6 – BELDON SPORTS AFC
Ahead of a reunion of the good, bad and downright ugly here is a re-hashed chapter from Fifty Not Out.
“The rules of soccer are very simple, basically it is this: if it moves, kick it. If it doesn’t move, kick it until it does.” Phil Woosnam, golfer.
Just about everybody who ever kicked a football I know has had a season or two with one of the longest established Sunday morning football teams in Bradford: Beldon Sports AFC.
My debut was on a typically freezing Sunday morning on the appalling rock-infested, debris-strewn home pitch at Myra Shay. Looking over and beyond the city centre vista of Bradford, the wind almost knocked me over.
Being crap meant that football became a natural way to keep very fit, largely because most of us spent much of the game covering mile after mile chasing the opposition, struggling in vain to get close enough to haul them down by fair means or foul depending on how much breath you had left.
My first season with them was notable for two things: the coldest of cold winters and the introduction of a new kit, which was as rare as successive wins.
The problem with the new kit was simply that whoever chose it had tried to accommodate an entire team on a one-size fits all basis and that meant from the giant centre forward Ray “Pyscho” Winterbourne to weedy little me.
In addition our purchaser was swayed by the chance of a job lot and a global brand – Le Coq Sportif – enough to dismiss the fact that short sleeved shirts were fine in the south of France but not on a shitty, wind swept hill-top in Northern England.
My new shirt simply hung off me and the wind whistled freely up one arm, across my hairless chest and out the other arm.
Many times I tried to feign “injury” by ignoring may pal Michael’s frantic knocks on my parents’ door on Sunday mornings, followed by a torrent of pebbles raining on my bedroom window.
I even awoke one morning to find him pulling my sheets off the bed although how he got in the house was a mystery; it was indeed the winter of discontent.
Once we got to the game though it was impossible to not have your spirits lifted by a fantastically diverse range of characters that formed the core of the Beldon team for many years.
Most were early examples of a new form of Care in the Community, set free to make their own way when they really should have been sectioned.
Special mention must be made of the long serving and much missed manager, the late Joe Williamson. Joe was content to admit he had absolutely no tactical ambitions save to get to the pub without collapsing from frostbite most Sundays.
He must have worn the same ragged brown anorak for as long as Beldon had been in existence; I think they actually buried him in it. A shy man of few words he was the focal point of Beldon and in no danger of being poached by FIFA’s technical department.
Joe’s right hand man for a long time was Psycho, a colossus of a man who was a prolific goal scorer.
For many years we played at the sloping and dog-shit covered Idle “Rec”. Often we played large parts of most games with ten men as, when Psycho went off on a run, he would be almost irretrievable if we were playing down hill unless the gate was locked at the bottom.
If ever Psycho was through on a one to one with the opposing goalkeeper he did not bother with any fancy dribbles around the terrified opponent; he merely ran over them, taking man and ball with him into the net.
Most football teams are judged by what is commonly known as their “spine” comprising the goalkeeper, twin centre halves, the central midfield pairing and the centre forward.
Working backwards from Psycho, in midfield we had a complementary duo in Stuart “Angry” Wassell and Arthur “Silky” Sutcliffe.
Angry was, in his opinion if nobody else’s, a ball-winner in the mould of those diminutive players over the years such as Nobby Stiles, Alan Ball, David Batty or even Bradford’s own local hero Stuart McCall.
Others might argue that Angry was a dirty, psychopathic, ticking time bomb who could rarely get through a game without provoking that Sunday morning ritual: the all-out brawl.
His fellow midfielder was Silky, half-blind, bow-legged and slower than me, but convinced he was as good as the legendary Dutch international Johan Cruyff.
Weekly, he attempted 40 yard passes out of the municipal mud heaps we played on and generally succeeded only in stubbing his toe in the mud and sending the ball bobbling to the opposition.
He did score the goal of the century though – at Grange Upper School – when a sliced attempt at a cross field pass flew, wind-assisted, into the top corner of the opposition net over an amazed goalkeeper.
Beldon’s spiritual leader and further evidence of the eclectic nature of the team was the ethereal Geoff “Pansy” Potter a highly-skilled but hard as nuts central defender with a lifelong compulsion for the occasional lapse into outrageous camp behaviour.
Pansy had played at a very good standard at non-league Thackley AFC and was exceptional on the ball.
What his advancing years conceded in pace was more than made up for by that often over-used phrase – a football brain – which is generally useful to most footballers as they rarely possess a standard brain.
And even if he could not tackle, block or assault a rival forward he could always resort to mental disintegration which he invented and not Steve Waugh, the Australian cricket captain.
If an opposing forward passed, he would chase them as best he could only to eventually talk them into submission with slightly camp and often lewd suggestions as to the shape of their bottom.
And if they did not wilt at this then they still had to face the ultimate test in goalkeeper Mick “Screwy” Driver.
Screwy was so complex you could probably write a Master’s dissertation on him but to begin I would have to say that of all the madcap characters I played Sunday football with I have never met anybody funnier or quicker of tongue.
He was actually a top class non-league footballer again playing at Thackley but was allowed to play Sunday morning rubbish on the condition he played in goals.
It was clear that Screwy just needed to be out and about as he probably bounced off walls and ceilings if he ever tried to sit in one place long enough.
You barely had time to sit down in the changing room before some rapid-fire, acerbic and hugely funny barb would be winging its way towards you.
I was easy prey simply because I was so crap and harboured a desire to emulate my childhood hero Ray “Butch” Wilkins as a midfield supremo, rather than simply accept that I was lucky enough to get a spot somewhere in the team, even one as crap as Beldon
On the other hand Screwy could make a ball talk almost as eloquently as he could.
When he ran training sessions they were marvellous for their variety, lunacy and for the lung busting stamina sessions as ball skills for us lot were wasted. Recognising we were crap, Screwy made sure we could at least run and run and run.
Joe always watched contentedly from the sidelines whilst counting down the minutes till the pub opened.
If I ever thought I might get that prized midfield berth he would quickly remind me that I spent so much time on my backside that Le Coq were “bringing out shorts with studs in their arse and you’ve been chosen to endorse them!”
Having moved from Myra Shay to the aforementioned luxury of Idle Rec, with its Mt Eiger-like sloping pitch, we now shared changing facilities with the local crown green bowling club comprising a garden shed and bucket of water.
Once again this was Bradford Council’s progressive approach to sport in the community for which we paid several hundred quid a year but one particular morning saw Screwy at his finest.
The opposition forward roared towards the goal with only Screwy to beat. He looked up and all of a sudden he saw Screwy waving his arms about, manically taunting the bewildered forward like an Italian traffic cop on acid
“Go on son, make yourself a hero. Are you going left, are you going right…maybe a shimmy through the legs?” ranted Screwy with a mad stare. “What’s it going to be son? Make my day!”
Now most Sunday footballers are thick as posts and this was no exception; he looked at Screwy who was still taunting.
“Come on son…be brave…make yourself a hero. Left, right or maybe a chip?”
You could see the lad visibly wilt; he just lost it, tried to blast the ball as hard as he could and missed the ball by a country mile.
As he fell on his arse, Screwy causally jogged up, did a few keepy-ups in a circle around the fallen opponent, like a triumphant Red Indian with scalp in possession and hoofed the ball back up the hill to Psycho – who ran over their keeper and scored another.
There was nobody like Screwy; it was simply like having a pre-match talk by a stand-up comedian followed by commentary by Peter Kay throughout the match.
It is almost thirty years since I played for Beldon but unbelievably they are still going; it reassures me that in an ever changing world, where only money really seems to matter in sport these days, some things never change.
We need constants in our lives and Beldon Sports AFC is one of mine; I trust Joe is looking down with a whimsical grin from the heavens and still wearing that anorak.
Have great night tonight boys.
andywatmuff says
Steve screwy driver is having a surprise 70th at Thackley on the 21st February 8pm it would be great if you could be there and even better if you could read this, I played and worked with Mick, funny and drove me mad. Please give me a call 07782195007
Steve says
Roger Bennett been in touch so sorting…ta
Jack Muscroft says
Brilliant reading this story. I played for Beldon 50 years ago and joe was in charge then. I’ve noticed a lot of people I recognise. One that stands out to me is ” pedro” Pete Davis. Not sure if he only played for Green man. Happy days.