal), it possibly camouflaged the fact Liverpool had let slip its knowledge on how to win the league title. And it can also be argued, through injury and a simmering feud with manager Gerard Houllier, Fowler never quite delivered on the thrilling precocity of those early years, when it seemed as if he walked from the park in Toxteth straight into Liverpool and began scoring goals for fun. It is true, too, he never became the force for England that might have been anticipated when he was a teenager.

He quit Liverpool with regret in 2001 and showed considerable flashes of brilliance during his time at Leeds United and then with Manchester City, where he flourished under the encouragement of Stuart "Psycho" Pearse (who'd have thunk?) before returning to Liverpool under a free transfer. His description of getting back to Anfield - "I feel like a kid waking up on Christmas morning every day now" - summed up his prize. Here was a player nicknamed "God" by the Kop now thanking the Man Above for the chance to come back even to play a bit-part for the club.

Fowler and Liverpool was one of those rare sporting instances of the face fitting the club. Fowler may have been a pin-up to young lads blu-tacking posters to their walls but he was never a playboy. He was never into the vanity and if he was preoccupied with any part of his image, it was in making sure he stayed true to his roots. "You don't want to be seen as a biff," he said along the way, "some busy b****cks like Gary Neville or someone who has sold his soul like Beckham."

Fowler had a chubby little run, he always looked like he was suffering from a cold and he had a grin that belonged to a West End production of Oliver Twist. In short, he looked like anyone down at the park except that, at his best, he could dazzle you with his speed of thought and feet. His several moments of notoriety had an edge and perhaps the most famous, where he mimed sniffing cocaine by crawling along the white endline after scoring against Everton, will remain unbeaten as the cleverest and most politically incorrect goal celebration in football history. It came at a time when rumours of Fowler's substance abuse were rife.

He commented on his antics a few years later. Far from glorying in the rumours, they were a singular attempt to silence people. Fowler lost two cousins through drug abuse and detested the allegations.

"The message I was sending out, which was completely clear in my mind, was that if I am supposed to be a smackhead, how the f*** could I score goals against Everton and rub their faces in the dirt. It was an attempt to make them think about what they were doing and even make them stop. And it was supposed to be funny."

It was funny, even if Fowler, older and a parent, might find it faintly embarrassing now. His last goal for Liverpool was from the penalty spot, and in his final match, a humdrum league affair against Charlton last year, he was taken off in the second half to a sustained ovation. Few get to go out on those terms and one might have imagined he would have been content to leave it at that. But then, he was never going to ease on to the comfy sofas of Sky or the BBC to talk the talk. No, Fowler just wanted to play, and gladly, he went to Cardiff on a free transfer.

You think of where Premier League football is at, when Cristiano Ronaldo muses publicly about where he might play next after enjoying the season of seasons and a Champions League final just days away and the proof is everywhere that, more than ever, the leading lights are self-obsessed. Ronaldo may be a terrific player but when you watch him, you have to wonder if there is any substance at all behind the pouting and the mockery of lesser players and the continual self-delight.

That was why for some people Robbie Fowler was worth watching. Even at his most audacious and youthful, Fowler seemed to glory in the game and the communal experience rather than in himself.

He has proven that simply by wanting to play on after the last echoes of the Kop chanting have faded, and now he is hanging on to the slimmest hope of another FA Cup final appearance. It would be the stuff of dreams and a worthy exit.