Hope it's ok to post here, last year I sat down and wrote a book about all my football memories. Here are the first three chapters.
The book is called Two minutes past Eight ( because that's what time European soccer special came onto radio 2 in them days,)
I'm not trying to plug my book, I just like sharing my memories, if anyone enjoys it I will add the rest of the book.
Katie
Two Minutes Past Eight
The Early Days
I’m trying to think of when I first started to watch football. It was most probably with my dad; the village team where we lived in Great Waltham, just outside of Chemsford in Essex, was half decent.
They wore a kit consisting of yellow shirts and maroon shorts. It shouldn’t really work, but it did. I remember going to watch them at New Writtle Street, which was Chelmsford City's home ground. It must have been a Mid-Essex Cup Final or something like that; whatever it might have been, I thought it was ever so exciting.
So in years, I think probably 1974 or 75. I know that my dad did some gardening for a lady called Nita or Neeta; I don’t know how you spelled it. Her garden overlooked the football pitch where Great Waltham played their home games. So I would go with him. The gardening memory might be a bit later, but I would have watched them when I was six, I think.
I would often go and watch village games. I found myself at a game not long after we moved to Broomfield in 1976. I found myself at a game on a Sunday morning. It wasn’t long before I found myself involved in the game emotionally. Curiously, though, it wasn’t the home team that I was cheering on but the away team. I think that I sensed a bit of injustice with some of the refereeing decisions. The away side found themselves down to nine men.
I became as incensed as them as I watched from the touchline. I knew that my Mum would be cooking Sunday dinner; she had probably told me what time to be in by, but how could I leave my new found heroes.
The away team wore sky blue, similar to the Coventry city colours of the time, but without the famous curved stripes that adorned City's kit. The game ended 2-2, but that wasn’t the end of it. I was hooked. I thought-out some of their players and found myself in the changing room, asking for autographs. It probably wouldn’t be allowed now, because of health and safety. I didn’t have a pen or paper but someone did and I got what I was after. As I write this it’s about forty-five since it happened, but my memory is as clear as day. I would have been around eight or nine. Some of those players could now be eighty or over, or possibly no longer with us. I’ve been to many football matches which were of a much higher standard; but for me this memory is right up there.
Leeds United
Leeds United were my first love. I can’t pinpoint the exact date, but it wasn’t long after I first started to kick a ball around. So if we are looking at around 1973 or so, I would have been 5 years old. The first crisis that I faced was, "Who would I support? Leeds, or Leeds United I genuinely believed that they were two different teams. I ran home from school at lunchtime and I quizzed my Mum, of all people, about what I should do.To be fair, she had other things on her mind; for example, my dinner, which consisted of eggs and homemade chips.
These were the days of TOPPS football cards, when for your money you would get six cards for a mere 5p. On the back was a list of appearances and goals from the previous three years of that player's career. It was surely ahead of its time when you take a look at today’s statistic-obsessed world. Also included in the pack were two pieces of chewing gum and, if you were lucky, a team poster. We didn’t know then how lucky we were! These days, they sell on eBay for over a pound just for one card.
I don’t know what drew me to Leeds, seeing as I was southern based. My very first best friend was a lad named Jamie Quill; his mom and dad owned the pub over the road. The family was all West Ham, apart from his granddad, whom he called "Pops." He supported Charlton Athletic. I never knew the reasoning behind that. I remember having a conversation with Jamie. He told me they were cockneys, being as they’d been born within the sound of Bow Bells.
One prominent memory I have is from 1973 FA Cup Final, where Leeds played against Sunderland. Leeds were overwhelming favourites, riding high in the first division and full of international stars. Sunderland were struggling in the second division, but we all know what happened. My main recollection of the game is sitting on my dad's knee with an orange and
black ball in my hand. It was similar to the beach balls that you could buy that had a mind of their own if the wind caught them. The ball had all the team names from the first division printed over it.They were matched in pairs. I could spend hours investigating why! Manchester United were matched with Wolverhampton Wanderers.
At the time, while watching the 1973 Cup Final, I thought that there were loads of goals. Every few minutes, my dad would sweep me up into the air.
It was only years later that I realised it was probably the result of Jim Montgomery’s double save, which has gone down in FA Cup folklore. At the time, I don’t think I realised what a massive shock the result was. Even though I called myself a Leeds fan, I don’t remember being particularly upset by the result.
I was obsessed by football. It wasn’t like these days, when you could feed your appetite easily and every game was on TV. You had Jimmy Hill and the recently retired Bob Wilson on "Match of the Day" on Saturday nights, and Brian Moore’s
"The Big Match" on Sunday afternoons, showing highlights of the weekend's matches. The only live games were the FA Cup Final, the European Finals, the World Cup, and the European Championships. It sounds like a lot, but compared to now, it is incredibly sparse for someone addicted to football.
It was the radio that provided a lifeline for me; there were countless school nights when I should have been asleep but instead was snuggled up in bed with the wireless against my ear.
One very clear memory around this time is when Leeds played a home game against West Ham. For whatever reason, I didn’t know the result until the following morning. I naturally assumed that it would be a walk in the park. After all, it was only West Ham. When a beaming Jamie Quill informed me the following morning of the result, Leeds United 1, West Ham United 3, it was a harsh football lesson for my young mind to take on board. Never take anything for granted.
I have a clear recollection of watching a TV programme around this time, which was aired early Saturday mornings and featured Jack Charlton. In it, he presided over training exercises with young players, and it featured corner and free- kick drills. I'd watch it before anyone else in the house was up, and then go out and practise what I'd seen.
All my dreams came true one Christmas when I awoke in the middle of the night to find that Father Christmas had brought me a Leeds kit. I don’t think I took it off for a month. I was ecstatic and remember vividly jumping up and down on my mom and dad’s bed, shouting excitedly, "He’s been, he’s been." That was without doubt the highlight of any Christmas presents that I ever received.
Even though I was too young to remember them, I am aware of two of the greatest goals ever scored. Eddie Gray's astonishing dribble from the corner flag. One where he dumped most of the Burnley team on their backsides and the other a delightful chip from way outside the penalty area, leaving the Burnley keeper clutching at thin air.
It was in 1972 that they gave one of the most complete performances ever seen when they humiliated hapless Southampton by seven goals to nil. It wasn’t just the result; it was the arrogance with which they did it. These were the days when Leeds United dined at the top table, with Liverpool and Brian Clough's Derby County (how times have changed), challenging for the league title.
Leeds had a certain reputation, but it never bothered me that they had gained the tag of "dirty Leeds”. It was slightly unfair, seeing as all the other teams weren’t exactly made up of angels.
The team was made up of names that rolled off the tongue and still do. Gray, Frankie and Eddie, Lorimer, Charlton, Giles, Reaney, Madeley, Jones, Clarke, and, of course, Bremner It was the snarling, tenacious, and often vicious ginger-haired Scotsman who became the object of my first hero worship.
I had a lucky escape when my plea to "Jim’ll fix it" to meet my idol went unanswered. Although I was distressed that a bunch of cubs eating sandwiches on a rollercoaster was more deserving than I was. Sadly now though, the glory days of Leeds United were coming to an end. Don Revie, the man who took Leeds out of the old second division and transformed them into one of English football’s giants left in 1974 to manage England, and in 1977, he headed to the Middle East and the life of Saudi Arabia His decision found him banned from English football for ten years, and although the ban was later overturned, he never worked in English football again. It was over, and so was my love affair with Leeds United. I had found another idol; this one was Scottish as well, and he went by the name of a certain Kenny Dalglish. Revie was to die in 1989, and Bremner in 1997, at just 54 years old.
My alliances may have moved on, but when I heard of both deaths, I was deeply saddened, and my childhood memories resurfaced, as I was back there again, jumping up and down on my mom.
and Dad’s bed. Even now, when I hear the words Leeds United or their latest result, my memories come flooding back. In recent years,more of that legendary team have departed; Trevor Cherry, Norman Hunter, Jack Charlton, and Terry Cooper have sadly died, but their names have been immortalised in the history of Leeds United. As for me, you never forget a first love, and if the glory days ever return to Elland Road, I'd like to think that Don Revie would be looking down with a smile on his face.
On My Radio
Even in these days when football is so easily accessible to watch, at heart I'm still a radio buff.My childhood football memories are filled with nights sitting next to the radio, or "wireless," as we often called it then. Nowadays, coverage is dominated by Radio 5 Live and TalkSport, but in the mid-seventies, when I first became a football fanatic Those channels never existed, and Radio 2 was the "place for your football fix; to be honest, it was the only place.
My early radio thrills included the title race from 1975–76, when QPR were just fourteen minutes from winning their first league championship, Kevin Keegan struck at the Wolves. I was 8 years old and wasn't a fan of either side, but the importance of the match generated an excitement in me that was compelling, as the voices of Brian Butler and Ron Jones crackled over the airwaves. Alongside them would be Denis Law or Jimmy Armfield.
I remember getting up the next day and seeing the back of the Daily Mirror, with Kevin Keegan reaching for the stars after his equaliser and being joined on the pitch by thousands of Scousers. One who was in the photo next to him and bore a remarkable resemblance to the long-haired lover from Liverpool, Jimmy Osmond. Liverpool went on to win the league, and QPR supporters still reminisce over their greatest ever season.
My love of the airwaves took me to faraway places that I had never heard of and aroused a curious fascination. Hearing the names of clubs such as Eintracht Frankfurt and Dynamo Dresden and Carl Zeiss Jena Those were the days of the old iron curtain, and I feared somewhat for the English teams and indeed for the commentators. It could have been on another planet, such was the mystery that these names had attached to them.
This was around the time when English teams started to dominate in Europe. Up until then, the Inter-City Fairs Cup, the UEFA Cup, and the Cup The Winners Cup had been a happy hunting ground for British teams, but Celtic and Manchester United remained the only two who had the big one, but that was about to change.
It was a late night once again as I listened to history being made. No one outside Liverpool had barely heard of the name David Fairclough until that March night in 1977, when the mighty reds hosted St. Ettiene in the European Cup quarterfinal final. Their talisman was a striker called Dominic Rochteau, and my friend Richard was obsessed with him.
A crescendo of noise exploded from the KOP and from my bedroom as well, as Super Sub Fairclough struck with just six minutes left. Liverpool went on to win the final against Borussia Dortmund Mönchengladbach in Rome, which I watched on TV, but it's the memory of listening to the radio and supersub Fairclough that remains not just a football memory but a childhood memory that is deep-rooted forever in my being.
This was just the start of English dominance for the next five years, as Liverpool followed up their1977 triumph by winning at Wembley the following year against FC Bruges thanks to a goalfrom Kenny Dalglish (whatever happened to him?) Then it was the turn of Nottingham Forest for two years and Aston Villa in 1982. Forest, managed by Brian Clough, astonished the football world by winning the First Division championship following promotion. Remarkably, they were drawn against mighty Liverpool in the very first round of the European Cup in 1978 and it seemed that was it; they would go no further, but Clough and Taylor seemingly had other ideas.
Forest won the first leg 2-0 with goals by Gary Birtles and Colin Barrett Even then, few people gave them a chance in the cauldron of noise that was Anfield on a European night. All this drama was introduced by the words, "It's two minutes past eight, and it's European soccer." special," and the spine-tingling anthem would blast out, and you'd be there. Amsterdam, Valencia, Juventus, and they would be here, in your bedroom, your shed, your kitchen, or your bathroom.
The drama didn't just stay confined to the voices coming out of the radio. It took a more dramatic
turn than that in our kitchen. It was the second leg of the European Cup between Liverpool and Bayern Munich at the Olympiastadion Stadium in Munich in 1981
Liverpool once found themselves as underdogs.The first leg had ended nil-nil at Anfield, and Bayern were in a confident mood with captain Paul Breitner writing off Liverpool. He had good reason to as well; Munich had a formidable record at home, but they hadn't reckoned on Ray Kennedy, who, known for his lovely left foot, shocked the home side when he rifled one in with his right foot with seven minutes to go.
These were the days of away goals counting double. Unable to contain my joy, I leapt into the air arms aloft, which was preceded by a loud bang and darkness. In my moment of ecstasy, I'd punched the lampshade and shattered the light bulb. Bedlam rained as the dog, sleeping in the corner, was rudely awakened from chasing rabbits into what must have seemed like mayhem.
Munich equalised with three minutes to go with a goal from Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, but it was a little too late as Liverpool marched onto their third European Cup final, where they would go on to beat Real Madrid.
These were the days before I became a bitter fan. I listened and celebrated the successes of Ipswich Town, Tottenham Hotspur, and Everton in European competitions, following their route to glory once again over the airwaves.
Anyone who loves football knows about FA Cup 3rd Round Day, played the first week of January is when the power of the radio certainly came into action. My cup-draw memories are of inching around the radio on Mondays at school in the early 1980s.
Mr. Straight was my woodwork teacher and also a Spurs fan, and he would bring his radio in on such days, and a hush (not unlike a minute's silence) and a nervy tension would start a few seconds before the draw was made.
There might be new fancy gadgets these days for doing the cup draw, but nothing compares to the rustle of the velvet bag full of balls on the radio. This is where our young hopes and dreams are made, but it is also where they are crushed and the harsh reality of defeat is learned.
Hopes and memories are made, but pain, sadness, and bitterness will be stored in young minds and hearts for a lifetime. Although the years may pass, the cup runs, the near misses, and the giant killings will never diminish.
The rise of the Premier League and Sky Television took football to another level, but even now sitting down beside the radio, hearing the noise of the crowd, and being told that Arsenal will be playing from left to right in the first half, rolls back the years to the mid-seventies, and being that eight-year-old listening to super sub David Fairclough send the KOP into meltdown, and my radio became a place where I travelled the corners of Europe and beyond at times.
The voices that travelled over the airwaves created memories that will last forever, and when talk turns to the past. I can smile and say to myself, "I was there". I really was, and in some ways I still am.
The Joy of Logacta
"Logacta," what the hell is that, you may well ask?
Well, I was lucky enough to find it written across a box in my Christmas stocking in the late seventies, and I can tell you now that in my opinion, it's up there with the best games ever made; it kept me amused for hundreds of hours.
Let me put you out of your misery; it’s a football game based on charts. It sounds a bit boring might be your first response, and "yes," that might have been my first response, but trust me, it wasn’t.
To be honest, for the mind of an eight-year-old, it was a lot to take in. Seven different dice, all different colours, but once you got going and understood, it was truly addictive. Think FIFA, think football manager, and you would be going down the right path. Because that’s exactly how it was.
The great thing was that you could play it on your own or with a friend. Amazingly, one of my friends had it as well, so bingo.
I don’t want to bore you with all the rules, but maybe just get a feel for what I’m talking about.
You’d start the season with everyone equal. Blue dice for home teams, red for away teams, I think. Then as the season progressed, you would fill in the league tables, and then different coloured dice would be thrown depending on the point difference between the two teams.
After every four games, you would have updated the league tables; teams would then get an extra die if they were the form team. You did all four divisions and you could make your own leagues up, if you so desired. It didn’t stop there though, you had the FA Cup, the League Cup, and all the European competitions to play for, and if my memory serves me right, the European Championships and the World Cup as well.
I think what really did it for me was the depth of it all, it wasn’t just a case of throwing a few dice. It might have been a kid's game, but it treated you like an adult. Even though it was fun, it was deadly serious as well.
I don’t know what happened to mine; I think that my friend kept his. I’ve seen them advertised in recent years on eBay for around eighty pounds. I bought a disc from eBay a few years ago; it enabled you to print out everything that you needed, but to be honest, I didn’t have the time or the patience to do it.
You can’t really compare it to FIFA; things have changed beyond recognition, and I think that the kids of today would probably laugh if you showed it to them and asked them to sit down and play it, but I used to love it.
I also played subbuteo, tiddly wink football, striker, and one game that I invented, was, where I flicked a die back and forth the living room, even numbers went one way and odd the other. The doors at either end of the room were the goals.
So there it is: a brief history of football logacta. In an age of technological advancements, it doesn’t really stand a chance and is now confined to the memory banks of people like myself.
The Day I Thought I’d Killed Wally Everett
I grew up in a small village called Great Waltham. It’s a small village about five miles outside of Chelmsford, in Essex It was like most villages of the 1970s, consisting of a few pubs, a local shop, a village school, a church that dominated the horizon, and a village green.
Our house was about 100 yards from the village green, it had quite a steep slope at one end that led to a road. It wasn’t a particularly busy road and was a way through to other villages that were more rural than ours.
There was a football pitch in the village, but that was slightly further away. More often than not we played on the patch of grass in the village. It’s a long time ago, so if I say 1975, I won’t be far out because we moved from the village in 1976. It wasn’t just football that we played, we played war as well. I had a British army uniform and Jamie had a German one, but on this particular day it was football that we were playing. The ball was flat and rolled into the road. Wally Everett, who had just finished work; was ambling down the road on his three-speed bike. He was probably in his sixties but looked older.
It was a warm, sunny day, possibly in August. He saw me and smiled at me as his front tyre bumped over the flat ball. The next thing I knew, Wally had flown over his handlebars and was sprawled across the road. I’m not ashamed to admit that I went absolutely loopy. I was 6 or 7. I didn’t hang around, and I was off like a shot.
I ran home, I can remember it like it was yesterday. My Mum was definitely at home. I’m not sure about my brother or my dad. I was hysterical, I doubt that she could understand me. I was in such a state. At that moment, I genuinely thought that I had killed Wally Everett, and I was on the way to prison for the rest of my life in actuality, I hadn’t killed him. He was unconscious and had to spend a night in the local hospital.
He was back at home the very next day, resting and recuperating, and guess who had to visit him to say "Sorry". I was terrified; he didn’t look to good as he sat there, minus a few front teeth and bruises all over his head. I can’t remember if he. had broken bones and I can’t remember what he said, but he knew that it was an accident and he gave me a big gappy smile, and I slept better that night because the threat of prison was over.
Football Memories
Moderators: Nick Sopowski, ClubAdmin
Re: Football Memories
Hi Katie
Some great memories there especially Logacta.
It was available to buy mail order from Shoot Magazine in the 1970's - I don't think any retailer stocked it at the time.
A football version of Dungeons & Dragons with the different coloured dice.
Having been the game of my childhood I did buy the disk off Ebay some twenty years ago, printed all the sheets and made the dice using white sticky paper with different coloured pens for the different dice. The disk also gave the numbers for each coloured dice and points ratios between the two sides to know which dice to use for games.
My son loved it and we played it on holiday in Spain.
I moved onto Championship Manager 2001/02 on PC and 22 years later, I'm still playing it!
Some great memories there especially Logacta.
It was available to buy mail order from Shoot Magazine in the 1970's - I don't think any retailer stocked it at the time.
A football version of Dungeons & Dragons with the different coloured dice.
Having been the game of my childhood I did buy the disk off Ebay some twenty years ago, printed all the sheets and made the dice using white sticky paper with different coloured pens for the different dice. The disk also gave the numbers for each coloured dice and points ratios between the two sides to know which dice to use for games.
My son loved it and we played it on holiday in Spain.
I moved onto Championship Manager 2001/02 on PC and 22 years later, I'm still playing it!
-
Katie Wilson
- Silver Member
- Posts: 26
- Joined: Mon Mar 25, 2024 8:47 pm
Re: Football Memories
Hi, Brian I did the same, a few years back. I bought the disk of ebay with the intention of printing all the sheets off, and I did make a start but I just don't have the patience to fill out all the sheets like I did years ago.
I did actually invent card football, you take a pack of cards - remove all the kings and queens, and are left with 44 cards- you add a joker to make 45 cards ( each card represents two minutes)
You can play on your own or with someone else. If with 2 of You - You decide who is red and who is black.
You spread all the cards face down and spread them around. The idea is to turn up 4 colours of same ( 4 reds or 4 blacks),
Four reds/ blacks in a row is a goal. The joker is a penalty - if it your turn and you turn the joker/penalty card up the next card must be whatever colour you are to score a goal.
You can tweek it, by adding dice or extra cards. I played a whole 16 team league season in 1981.
Here's the next chapters of my book
Paul Bracewell. Really ?
This chapter is about those players who crept into my soul for one reason or another. Some of them probably won’t all be the obvious choices that you would expect. Let’s see where this takes us. I’m going to make a team of such players.
The first one, which I have already intentioned; is Billy Bremner, who goes into the heart of my midfield. In fact, he’s going to be my captain. If we are going to get beaten, then at least we will go down fighting.
Next on my team is Kenny Dalglish. As a kid; I loved 'King Kenny" and remember watching his first game for Liverpool on Match of the Day, against Manchester United in the Charity Shield of 1977, after he had joined Liverpool for £440,000. It wasn’t long before he came, my idol. I had a red tracksuit top, and my Mum stitched a number seven on the back, because that was his number.
While I’m at it, I’ve got another Liverpool player to add: Ian Rush. When I was younger, I thought that I had a certain similarity to him. I think it was the nose. I remember seeing him score four goals in a derby game against Everton. Dalglish and Rush formed an amazing strike force for Liverpool. In one game against Watford, who were second in the league behind Liverpool, Dalglish turned superbly and laid it on a plate for "Rushie", who finished with ease at the Kop end. The match finished 3-1 in Liverpool's favour.
So that’s two strikers down, and joining them is someone who, for me, just oozed class: Alessandro Del Piero. When Channel 4 started showing serie a games from Italy in 1992, it was an instant success; players such as Del Piero, who signed for Juventus in 1993, became household names in Britain.
Some players have something that just draws you to them. "Yes", he was a world class player, but there was more to it than that. He had an aura about him. He made football sexy.
I think joining Billy Brenner in midfield has to be Glenn Hoddle; he certainly was someone who made football sexy. His long white Spurs shirt hung over his shorts, so that he looked like he was wearing a mini-dress, but wow, he could play football. If you are too young to remember, then check out his goals on You Tube against Nottingham Forest, Manchester United, Watford, and an outrageous goal against Liverpool at Anfield. I also really liked Micky Hazard, so perhaps he might make the substitute bench. Another scorer of outrageous goals was Terry McDermott, who is going into midfield, McDermott was part of the Liverpool midfield that dominated English and European football.
Completing my midfield is Paul Bracewell; he was part of the wonderful Everton side that won the league twice in the 1980s, the FA Cup, and also the Cup Winners Cup, beating Rapid Vienna in 1985. For a while, I was completely besotted with him. As well as being, in my opinion, a very underrated footballer. I thought he looked great. I loved his bowl haircut and tried to get mine cut the same way. He suffered a career-changing injury after a brutal challenge by Newcastle's uncompromising striker Billy Whitehurst, which left him on the side-lines for two years, and despite returning, he was never the same player again.
Another midfielder who really should be in there is Paul "Gazza" Gascoigne. Wow, what a player! I remember going to watch Tottenham vs. Arsenal at White Hart Lane in September 1988. It was the year that Arsenal would go on to win the title at Anfield. Gazza was on fire, and I was absolutely terrified of what he could do against us. In the end, we won 3-2. My lasting memory is of hundreds of Mars bars being thrown onto the pitch in his direction. He was absolutely sublime, and he may have been playing for that lot down the road, but his ability overrode any loyalties that I had. I knew then and still know now that here was a footballer for whom the term "genius" could be used, and unlike in some cases, it was appropriate in Gazza's case.
I think another player who would stake a claim if I were a few years older would be Eddie Gray at Leeds. There just isn’t enough room for him, but he gets a place on the bench.
So that leaves me with four to go. I’ve gone heavy with my midfield and strikers, so I can only pick three defenders. For this, I’m going to go back to Italy to find myself someone.
.Step forward, Franco Baresi. I find it quite hard to describe Baresi. Even when I watched him play for AC Milan on TV, I felt safe. He was the epitome of calmness; you often hear of great players being five or six seconds ahead of the game. Baresi was all that and more. Alongside Del Piero, he was another Italian who made football sexy.
For my next choice, I’m going all misty-eyed and emotional and letting my late dad have a say. Terry Cooper, Leeds United, and England, 1960s–early 1970s I have a distinct recollection of my dad always talking about him. It’s deeply ingrained in my mind. There are other strong contenders, notably Frankie Gray, also of Leeds, but I’m giving Terry the nod. I had a notion in my head that he’d broken his leg three times. I looked it up in Google but could only find it once, which kept him out of the 1972 cup final against Arsenal. Which Leeds won 1-0.
For my next defender, I’m delving into the past again, and once again I’m letting my heart rule my head, and once again it’s not really me making the choice but Vic Matthems. "Now who is Vic Matthems? ", you may well ask. Vic was our neighbour in Broomfield after we moved there from Great Waltham in 1976.
He was an Arsenal fanatic; he had a season ticket, and I don’t know why, but I’ve got a feeling that he was actually friends with my next choice, who is: Frank McClintock, Leicester City, Arsenal, QPR, and Scotland.
I’ve already got one hard man in Billy Brenner, and another backing him up is McClintock, captain of Arsenal when they won the double in 1971. What a legend! I read in his biography that when he was a youngster at Leicester City, he would eat 17 slices of bread after training.
I’ve got to have one gooner in there, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have. Having seen the footage of him celebrating after winning the Cup final against Liverpool in 1971, in the second strip of yellow and blue, and knowing that he loves the club like I do, he gets on the team for his passion, and he was a great leader as well.
One thing that I have noticed in my choices is that I haven't had any black players, which is outrageous considering the wealth of talent that there was and is. My team, Arsenal, wouldn’t have won the league in 1989 without the likes of David Rocastle and Michael Thomas, and who could forget the trio at West Brom in the late 1970s and early 1980s of Laurie Cunningham, Cyrille Regis, and Brendan Batson? Everyone knows the talent that John Barnes possessed.
There is every chance that I will do another book where some of these players will get more page time than their careers deserve.
It’s somewhat apt, as someone who defines themselves as a Christian, that my last defender is something of a miracle. Step up, Kenny Burns: Now Burns was trouble. Here is part of an article written by Daniel Taylor in the Guardian in 2015. He spent his nights at the dog track, and he was not even on speaking terms with some of his teammates at St. Andrew’s. "Don’t buy him," Birmingham’s chairman, David Wiseman, warned Clough. "He’s trouble." But Clough saw something that no one else did. He converted Burns back into a defender after playing as a striker, and the rest, as they say, is history. He formed a
formidable partnership with similar outcast Larry Lloyd, which not only helped Forest win the league in the 1977–78 season but also conquer Europe twice.
Burns also won the Football Writers Association player of the year in 1977–78, along with Forest's own player of the year for the same season. He also won the Foresters player of the year award again in 1980–81.
Not a bad bit of business for Brian Clough and Nottingham Forest. So Burns makes up my defence and, along with McClintock and Bremner, gives my team that edge. You certainly wouldn’t want to meet them on a dark night in an alley.
It’s a bit lopsided with just three defenders and would probably get caught out down the flanks, but this is just a bit of fun, so I won’t worry too much about that.
So that leaves me with just one goalkeeper to pick from. I’ve never really been drawn to any particular goalkeeper. If I were choosing my dad again, I would probably go for Gordon Banks. One memory I'd like to include is being at Norwich City to watch Arsenal. I’m not sure if it was the last game of the season, but Arsenal were interested in signing David Seaman from QPR. I was at a game at Highbury around the same time, and the Arsenal fans had taunted Seaman with chants from the North Bank of, "You’ll never play for Arsenal.
At the end of the game at Norwich, which I think ended in a 1-1 draw at Carrow Road, we were outside the dressing rooms singing John Lukic's name when he passed his goalkeeper's gloves out the window to someone.
So who gets the number one spot? I am going to plump for Ray Clemence. It probably came down to a choice between him and Peter Shilton, as it did in their England days. I have two main memories of Clemence. The first is letting a weak shot by Kenny Dalglish squirm between his legs in an England vs. Scotland game at Wembley.
The second is when he returned to Anfield as a Tottenham player. As he ran onto the pitch towards the Kop, the reception that he received sent shivers down my spine. All you could see was a sea of clapping hands. It was incredible. He was part of the Liverpool team that dominated England and Europe throughout the latter part of the seventies and the eighties. Clemence left Liverpool in 1981 after being replaced by Bruce Grobbelaar.
So there you have it, my team. I could do it again tomorrow and come up with another team altogether, probably. Even while writing this, a few names have come to mind. One is John Wark at Ipswich; his goalscoring ability from midfield was sensational. I was also a great admirer of his Ipswich teammate, Frans Thijssen. Who I actually preferred to his Dutch countryman and teammate Arnold Muhren. I remember an FA Cup 3rd round tie between Ipswich and Aston Villa from 1981, when both teams were riding high in the league. Thijssen did a turn in midfield, going one way then another to help set up the goal; that’s a memory that has always stayed with me.
I could go on and add more, but I will leave it at that. I suppose I’d better choose a manager. I’m going to pick Bob Paisley, who had no easy task taking over the legend that was Bill Shankly; not only did he surpass the great man, but he did something that he hadn’t done. He won the European Cup.
So there it is, my eleven, probably not everybody’s choices but ones that all have an emotional connection with my past.
Flicking Hell
This chapter is all about the role that subbuteo played in my childhood. For those that haven’t heard of it, basically it is miniature figures that look like footballers that are painted in team colours that you flick with your fingers towards the ball.
I shall start at the end and work my way backwards. So let me take you back to 1982, the year of the Falklands War, the year that The Jam split up, and also the year of the World Cup in Spain. I would have been fourteen. I really should have been more committed to my schoolwork than I was, but instead I was playing subbuteo. I don’t know whose idea it was, but at some stage, me and a group of 4 or 5 friends decided that we were going to do the 1982 World Cup as a subbuteo competition. Sounds fun, until you realise that it wasn’t just the tournament in Spain that we had set our sights on, "No!"; we had got our sights aimed a bit higher. What we actually intended to do was play all the qualifying group games leading up to the tournament. "Yes! ", you heard me right, in total 256 matches, which included the Asian, Oceania, and African sections and other obscure parts of the world that I had never heard of.
Remarkably, we actually got there. For some bizarre reason, we never actually played the tournament itself. I can only think that by that stage we are completely sunk out.
I spent countless hours pouring over Subbuteo catalogues that I’d picked up from the local toy shop in town, Pope and Smith.
I was never particularly that good; some people had the habit of covering the whole of the ball and the player with their hand, and the next thing you knew, they were all lined up with a shot on goal, when moments earlier the player had been facing away from the goal.
Now how did Subbuteo come to play such a part in my life? Well, I think once again that comes down to my neighbour, Vic Matthams. He had a subbuteo table set up in his garage; I’m not sure it was for him or his grandchildren, because at this time in the late seventies, they wouldn’t have been old enough.
Anyway, it looked amazing; the green cloth was on a table and had advertising around the outside, just like real football grounds. I’ve got a feeling that he gave it to me eventually. If I knew then what I know now, I would have kept it and the teams as well. The players that I had in those days were cardboard figures put into plastic slots. They could possibly have been from when subbuteo was invented in the 1950s.
One vivid memory from playing subbuteo is the pitch on the carpet. Sometimes you were so engrossed in what you were doing that you would lean on a player and break it (if you did it with your knee, that could be agony). We had a coal fire back then, so what I would do is put the poker into the fire. Heat it up a bit, then weld the snapped player back onto its base. They got shorter and shorter, but when they were like that, they were great little dribblers. I also had quite a lot of Lego, so I built up stands to put alongside the pitch and filled them up with all my other teams. I did try and get back into subbuteo, a few years back. I even had my photo in the local paper, after I tried to set a local group up. It never really took off. Looking back now, it was at a time when I was searching for something. It was around the time, that my Mum had died and a year or two before I became Katie.
When it comes to favourite subbuteo kits. There’s a few that I liked. One funnily enough, was the Wolves kit that I had. Surprisingly it was in the unpopular, but straight legged zombie style. Actually; I’m not sure if it was kit that I was drawn to, or the Wolves midfield quartet of Willie Carr, Peter Daniels, Kenny Hibbitt and Steve Daley.
Subbuteo played a huge part in my childhood, and as much as I would have liked to rekindle what was there. Perhaps like many things; it is best left in the past as a memory, that you can visit now and again.
I did actually invent card football, you take a pack of cards - remove all the kings and queens, and are left with 44 cards- you add a joker to make 45 cards ( each card represents two minutes)
You can play on your own or with someone else. If with 2 of You - You decide who is red and who is black.
You spread all the cards face down and spread them around. The idea is to turn up 4 colours of same ( 4 reds or 4 blacks),
Four reds/ blacks in a row is a goal. The joker is a penalty - if it your turn and you turn the joker/penalty card up the next card must be whatever colour you are to score a goal.
You can tweek it, by adding dice or extra cards. I played a whole 16 team league season in 1981.
Here's the next chapters of my book
Paul Bracewell. Really ?
This chapter is about those players who crept into my soul for one reason or another. Some of them probably won’t all be the obvious choices that you would expect. Let’s see where this takes us. I’m going to make a team of such players.
The first one, which I have already intentioned; is Billy Bremner, who goes into the heart of my midfield. In fact, he’s going to be my captain. If we are going to get beaten, then at least we will go down fighting.
Next on my team is Kenny Dalglish. As a kid; I loved 'King Kenny" and remember watching his first game for Liverpool on Match of the Day, against Manchester United in the Charity Shield of 1977, after he had joined Liverpool for £440,000. It wasn’t long before he came, my idol. I had a red tracksuit top, and my Mum stitched a number seven on the back, because that was his number.
While I’m at it, I’ve got another Liverpool player to add: Ian Rush. When I was younger, I thought that I had a certain similarity to him. I think it was the nose. I remember seeing him score four goals in a derby game against Everton. Dalglish and Rush formed an amazing strike force for Liverpool. In one game against Watford, who were second in the league behind Liverpool, Dalglish turned superbly and laid it on a plate for "Rushie", who finished with ease at the Kop end. The match finished 3-1 in Liverpool's favour.
So that’s two strikers down, and joining them is someone who, for me, just oozed class: Alessandro Del Piero. When Channel 4 started showing serie a games from Italy in 1992, it was an instant success; players such as Del Piero, who signed for Juventus in 1993, became household names in Britain.
Some players have something that just draws you to them. "Yes", he was a world class player, but there was more to it than that. He had an aura about him. He made football sexy.
I think joining Billy Brenner in midfield has to be Glenn Hoddle; he certainly was someone who made football sexy. His long white Spurs shirt hung over his shorts, so that he looked like he was wearing a mini-dress, but wow, he could play football. If you are too young to remember, then check out his goals on You Tube against Nottingham Forest, Manchester United, Watford, and an outrageous goal against Liverpool at Anfield. I also really liked Micky Hazard, so perhaps he might make the substitute bench. Another scorer of outrageous goals was Terry McDermott, who is going into midfield, McDermott was part of the Liverpool midfield that dominated English and European football.
Completing my midfield is Paul Bracewell; he was part of the wonderful Everton side that won the league twice in the 1980s, the FA Cup, and also the Cup Winners Cup, beating Rapid Vienna in 1985. For a while, I was completely besotted with him. As well as being, in my opinion, a very underrated footballer. I thought he looked great. I loved his bowl haircut and tried to get mine cut the same way. He suffered a career-changing injury after a brutal challenge by Newcastle's uncompromising striker Billy Whitehurst, which left him on the side-lines for two years, and despite returning, he was never the same player again.
Another midfielder who really should be in there is Paul "Gazza" Gascoigne. Wow, what a player! I remember going to watch Tottenham vs. Arsenal at White Hart Lane in September 1988. It was the year that Arsenal would go on to win the title at Anfield. Gazza was on fire, and I was absolutely terrified of what he could do against us. In the end, we won 3-2. My lasting memory is of hundreds of Mars bars being thrown onto the pitch in his direction. He was absolutely sublime, and he may have been playing for that lot down the road, but his ability overrode any loyalties that I had. I knew then and still know now that here was a footballer for whom the term "genius" could be used, and unlike in some cases, it was appropriate in Gazza's case.
I think another player who would stake a claim if I were a few years older would be Eddie Gray at Leeds. There just isn’t enough room for him, but he gets a place on the bench.
So that leaves me with four to go. I’ve gone heavy with my midfield and strikers, so I can only pick three defenders. For this, I’m going to go back to Italy to find myself someone.
.Step forward, Franco Baresi. I find it quite hard to describe Baresi. Even when I watched him play for AC Milan on TV, I felt safe. He was the epitome of calmness; you often hear of great players being five or six seconds ahead of the game. Baresi was all that and more. Alongside Del Piero, he was another Italian who made football sexy.
For my next choice, I’m going all misty-eyed and emotional and letting my late dad have a say. Terry Cooper, Leeds United, and England, 1960s–early 1970s I have a distinct recollection of my dad always talking about him. It’s deeply ingrained in my mind. There are other strong contenders, notably Frankie Gray, also of Leeds, but I’m giving Terry the nod. I had a notion in my head that he’d broken his leg three times. I looked it up in Google but could only find it once, which kept him out of the 1972 cup final against Arsenal. Which Leeds won 1-0.
For my next defender, I’m delving into the past again, and once again I’m letting my heart rule my head, and once again it’s not really me making the choice but Vic Matthems. "Now who is Vic Matthems? ", you may well ask. Vic was our neighbour in Broomfield after we moved there from Great Waltham in 1976.
He was an Arsenal fanatic; he had a season ticket, and I don’t know why, but I’ve got a feeling that he was actually friends with my next choice, who is: Frank McClintock, Leicester City, Arsenal, QPR, and Scotland.
I’ve already got one hard man in Billy Brenner, and another backing him up is McClintock, captain of Arsenal when they won the double in 1971. What a legend! I read in his biography that when he was a youngster at Leicester City, he would eat 17 slices of bread after training.
I’ve got to have one gooner in there, and I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have. Having seen the footage of him celebrating after winning the Cup final against Liverpool in 1971, in the second strip of yellow and blue, and knowing that he loves the club like I do, he gets on the team for his passion, and he was a great leader as well.
One thing that I have noticed in my choices is that I haven't had any black players, which is outrageous considering the wealth of talent that there was and is. My team, Arsenal, wouldn’t have won the league in 1989 without the likes of David Rocastle and Michael Thomas, and who could forget the trio at West Brom in the late 1970s and early 1980s of Laurie Cunningham, Cyrille Regis, and Brendan Batson? Everyone knows the talent that John Barnes possessed.
There is every chance that I will do another book where some of these players will get more page time than their careers deserve.
It’s somewhat apt, as someone who defines themselves as a Christian, that my last defender is something of a miracle. Step up, Kenny Burns: Now Burns was trouble. Here is part of an article written by Daniel Taylor in the Guardian in 2015. He spent his nights at the dog track, and he was not even on speaking terms with some of his teammates at St. Andrew’s. "Don’t buy him," Birmingham’s chairman, David Wiseman, warned Clough. "He’s trouble." But Clough saw something that no one else did. He converted Burns back into a defender after playing as a striker, and the rest, as they say, is history. He formed a
formidable partnership with similar outcast Larry Lloyd, which not only helped Forest win the league in the 1977–78 season but also conquer Europe twice.
Burns also won the Football Writers Association player of the year in 1977–78, along with Forest's own player of the year for the same season. He also won the Foresters player of the year award again in 1980–81.
Not a bad bit of business for Brian Clough and Nottingham Forest. So Burns makes up my defence and, along with McClintock and Bremner, gives my team that edge. You certainly wouldn’t want to meet them on a dark night in an alley.
It’s a bit lopsided with just three defenders and would probably get caught out down the flanks, but this is just a bit of fun, so I won’t worry too much about that.
So that leaves me with just one goalkeeper to pick from. I’ve never really been drawn to any particular goalkeeper. If I were choosing my dad again, I would probably go for Gordon Banks. One memory I'd like to include is being at Norwich City to watch Arsenal. I’m not sure if it was the last game of the season, but Arsenal were interested in signing David Seaman from QPR. I was at a game at Highbury around the same time, and the Arsenal fans had taunted Seaman with chants from the North Bank of, "You’ll never play for Arsenal.
At the end of the game at Norwich, which I think ended in a 1-1 draw at Carrow Road, we were outside the dressing rooms singing John Lukic's name when he passed his goalkeeper's gloves out the window to someone.
So who gets the number one spot? I am going to plump for Ray Clemence. It probably came down to a choice between him and Peter Shilton, as it did in their England days. I have two main memories of Clemence. The first is letting a weak shot by Kenny Dalglish squirm between his legs in an England vs. Scotland game at Wembley.
The second is when he returned to Anfield as a Tottenham player. As he ran onto the pitch towards the Kop, the reception that he received sent shivers down my spine. All you could see was a sea of clapping hands. It was incredible. He was part of the Liverpool team that dominated England and Europe throughout the latter part of the seventies and the eighties. Clemence left Liverpool in 1981 after being replaced by Bruce Grobbelaar.
So there you have it, my team. I could do it again tomorrow and come up with another team altogether, probably. Even while writing this, a few names have come to mind. One is John Wark at Ipswich; his goalscoring ability from midfield was sensational. I was also a great admirer of his Ipswich teammate, Frans Thijssen. Who I actually preferred to his Dutch countryman and teammate Arnold Muhren. I remember an FA Cup 3rd round tie between Ipswich and Aston Villa from 1981, when both teams were riding high in the league. Thijssen did a turn in midfield, going one way then another to help set up the goal; that’s a memory that has always stayed with me.
I could go on and add more, but I will leave it at that. I suppose I’d better choose a manager. I’m going to pick Bob Paisley, who had no easy task taking over the legend that was Bill Shankly; not only did he surpass the great man, but he did something that he hadn’t done. He won the European Cup.
So there it is, my eleven, probably not everybody’s choices but ones that all have an emotional connection with my past.
Flicking Hell
This chapter is all about the role that subbuteo played in my childhood. For those that haven’t heard of it, basically it is miniature figures that look like footballers that are painted in team colours that you flick with your fingers towards the ball.
I shall start at the end and work my way backwards. So let me take you back to 1982, the year of the Falklands War, the year that The Jam split up, and also the year of the World Cup in Spain. I would have been fourteen. I really should have been more committed to my schoolwork than I was, but instead I was playing subbuteo. I don’t know whose idea it was, but at some stage, me and a group of 4 or 5 friends decided that we were going to do the 1982 World Cup as a subbuteo competition. Sounds fun, until you realise that it wasn’t just the tournament in Spain that we had set our sights on, "No!"; we had got our sights aimed a bit higher. What we actually intended to do was play all the qualifying group games leading up to the tournament. "Yes! ", you heard me right, in total 256 matches, which included the Asian, Oceania, and African sections and other obscure parts of the world that I had never heard of.
Remarkably, we actually got there. For some bizarre reason, we never actually played the tournament itself. I can only think that by that stage we are completely sunk out.
I spent countless hours pouring over Subbuteo catalogues that I’d picked up from the local toy shop in town, Pope and Smith.
I was never particularly that good; some people had the habit of covering the whole of the ball and the player with their hand, and the next thing you knew, they were all lined up with a shot on goal, when moments earlier the player had been facing away from the goal.
Now how did Subbuteo come to play such a part in my life? Well, I think once again that comes down to my neighbour, Vic Matthams. He had a subbuteo table set up in his garage; I’m not sure it was for him or his grandchildren, because at this time in the late seventies, they wouldn’t have been old enough.
Anyway, it looked amazing; the green cloth was on a table and had advertising around the outside, just like real football grounds. I’ve got a feeling that he gave it to me eventually. If I knew then what I know now, I would have kept it and the teams as well. The players that I had in those days were cardboard figures put into plastic slots. They could possibly have been from when subbuteo was invented in the 1950s.
One vivid memory from playing subbuteo is the pitch on the carpet. Sometimes you were so engrossed in what you were doing that you would lean on a player and break it (if you did it with your knee, that could be agony). We had a coal fire back then, so what I would do is put the poker into the fire. Heat it up a bit, then weld the snapped player back onto its base. They got shorter and shorter, but when they were like that, they were great little dribblers. I also had quite a lot of Lego, so I built up stands to put alongside the pitch and filled them up with all my other teams. I did try and get back into subbuteo, a few years back. I even had my photo in the local paper, after I tried to set a local group up. It never really took off. Looking back now, it was at a time when I was searching for something. It was around the time, that my Mum had died and a year or two before I became Katie.
When it comes to favourite subbuteo kits. There’s a few that I liked. One funnily enough, was the Wolves kit that I had. Surprisingly it was in the unpopular, but straight legged zombie style. Actually; I’m not sure if it was kit that I was drawn to, or the Wolves midfield quartet of Willie Carr, Peter Daniels, Kenny Hibbitt and Steve Daley.
Subbuteo played a huge part in my childhood, and as much as I would have liked to rekindle what was there. Perhaps like many things; it is best left in the past as a memory, that you can visit now and again.
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Katie Wilson
- Silver Member
- Posts: 26
- Joined: Mon Mar 25, 2024 8:47 pm
Re: Football Memories
The Day I Saw Greavsie Sent Off
Jimmy Greaves is an absolute legend; both for what he achieved on and off the pitch, there is no argument to be had. But the only time that I saw him play, he didn’t cover himself in glory. I had to look up the year; it was November 1977, and I would have been nine years old. On this particular day, Chelmsford were at home to Barnet, and in their team that day was a certain Jimmy Greaves. I may have only been nine, but I was old enough to know that this was something special. What made it all the more spicy was that just a few years earlier Greaves had turned out for Chelmsford and also the fact that he was obviously on his way down, and people can’t help but use that as a stick to beat you with
To be honest, it is such an incredible story that I had dreamed of it, but it wasn’t until a few years ago that I checked it out on the internet. And there it was. This is Greaves own recollection of the match in his own words. This was in his column in the Daily Mirror in 2012.
It was a Southern League Floodlit Cup match at Chelmsford when our striker Wilf Woodend ended up in goal and managed to save a penalty. The ref ordered a re-take, claiming Wilf had moved too soon, at which point our player-manager Billy Meadows lost the plot and all hell broke loose.
The ref decided to send me off for no apparent reason, and I refused to walk, so the man in black abandoned the match.
I was with my dad in the barn stand, which ran along the whole of our side of the ground. Sadly, the ground is no longer there; they played at Billericay for a number of years and then moved back to a ground out of town about 20 or so years ago.
I think I looked it up, and the attendance that day was about 1,500. The mere fact that Greaves was playing would have put a considerable number on the gate, but saying that Chelmsford City were a big non-league club, I was always led to believe that they missed out on getting into the football league in the early 1970s because of financial irregularities. I’m not sure how true that is.
That day is still very clear in my mind. I think it was one of the first times that I really experienced how toxic football can be. I was only nine, and I’d never heard language like it. Greaves got constant abuse throughout the whole game, and you can imagine the delight of the home fans when he was sent off. Their joy didn’t last long, though, when the game was abandoned.
It’s a memory that I’ve shared many times, to be able to tell people that I was there the day that Jimmy Greaves was sent off and the game was abandoned.
Jimmy actually lived in a village called Little Baddow, a few miles outside Chelmsford. I never saw him, but people I spoke to had. They said that he would always stop and talk. Now he is one player who I would have liked to have seen at Arsenal in his heyday.
Jimmy Greaves is an absolute legend; both for what he achieved on and off the pitch, there is no argument to be had. But the only time that I saw him play, he didn’t cover himself in glory. I had to look up the year; it was November 1977, and I would have been nine years old. On this particular day, Chelmsford were at home to Barnet, and in their team that day was a certain Jimmy Greaves. I may have only been nine, but I was old enough to know that this was something special. What made it all the more spicy was that just a few years earlier Greaves had turned out for Chelmsford and also the fact that he was obviously on his way down, and people can’t help but use that as a stick to beat you with
To be honest, it is such an incredible story that I had dreamed of it, but it wasn’t until a few years ago that I checked it out on the internet. And there it was. This is Greaves own recollection of the match in his own words. This was in his column in the Daily Mirror in 2012.
It was a Southern League Floodlit Cup match at Chelmsford when our striker Wilf Woodend ended up in goal and managed to save a penalty. The ref ordered a re-take, claiming Wilf had moved too soon, at which point our player-manager Billy Meadows lost the plot and all hell broke loose.
The ref decided to send me off for no apparent reason, and I refused to walk, so the man in black abandoned the match.
I was with my dad in the barn stand, which ran along the whole of our side of the ground. Sadly, the ground is no longer there; they played at Billericay for a number of years and then moved back to a ground out of town about 20 or so years ago.
I think I looked it up, and the attendance that day was about 1,500. The mere fact that Greaves was playing would have put a considerable number on the gate, but saying that Chelmsford City were a big non-league club, I was always led to believe that they missed out on getting into the football league in the early 1970s because of financial irregularities. I’m not sure how true that is.
That day is still very clear in my mind. I think it was one of the first times that I really experienced how toxic football can be. I was only nine, and I’d never heard language like it. Greaves got constant abuse throughout the whole game, and you can imagine the delight of the home fans when he was sent off. Their joy didn’t last long, though, when the game was abandoned.
It’s a memory that I’ve shared many times, to be able to tell people that I was there the day that Jimmy Greaves was sent off and the game was abandoned.
Jimmy actually lived in a village called Little Baddow, a few miles outside Chelmsford. I never saw him, but people I spoke to had. They said that he would always stop and talk. Now he is one player who I would have liked to have seen at Arsenal in his heyday.
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Katie Wilson
- Silver Member
- Posts: 26
- Joined: Mon Mar 25, 2024 8:47 pm
Re: Football Memories
Trees in the Valley
I had a friend from school who I used to hang around with called Andrew Abbott; he wasn’t really afraid of anything, unlike me. One day in the late eighties, I think it was, we went to the Valley, home of Charlton Athletic; to be honest, I can’t remember how we got there. In those days, it wasn't so easy to get to South London.
You may think, "So what’s the big deal about going to a football game?" but it was during this time that the Valley was closed and Charlton were playing at other grounds. I have a strong feeling that when we visited, they were playing their home games at Selhurst Park, the home of one of their London rivals, Crystal Palace.
But Andrew, being Andrew, didn’t just want to walk around outside; he wanted to get a closer look. So we ended up climbing over some very tall gates and finding ourselves inside the stadium itself. It’s not the kind of thing that I would normally do; I’m not that brave. We walked around the pitch for a bit. I remember that there was a tree growing on the centre spot, and as you can imagine, it all felt quite sad. I’d read about the big open terrace that stretched along one side of the pitch and that in its day it had held 66,000 people, which is astonishing.
Having read up on it, it was the East Stand and closed in the mid-eighties due to new safety messages introduced after the Bradford fire. The club was unable to finance the improvements needed and had to leave the valley.
Despite being a staunch Nottingham Forest fan and believing that Brian Clough really did walk on water, Andrew had a soft spot for Charlton Athletic. The terraces had grass and shrubs along the steps and through the cracks, and there was graffiti sprayed over what could have been the changing rooms. It was directed mainly at Michael Glickstein, who was the chairman at the time and responsible for leaving the Valley.
Charlton Athletic are an historic club; they might not now have the pull of the other London giants, but nevertheless, you only have to look back at years gone by in the 40s and 50s to see the size of the crowds that they used to draw. At one time, the Valley was one of the biggest grounds in Britain, with a capacity of 75,000. One side note is that the band The Who played at the Valley in the 1970s.
I was quite handy.
I’ve talked a lot about going to and watching football, but what about me as a footballer? Well, I like to think that I’m not known for being big-headed or full of myself, but if you were to ask people who knew me, they would most likely say that I was a half-decent footballer—in fact, more than half-decent.
The earliest memories that I have of playing football are probably from when I was 5 or 6. A whole group of lads would go up to a piece of land just outside the top of the village. I don’t know why we went there. I remember that my brother would come; he’s never been particularly interested in football, and as a teenager, he was more drawn to scrambling bikes or army stuff; he went through a CB radio phase at one time.
During these games, the other boys were probably about 3 to 4 years older than me, but I more than held my own.
When I was eight, I started with the Great Waltham Cubs, and before long I was on the football team. They must have thought that I was half decent because I ended up as captain. I think at that age, I seemed to be able to cope with everything. Later, the pressure and stress put on me stopped me from enjoying the games.
I remember one particular time when we were playing a game against Meadgate United, who were wearing black and white stripes. We wore green shirts and white shorts. So anyway, we get awarded a penalty, and guess who steps up to take it? Yes, yours truly. I was full of confidence; there were never any thoughts in my mind that I was going to miss. I don’t know what happened. I struck the ball well enough, but unfortunately, the ball ended up hitting the wire mesh fence that separated the pitch from the road outside and was nearer to the corner flag than it was to the goal.
I think that I was in shock because I just stood there and burst into tears. I had to run back because they were at the other end of the pitch and had won a corner. I lined up to mark one of their players, still wiping my eyes. He whispered something in my ear as we waited for the corner, but I’m not sure what he said.
When we were eight, we moved a few miles down the road to another village called Broomfield. This was mainly to be near my mom's parents, who lived in the village, plus to be nearer to the secondary school for both me and my brother.
I continued to play for Great Watham for a while. At one stage, we came up against Broomfield, and I knew most of the team as I now went to the same school. They were really good and had already won the league and played in a district final that I went with my dad to watch (I can’t remember the result). They wanted me to join them, but I never did. When we played them, they beat us 10-0.
I would play football all the time. Where we now lived, there was a football pitch and a big house called Brooklands. I went inside once when they had Japanese students staying there. I’m not sure if we were really meant to go over there, but no one ever stopped us.
There was a cut-through at the bottom of the garden to get to Brooklands and the football pitch. Sometimes there could be as many as 20 boys or more coming through our garden. There were times when, even if I wasn’t joining them, they would still use our garden. My mum would make drinks of orange squash sometimes when it was hot and bring them over. It’s not until I write something down like that that I realise how special she was and how lucky I was.
I had a friend from school who I used to hang around with called Andrew Abbott; he wasn’t really afraid of anything, unlike me. One day in the late eighties, I think it was, we went to the Valley, home of Charlton Athletic; to be honest, I can’t remember how we got there. In those days, it wasn't so easy to get to South London.
You may think, "So what’s the big deal about going to a football game?" but it was during this time that the Valley was closed and Charlton were playing at other grounds. I have a strong feeling that when we visited, they were playing their home games at Selhurst Park, the home of one of their London rivals, Crystal Palace.
But Andrew, being Andrew, didn’t just want to walk around outside; he wanted to get a closer look. So we ended up climbing over some very tall gates and finding ourselves inside the stadium itself. It’s not the kind of thing that I would normally do; I’m not that brave. We walked around the pitch for a bit. I remember that there was a tree growing on the centre spot, and as you can imagine, it all felt quite sad. I’d read about the big open terrace that stretched along one side of the pitch and that in its day it had held 66,000 people, which is astonishing.
Having read up on it, it was the East Stand and closed in the mid-eighties due to new safety messages introduced after the Bradford fire. The club was unable to finance the improvements needed and had to leave the valley.
Despite being a staunch Nottingham Forest fan and believing that Brian Clough really did walk on water, Andrew had a soft spot for Charlton Athletic. The terraces had grass and shrubs along the steps and through the cracks, and there was graffiti sprayed over what could have been the changing rooms. It was directed mainly at Michael Glickstein, who was the chairman at the time and responsible for leaving the Valley.
Charlton Athletic are an historic club; they might not now have the pull of the other London giants, but nevertheless, you only have to look back at years gone by in the 40s and 50s to see the size of the crowds that they used to draw. At one time, the Valley was one of the biggest grounds in Britain, with a capacity of 75,000. One side note is that the band The Who played at the Valley in the 1970s.
I was quite handy.
I’ve talked a lot about going to and watching football, but what about me as a footballer? Well, I like to think that I’m not known for being big-headed or full of myself, but if you were to ask people who knew me, they would most likely say that I was a half-decent footballer—in fact, more than half-decent.
The earliest memories that I have of playing football are probably from when I was 5 or 6. A whole group of lads would go up to a piece of land just outside the top of the village. I don’t know why we went there. I remember that my brother would come; he’s never been particularly interested in football, and as a teenager, he was more drawn to scrambling bikes or army stuff; he went through a CB radio phase at one time.
During these games, the other boys were probably about 3 to 4 years older than me, but I more than held my own.
When I was eight, I started with the Great Waltham Cubs, and before long I was on the football team. They must have thought that I was half decent because I ended up as captain. I think at that age, I seemed to be able to cope with everything. Later, the pressure and stress put on me stopped me from enjoying the games.
I remember one particular time when we were playing a game against Meadgate United, who were wearing black and white stripes. We wore green shirts and white shorts. So anyway, we get awarded a penalty, and guess who steps up to take it? Yes, yours truly. I was full of confidence; there were never any thoughts in my mind that I was going to miss. I don’t know what happened. I struck the ball well enough, but unfortunately, the ball ended up hitting the wire mesh fence that separated the pitch from the road outside and was nearer to the corner flag than it was to the goal.
I think that I was in shock because I just stood there and burst into tears. I had to run back because they were at the other end of the pitch and had won a corner. I lined up to mark one of their players, still wiping my eyes. He whispered something in my ear as we waited for the corner, but I’m not sure what he said.
When we were eight, we moved a few miles down the road to another village called Broomfield. This was mainly to be near my mom's parents, who lived in the village, plus to be nearer to the secondary school for both me and my brother.
I continued to play for Great Watham for a while. At one stage, we came up against Broomfield, and I knew most of the team as I now went to the same school. They were really good and had already won the league and played in a district final that I went with my dad to watch (I can’t remember the result). They wanted me to join them, but I never did. When we played them, they beat us 10-0.
I would play football all the time. Where we now lived, there was a football pitch and a big house called Brooklands. I went inside once when they had Japanese students staying there. I’m not sure if we were really meant to go over there, but no one ever stopped us.
There was a cut-through at the bottom of the garden to get to Brooklands and the football pitch. Sometimes there could be as many as 20 boys or more coming through our garden. There were times when, even if I wasn’t joining them, they would still use our garden. My mum would make drinks of orange squash sometimes when it was hot and bring them over. It’s not until I write something down like that that I realise how special she was and how lucky I was.
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Katie Wilson
- Silver Member
- Posts: 26
- Joined: Mon Mar 25, 2024 8:47 pm
Re: Football Memories
I was quite handy continued
I did actually play for Broomfield Primary School, but we only played two games, both against Melbourne United; we drew at home 1-1 and lost the away game 2-0. What I remember most about all of that was the state of the kit. It was in a shocking state and full of holes. I remember thinking at the time that they must have been from the 1950s; we must have looked in the right state.
We had a teacher called Mr Surr; he was one of those teachers who had a bit of a reputation, and so I was a bit wary when he became our new teacher, but I got on really well with him. He was in charge of the football team. I can clearly remember him charging around in a blue tracksuit with white stripes down the side.
On my report at the end of the year, he wrote, "Uses his brains as well as his feet."
There was a five-a-side tournament being held at Chelmer Valley; this was the secondary school that most of us would be leaving to go to. We were part of it, along with a bunch of other local schools. Thankfully, we got a new kit for the occasion. I can remember our team clearly: in goal was Simon Brown; I was in defence; in midfield we had Michael Gale and Darren Marles; and our striker was one of my best friends, Stuart Davidson. We pretty much steamrolled our way to the final, only conceding one goal along the way. That was a penalty against Ford End, which was when Michael Gale stepped into our area, which you aren’t allowed to do in five-a-side.
In the final, we came up against Nabbott's school; they wore all white, while we wore our usual red and black stripes. Which was the colour that the village teams wore and what I would also wear when I went onto play for Broomfield juniors.
The final was a formality; we crushed them by four goals to nil, and we were the champions. I have to say that was probably one of my proudest moments from playing football, along with receiving the player of the year award, in the first year of Broomfield Juniors in 1981. Ray Stewart, who played for West Ham and Scotland, presented me with the award.
In the changing rooms afterwards, Stuart Davidson told me that he thought that I had been the best player, which meant a lot to me. On Monday at school, in assembly, the team showed off the trophy in front of the whole school. Mr. Surr was absolutely made-up. Years later, I went back to the school with a friend's mom. The trophy was in a cabinet along with some others, but there was nothing on it to say what it was. When I finish writing this, I’m going to send an email to the school to change that.
One deep disappointment is that I never saw Mr Surr again, after I left. Sometimes students would go back and visit their old school, I didn’t and by the time that I’d thought about it ; it was discouraged.
A few years back I found a few Mr Surrs, who I thought it could have been online. I went as far as writing a letter; to an address that I thought most likely but never heard back. Writing it down now, makes me feel quite reflective, there’s definitely a disappointment that I never went back. I think that he had a soft spot for me. I wonder, how he felt at the time and if ever thinks of me; he'd be in his seventies now I think, that’s if he’s still alive. I suppose, he was a kind of Father figure to me.
It must have been around this time, on a Saturday afternoon, that I was having a kick about with a few others while the Broomfield men’s team were playing.
I remember it quite well; I was caked in mud. Brian Marles, who was the dad of Darren( from our victorious school team), approached me and said that he was starting up a new team, which turned out to be Broomfield Juniors. I don’t think that I thought much more about it, but it did happen, and the team is still going today.
To be honest, I didn’t really enjoy playing for Broomfield. It may seem like a strange thing to say, but it was just too much pressure. My position was left back, and I never ventured over the halfway line for fear of making a mistake. I think that I felt trapped in some ways. My dad loved to watch me play, and I think that he would have been really disappointed if I had stopped playing. Also, all the other boys would have found it strange, and I had to go to school with them. Perhaps I was weak and should have spoken up. Sometimes, when we played away games, I hoped that we wouldn’t find the ground. I would lay awake the night before because I was worried about a big match. Once, I think I twisted my ankle or something, and it was really painful. I had an x-ray on it, and secretly I hoped that it was broken. Another time, I had a little hole in my shin. I don’t know how it happened, but I picked at it to make it worse. I did that for a good few months, if not more. I told people that it was a stud mark from someone’s boot, but I don’t think that it was.
I did actually play for Broomfield Primary School, but we only played two games, both against Melbourne United; we drew at home 1-1 and lost the away game 2-0. What I remember most about all of that was the state of the kit. It was in a shocking state and full of holes. I remember thinking at the time that they must have been from the 1950s; we must have looked in the right state.
We had a teacher called Mr Surr; he was one of those teachers who had a bit of a reputation, and so I was a bit wary when he became our new teacher, but I got on really well with him. He was in charge of the football team. I can clearly remember him charging around in a blue tracksuit with white stripes down the side.
On my report at the end of the year, he wrote, "Uses his brains as well as his feet."
There was a five-a-side tournament being held at Chelmer Valley; this was the secondary school that most of us would be leaving to go to. We were part of it, along with a bunch of other local schools. Thankfully, we got a new kit for the occasion. I can remember our team clearly: in goal was Simon Brown; I was in defence; in midfield we had Michael Gale and Darren Marles; and our striker was one of my best friends, Stuart Davidson. We pretty much steamrolled our way to the final, only conceding one goal along the way. That was a penalty against Ford End, which was when Michael Gale stepped into our area, which you aren’t allowed to do in five-a-side.
In the final, we came up against Nabbott's school; they wore all white, while we wore our usual red and black stripes. Which was the colour that the village teams wore and what I would also wear when I went onto play for Broomfield juniors.
The final was a formality; we crushed them by four goals to nil, and we were the champions. I have to say that was probably one of my proudest moments from playing football, along with receiving the player of the year award, in the first year of Broomfield Juniors in 1981. Ray Stewart, who played for West Ham and Scotland, presented me with the award.
In the changing rooms afterwards, Stuart Davidson told me that he thought that I had been the best player, which meant a lot to me. On Monday at school, in assembly, the team showed off the trophy in front of the whole school. Mr. Surr was absolutely made-up. Years later, I went back to the school with a friend's mom. The trophy was in a cabinet along with some others, but there was nothing on it to say what it was. When I finish writing this, I’m going to send an email to the school to change that.
One deep disappointment is that I never saw Mr Surr again, after I left. Sometimes students would go back and visit their old school, I didn’t and by the time that I’d thought about it ; it was discouraged.
A few years back I found a few Mr Surrs, who I thought it could have been online. I went as far as writing a letter; to an address that I thought most likely but never heard back. Writing it down now, makes me feel quite reflective, there’s definitely a disappointment that I never went back. I think that he had a soft spot for me. I wonder, how he felt at the time and if ever thinks of me; he'd be in his seventies now I think, that’s if he’s still alive. I suppose, he was a kind of Father figure to me.
It must have been around this time, on a Saturday afternoon, that I was having a kick about with a few others while the Broomfield men’s team were playing.
I remember it quite well; I was caked in mud. Brian Marles, who was the dad of Darren( from our victorious school team), approached me and said that he was starting up a new team, which turned out to be Broomfield Juniors. I don’t think that I thought much more about it, but it did happen, and the team is still going today.
To be honest, I didn’t really enjoy playing for Broomfield. It may seem like a strange thing to say, but it was just too much pressure. My position was left back, and I never ventured over the halfway line for fear of making a mistake. I think that I felt trapped in some ways. My dad loved to watch me play, and I think that he would have been really disappointed if I had stopped playing. Also, all the other boys would have found it strange, and I had to go to school with them. Perhaps I was weak and should have spoken up. Sometimes, when we played away games, I hoped that we wouldn’t find the ground. I would lay awake the night before because I was worried about a big match. Once, I think I twisted my ankle or something, and it was really painful. I had an x-ray on it, and secretly I hoped that it was broken. Another time, I had a little hole in my shin. I don’t know how it happened, but I picked at it to make it worse. I did that for a good few months, if not more. I told people that it was a stud mark from someone’s boot, but I don’t think that it was.
Re: Football Memories
Some absolutely great memories there Katie and some great reading!
Just to say my competitive playing started in September 1966 when I was selected to play at Right Back for the 23rd Fulham Cubs. We won 10-1, but my abiding memory was that we were watched by a crowd which at one point must have got as high as almost one thousand? For a kids game you might say?
Well there was a catch. We played on one of the two pitches in Bishops Park, which backs on to the side of Craven Cottage, home of my beloved Fulham FC. We kicked off at 1:00 I remember, and supporters would stop and assemble on the paths that edged the pitches and watch with interest. In those days football, whatever the standard, would retain most people's attention. But as the goals went in, we received plenty of loud cheers and applause for our efforts. Fulham were playing Leeds United that day!
Two weeks later my Uncle Jack took me to see my first ever Fulham game, a 5-0 League Cup win against Wolves. Three months later I'd learnt how to bunk into Fulham through a hole in the fence after we'd finished playing for the cubs. We went through that season unbeaten, but that was about it for my playing success - it was downhill from there. Got selected twice to play for my primary school (Melcombe Primary School) and was on the wrong end of 7-0 and 8-0 defeats. Played for a rubbish team when I went into the Scouts from the Cubs - only highlight from a defender who used to kick it if it moved (and if he could catch it) was coming on as a substitute in one game at 0-0. I was already really aggrieved at only being substitute, as the bloke who replaced me was the captain's mate and I was better than him every time. We won 4-0 and I got all four goals. I wasn't dropped again.
I went to a rugby school so no competitive football - at least not until the sixth form . A house competition was started up. We used to play on pitches on Wandsworth Common, which were on a par with Wormwood Scrubs and Hackney Marshes. Remember in one game playing against my best mate from school's house (and he's still my best mate to this day). He was a very much better footballer than me, but somehow I managed to nutmeg him. As I surged off with the ball, I heard this voice behind me saying: "I'm not having that you b*****d", and suddenly my legs had departed from the foot of mud we were playing in as my face made contact with it. I just lay there laughing my head off.
Played once for the school 2nd team thereafter in a 2-2 draw against another school whose first sport was Rugby Union.
My last ever competitive game was at University. I went to Bedford College London, part of London University. In the 1975-76 season they were champions of London University, which ran two divisions for all of their colleges. The best player, John Alexander, went on to be a full-time professional with Millwall and Reading. They ran four teams, but I wasn't good enough to get in any of them.
So on one Wednesday afternoon. I arranged to go and watch my best mate's team as he too went to London University. However, his college (School of Slavonic and Eastern European Studies) were the worst team in London University, bottom of Division 2 without a point. Their fixture was against Middlesex Hospital who were mid table. My mate had said to me: "Bring yer boots mate, you might end up getting a game". Well I wish I'd left my boots at home. I got there and they only had nine players. So I said yes ok I'll play. Then they said: "We've got no goalkeeper". Oh dear. They started with a ritual where they all lit up their cigarettes (I was a smoker in those days), and all ran on to the field smoking their cigarettes and waving to the non-existent crowd! So there I was in goal. 90 minutes later we were 0-20 down and I had saved two penalties!!! There ended my competitive football "career" and I never played another competitive game again.
Thanks for your postings, it's been great to relieve my own non-eventful playing memories.
Just to say my competitive playing started in September 1966 when I was selected to play at Right Back for the 23rd Fulham Cubs. We won 10-1, but my abiding memory was that we were watched by a crowd which at one point must have got as high as almost one thousand? For a kids game you might say?
Well there was a catch. We played on one of the two pitches in Bishops Park, which backs on to the side of Craven Cottage, home of my beloved Fulham FC. We kicked off at 1:00 I remember, and supporters would stop and assemble on the paths that edged the pitches and watch with interest. In those days football, whatever the standard, would retain most people's attention. But as the goals went in, we received plenty of loud cheers and applause for our efforts. Fulham were playing Leeds United that day!
Two weeks later my Uncle Jack took me to see my first ever Fulham game, a 5-0 League Cup win against Wolves. Three months later I'd learnt how to bunk into Fulham through a hole in the fence after we'd finished playing for the cubs. We went through that season unbeaten, but that was about it for my playing success - it was downhill from there. Got selected twice to play for my primary school (Melcombe Primary School) and was on the wrong end of 7-0 and 8-0 defeats. Played for a rubbish team when I went into the Scouts from the Cubs - only highlight from a defender who used to kick it if it moved (and if he could catch it) was coming on as a substitute in one game at 0-0. I was already really aggrieved at only being substitute, as the bloke who replaced me was the captain's mate and I was better than him every time. We won 4-0 and I got all four goals. I wasn't dropped again.
I went to a rugby school so no competitive football - at least not until the sixth form . A house competition was started up. We used to play on pitches on Wandsworth Common, which were on a par with Wormwood Scrubs and Hackney Marshes. Remember in one game playing against my best mate from school's house (and he's still my best mate to this day). He was a very much better footballer than me, but somehow I managed to nutmeg him. As I surged off with the ball, I heard this voice behind me saying: "I'm not having that you b*****d", and suddenly my legs had departed from the foot of mud we were playing in as my face made contact with it. I just lay there laughing my head off.
Played once for the school 2nd team thereafter in a 2-2 draw against another school whose first sport was Rugby Union.
My last ever competitive game was at University. I went to Bedford College London, part of London University. In the 1975-76 season they were champions of London University, which ran two divisions for all of their colleges. The best player, John Alexander, went on to be a full-time professional with Millwall and Reading. They ran four teams, but I wasn't good enough to get in any of them.
So on one Wednesday afternoon. I arranged to go and watch my best mate's team as he too went to London University. However, his college (School of Slavonic and Eastern European Studies) were the worst team in London University, bottom of Division 2 without a point. Their fixture was against Middlesex Hospital who were mid table. My mate had said to me: "Bring yer boots mate, you might end up getting a game". Well I wish I'd left my boots at home. I got there and they only had nine players. So I said yes ok I'll play. Then they said: "We've got no goalkeeper". Oh dear. They started with a ritual where they all lit up their cigarettes (I was a smoker in those days), and all ran on to the field smoking their cigarettes and waving to the non-existent crowd! So there I was in goal. 90 minutes later we were 0-20 down and I had saved two penalties!!! There ended my competitive football "career" and I never played another competitive game again.
Thanks for your postings, it's been great to relieve my own non-eventful playing memories.
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Katie Wilson
- Silver Member
- Posts: 26
- Joined: Mon Mar 25, 2024 8:47 pm
Re: Football Memories
Thanks Chris, can you imagine Manchester City, running onto the pitch puffing away ?
Here's the next section of my book.
We weren’t a bad team; we never won the league; there were always two teams better than us. One was Witham Cyclones, and the other was Tiptree.
Finally, I can remember that both teams had an outstanding player in Robbie. The one who played for Witham was called Robbie Ellis; he was their captain and a real winner. I suppose in the Billy Bremner mould; he wasn’t big, but he had a big heart, and more than that, he couldn’t half play. One time, we had a big match against them. It was a two-legged semi-final. Even though I always played left back, for this game I was put into midfield to man-mark him. I couldn’t have done a bad job because the game ended 1-1.
I can’t remember what happened in the second leg.
We did win the cup one time; in the final, we beat Galleywood 3-2. We had been two nil up at one stage, but let them come back to 2-2. One of the goals was my fault; they had a corner that was cleared out of our penalty area. I'd been guarding the post, and I ran out quickly, partly to catch them offside but mainly because I didn’t want the ball to come near me. One of their players shot, and the ball went into the goal. If I had stayed where I was, I would probably have stopped it. Our captain at the time was Colin Free, and he had a little word with me about it. It wasn’t done in a nasty way; he wasn’t like that, and we were friends as well.
The other Robbie, whose name I don’t know, was the right winger from Tiptree, and with me being left back, I had to mark him. Every time we played them, he tore me apart. He was so fast; in the cup final, we played them, and they won 3-0. I remember him nutmegging me. In my defence, he did play for the district, so I imagine that I wasn’t the only opposition fullback who he made look stupid.
Looking back now, I ask myself why I carried on playing for them. It’s funny that every year when they had trials for new players to get into the team, they would have loads of boys from the village turn up who would have done anything to get into the team, and there I was, someone who didn’t want to play getting in every time.
It wasn't all bad, though; our team was twinned with one in Germany called Wertle. I have just looked it up; it is in Lower Saxony, which is 200 miles from Hamburg. All the players stayed with players from their teams. I ended up staying in a hotel—well, I think it was a hotel. It had a bar and its own bowling alley. My dad went with me, maybe to look after me because I’d been diagnosed with epilepsy not long before. Paul Barnard, who played for the team a year younger than us, was there as well. Stayed in the same place as us. I can’t remember that much about the trip except that I kept catching flies. I killed over thirty. Paul Barnard killed some, but he wasn’t as obsessive as I was. I think that the games against Wertle were quite even. When we went back two years later, I remember that in one game we beat them 6-1.
Another memory from this is of my dad getting pretty wrecked on Snapps. My dad wasn’t a drinker; I never saw him drunk, but I think that their hospitality was difficult to say "no" to. I can picture my dad looking very bleary-eyed. I always wonder how he felt because he had been in the Second World War and had probably killed some Germans, and yet here he was thirty-five years later, living in one of their houses and drinking snappy with them.
There were a few late nights, I think, and when we arrived home after a long trip home, I think that the whole experience had taken its toll on my dad. His body wasn’t used to this way of life. I think that he had dark glasses to cover his red eyes. My mom met us as we stepped off the coach. I don’t know if they had any conversations, but she must have noticed that he looked a bit under the weather, but good for him. I was very lucky to have him as my dad. It’s just a shame that I never got to tell him that. He died just over five years later from lung cancer. He was only sixty and never lived to enjoy retirement, which seems very unfair. He’d been a smoker since he was fourteen. I would have liked to have been able to go down to the pub with him when I was old enough. Even though he wasn’t my birth father, I think that I am like him in lots of ways. I don’t think that I ever saw him angry; he was content with his garden and allotment. I think maybe after what he had experienced in the war, he was just after an easy life, and you can’t blame him. He was only nineteen when he signed up. When I think back to what I was like when I was nineteen, there is no chance on God’s earth that I would have coped with that.
The last memory of playing for Broomfield is of a cup game; it would have been around 1984. It was either a quarterfinal or semi-final. Once again, I lay awake, stewing about the game the night before. It all came to a head when one of my teammates shouted at me for some reason, and I just burst into tears. I heard a voice say "Get him off", I’m 99% sure that was the last time that I played for them.
But Broomfield wasn’t the only team that I played for; there was the school team and the scouts. If you took my experience from playing for Broomfield, you could take it and turn it on its head; such was the difference. There were several players who played for Broomfield Juniors and the scouts like I did, and while I don’t think that they struggled like I did, it was pretty obvious who they enjoyed playing for more.
I remember that on one occasion, a big match for the scouts clashed with a school game on a Saturday morning. There were two of us who played for both: me and Andy Scott.
Andy tried to get out of playing for the school by saying that he had a haircut. He tried to get me to try to get out of it as well by coming up with an excuse. In the end, we both ended up playing for the school. Without sounding big-headed, we were the two best players. I can’t remember the result, but I’m pretty sure that the scouts didn’t win.
The scouts played 7-a-side football, and the games were 25 minutes each way. On one occasion, we played against Sandon Scouts and ended up beating them 32-0; Andy Scott scored fifteen of them. Incredibly, we ended up playing them in the cup final, and even more astonishing is that they beat us 4-3 after sudden death. At 3-3, our manager, Harry Turnbull, made the decision to put me up front and Andy Scott at the back. It's not that much of a surprise because he did play fullback for Broomfield. Unfortunately, during one of their attacks, he ended up putting the ball in our net, and that was that. He was absolutely distraught and in tears. I remember him going in amongst the trees and bushes around the side of the pitch to hide away. When we beat them 32-0, they were missing a couple of players. In fact, they were twins, and I think that they were playing for the school like we had to sometimes. They obviously made a hell of a difference.
I didn’t mind playing for the school; it wasn’t nearly as intense as playing for Broomfield on a Sunday. I wasn’t on the team in the first year but got picked in the second. We used to play King Edwards Grammar School (KEGS), and they used to have a couple of brothers playing for them as well. Which is a coincidence as well, as is the fact that they were a lot bigger than us. That seemed to happen quite a lot; sometimes at Broomfield, we’d play against other teams from East Anglia. When I was about 12 or 13, some of the other teams towered over us and looked about 17. They were so much stronger physically and looked on the verge of manhood.
This was the case with KEGS and particularly with these two brothers, Eammon and Patrick Dolan. When we played against them, I think that both of them were on the books of West Ham. I remember one time they beat us 10-0, then we came up against them in the cup, and as is the case with football, something remarkable happened. We won 1-0. After an early goal in the pouring rain and despite an onslaught, we somehow held on. I think there were two factors that helped us that day. Our goalkeeper, Paul Nicholls, who had the game of his life, and Lady Luck on our side.
Sadly, we lost the final 2-1 against St. John Payne. I had to mark a friend of mine, Paul Bradley, as he played right wing. My mom knew his mom from when we were babies. We lived in Great Waltham and they lived in Little Waltham; they would pass each other along the road when she was going to see her family in Great Waltham and my mom was pushing me to see her parents, who lived in Broomfield. I was in the scouts with him, and we went to loads of matches together.
On Boxing Day, it would usually be Ipswich; then we would go back to either their house or ours, and we would play games and have a buffet. His sister, Janet, would be there as well.
That carried on even after my dad died. One time, we had a football holiday. If I remember correctly, it included a Nottingham Forest European game against Auxerre in the UEFA Cup, a Sheffield United home game, Port Vale vs. Birmingham City, and possibly a Manchester United game. He knew someone who lived near Hillsborough, so we stayed with them for one night but didn’t go to a game. I think that we might have gone to another Forest game on the way back, but I’m not entirely sure. I looked up when the Auxerre game was, and it said October 17, 1995.
I never knew what became of the two brothers, Eammon and Patrick Dolan, until I googled them while writing this book. I was amazed to find that Eammon had played for several clubs, including West Ham, Birmingham City, and Exeter City, whom he had gone on to manage. He then went on to become the academy manager at Reading. It also said that he had played for the Republic of Ireland under-21 team. While playing for the Republic against Northern Ireland in an under-17 friendly, he scored a hat-trick. I found this on his Wikipedia page.
Dolan died of cancer on June 20, 2016.
On July 5, 2016, at the end of Dolan's funeral, Reading announced that the North Stand of Madejski Stadium would be renamed the "Eammon Dolan Stand".
This is what Wikipedia had to say about Patrick. Dolan. He signed YTS forms with Arsenal when he turned sixteen and made numerous appearances for both the youth and reserve teams. Paul Merson recalls playing with Dolan together in the Arsenal youth team and how Dolan would regularly be invited to stay over at his parents' house.
These days, he is a FIFA-registered player agent and has worked in the media, with work that included fronting Setanta Sports coverage as well as commentating on Serie A, Champions League, and UEFA Cup matches.
I was a half-decent player, but I don’t think that I would have coped very well in men’s football, where mental strength and physicality are needed just as much as natural ability, if not more so.
By the end of my junior playing days, I was 15. I did play again for various teams a few years later. One was for the post office, and unfortunately, in one game, I scored two own goals. One was a pass back that gave our keeper no chance.
The other team was called Adler Sports, which had some of my friends on it. I thought that I’d make a nice gesture, so I bought a new kit for the team. Everyone was really excited as they tried it on, but unfortunately, it was a youth team strip and far too small. I don’t even think that I could get my money back, as it had been in the sale.
That was in my twenties, and then in my late thirties was my final swansong. I formed a five-a-side team, and we joined a league that played its games on Sunday evenings. Our team name was "It won’t be alright on the night ". It proved to be an apt name, because I don’t think that we won a game. To be fair to me, my legs were gone. When I was in my early twenties, I got a chest infection. I had to go to the hospital for tests to see if it was TB; thankfully, it wasn't, but it left me with a scarred lung. I think that’s why I just didn’t have the stamina to play for very long. Even now, I think given a few weeks with a football, I’d get my touch back; maybe I should join one of the walking football groups.
Here's the next section of my book.
We weren’t a bad team; we never won the league; there were always two teams better than us. One was Witham Cyclones, and the other was Tiptree.
Finally, I can remember that both teams had an outstanding player in Robbie. The one who played for Witham was called Robbie Ellis; he was their captain and a real winner. I suppose in the Billy Bremner mould; he wasn’t big, but he had a big heart, and more than that, he couldn’t half play. One time, we had a big match against them. It was a two-legged semi-final. Even though I always played left back, for this game I was put into midfield to man-mark him. I couldn’t have done a bad job because the game ended 1-1.
I can’t remember what happened in the second leg.
We did win the cup one time; in the final, we beat Galleywood 3-2. We had been two nil up at one stage, but let them come back to 2-2. One of the goals was my fault; they had a corner that was cleared out of our penalty area. I'd been guarding the post, and I ran out quickly, partly to catch them offside but mainly because I didn’t want the ball to come near me. One of their players shot, and the ball went into the goal. If I had stayed where I was, I would probably have stopped it. Our captain at the time was Colin Free, and he had a little word with me about it. It wasn’t done in a nasty way; he wasn’t like that, and we were friends as well.
The other Robbie, whose name I don’t know, was the right winger from Tiptree, and with me being left back, I had to mark him. Every time we played them, he tore me apart. He was so fast; in the cup final, we played them, and they won 3-0. I remember him nutmegging me. In my defence, he did play for the district, so I imagine that I wasn’t the only opposition fullback who he made look stupid.
Looking back now, I ask myself why I carried on playing for them. It’s funny that every year when they had trials for new players to get into the team, they would have loads of boys from the village turn up who would have done anything to get into the team, and there I was, someone who didn’t want to play getting in every time.
It wasn't all bad, though; our team was twinned with one in Germany called Wertle. I have just looked it up; it is in Lower Saxony, which is 200 miles from Hamburg. All the players stayed with players from their teams. I ended up staying in a hotel—well, I think it was a hotel. It had a bar and its own bowling alley. My dad went with me, maybe to look after me because I’d been diagnosed with epilepsy not long before. Paul Barnard, who played for the team a year younger than us, was there as well. Stayed in the same place as us. I can’t remember that much about the trip except that I kept catching flies. I killed over thirty. Paul Barnard killed some, but he wasn’t as obsessive as I was. I think that the games against Wertle were quite even. When we went back two years later, I remember that in one game we beat them 6-1.
Another memory from this is of my dad getting pretty wrecked on Snapps. My dad wasn’t a drinker; I never saw him drunk, but I think that their hospitality was difficult to say "no" to. I can picture my dad looking very bleary-eyed. I always wonder how he felt because he had been in the Second World War and had probably killed some Germans, and yet here he was thirty-five years later, living in one of their houses and drinking snappy with them.
There were a few late nights, I think, and when we arrived home after a long trip home, I think that the whole experience had taken its toll on my dad. His body wasn’t used to this way of life. I think that he had dark glasses to cover his red eyes. My mom met us as we stepped off the coach. I don’t know if they had any conversations, but she must have noticed that he looked a bit under the weather, but good for him. I was very lucky to have him as my dad. It’s just a shame that I never got to tell him that. He died just over five years later from lung cancer. He was only sixty and never lived to enjoy retirement, which seems very unfair. He’d been a smoker since he was fourteen. I would have liked to have been able to go down to the pub with him when I was old enough. Even though he wasn’t my birth father, I think that I am like him in lots of ways. I don’t think that I ever saw him angry; he was content with his garden and allotment. I think maybe after what he had experienced in the war, he was just after an easy life, and you can’t blame him. He was only nineteen when he signed up. When I think back to what I was like when I was nineteen, there is no chance on God’s earth that I would have coped with that.
The last memory of playing for Broomfield is of a cup game; it would have been around 1984. It was either a quarterfinal or semi-final. Once again, I lay awake, stewing about the game the night before. It all came to a head when one of my teammates shouted at me for some reason, and I just burst into tears. I heard a voice say "Get him off", I’m 99% sure that was the last time that I played for them.
But Broomfield wasn’t the only team that I played for; there was the school team and the scouts. If you took my experience from playing for Broomfield, you could take it and turn it on its head; such was the difference. There were several players who played for Broomfield Juniors and the scouts like I did, and while I don’t think that they struggled like I did, it was pretty obvious who they enjoyed playing for more.
I remember that on one occasion, a big match for the scouts clashed with a school game on a Saturday morning. There were two of us who played for both: me and Andy Scott.
Andy tried to get out of playing for the school by saying that he had a haircut. He tried to get me to try to get out of it as well by coming up with an excuse. In the end, we both ended up playing for the school. Without sounding big-headed, we were the two best players. I can’t remember the result, but I’m pretty sure that the scouts didn’t win.
The scouts played 7-a-side football, and the games were 25 minutes each way. On one occasion, we played against Sandon Scouts and ended up beating them 32-0; Andy Scott scored fifteen of them. Incredibly, we ended up playing them in the cup final, and even more astonishing is that they beat us 4-3 after sudden death. At 3-3, our manager, Harry Turnbull, made the decision to put me up front and Andy Scott at the back. It's not that much of a surprise because he did play fullback for Broomfield. Unfortunately, during one of their attacks, he ended up putting the ball in our net, and that was that. He was absolutely distraught and in tears. I remember him going in amongst the trees and bushes around the side of the pitch to hide away. When we beat them 32-0, they were missing a couple of players. In fact, they were twins, and I think that they were playing for the school like we had to sometimes. They obviously made a hell of a difference.
I didn’t mind playing for the school; it wasn’t nearly as intense as playing for Broomfield on a Sunday. I wasn’t on the team in the first year but got picked in the second. We used to play King Edwards Grammar School (KEGS), and they used to have a couple of brothers playing for them as well. Which is a coincidence as well, as is the fact that they were a lot bigger than us. That seemed to happen quite a lot; sometimes at Broomfield, we’d play against other teams from East Anglia. When I was about 12 or 13, some of the other teams towered over us and looked about 17. They were so much stronger physically and looked on the verge of manhood.
This was the case with KEGS and particularly with these two brothers, Eammon and Patrick Dolan. When we played against them, I think that both of them were on the books of West Ham. I remember one time they beat us 10-0, then we came up against them in the cup, and as is the case with football, something remarkable happened. We won 1-0. After an early goal in the pouring rain and despite an onslaught, we somehow held on. I think there were two factors that helped us that day. Our goalkeeper, Paul Nicholls, who had the game of his life, and Lady Luck on our side.
Sadly, we lost the final 2-1 against St. John Payne. I had to mark a friend of mine, Paul Bradley, as he played right wing. My mom knew his mom from when we were babies. We lived in Great Waltham and they lived in Little Waltham; they would pass each other along the road when she was going to see her family in Great Waltham and my mom was pushing me to see her parents, who lived in Broomfield. I was in the scouts with him, and we went to loads of matches together.
On Boxing Day, it would usually be Ipswich; then we would go back to either their house or ours, and we would play games and have a buffet. His sister, Janet, would be there as well.
That carried on even after my dad died. One time, we had a football holiday. If I remember correctly, it included a Nottingham Forest European game against Auxerre in the UEFA Cup, a Sheffield United home game, Port Vale vs. Birmingham City, and possibly a Manchester United game. He knew someone who lived near Hillsborough, so we stayed with them for one night but didn’t go to a game. I think that we might have gone to another Forest game on the way back, but I’m not entirely sure. I looked up when the Auxerre game was, and it said October 17, 1995.
I never knew what became of the two brothers, Eammon and Patrick Dolan, until I googled them while writing this book. I was amazed to find that Eammon had played for several clubs, including West Ham, Birmingham City, and Exeter City, whom he had gone on to manage. He then went on to become the academy manager at Reading. It also said that he had played for the Republic of Ireland under-21 team. While playing for the Republic against Northern Ireland in an under-17 friendly, he scored a hat-trick. I found this on his Wikipedia page.
Dolan died of cancer on June 20, 2016.
On July 5, 2016, at the end of Dolan's funeral, Reading announced that the North Stand of Madejski Stadium would be renamed the "Eammon Dolan Stand".
This is what Wikipedia had to say about Patrick. Dolan. He signed YTS forms with Arsenal when he turned sixteen and made numerous appearances for both the youth and reserve teams. Paul Merson recalls playing with Dolan together in the Arsenal youth team and how Dolan would regularly be invited to stay over at his parents' house.
These days, he is a FIFA-registered player agent and has worked in the media, with work that included fronting Setanta Sports coverage as well as commentating on Serie A, Champions League, and UEFA Cup matches.
I was a half-decent player, but I don’t think that I would have coped very well in men’s football, where mental strength and physicality are needed just as much as natural ability, if not more so.
By the end of my junior playing days, I was 15. I did play again for various teams a few years later. One was for the post office, and unfortunately, in one game, I scored two own goals. One was a pass back that gave our keeper no chance.
The other team was called Adler Sports, which had some of my friends on it. I thought that I’d make a nice gesture, so I bought a new kit for the team. Everyone was really excited as they tried it on, but unfortunately, it was a youth team strip and far too small. I don’t even think that I could get my money back, as it had been in the sale.
That was in my twenties, and then in my late thirties was my final swansong. I formed a five-a-side team, and we joined a league that played its games on Sunday evenings. Our team name was "It won’t be alright on the night ". It proved to be an apt name, because I don’t think that we won a game. To be fair to me, my legs were gone. When I was in my early twenties, I got a chest infection. I had to go to the hospital for tests to see if it was TB; thankfully, it wasn't, but it left me with a scarred lung. I think that’s why I just didn’t have the stamina to play for very long. Even now, I think given a few weeks with a football, I’d get my touch back; maybe I should join one of the walking football groups.