FOREWORD
Sport has been a major part of my life and remains so some forty years later. Sacrifices have been made along the way – some logical, some dubious to say the least – but I would not swap a minute of it. From freezing cold, muddy football pitches to standing twenty yards away from some lunatic trying to break my bones with a shiny new cricket ball, there is nothing better in my mind than the ability to be out in the fresh air playing sport.
Of course, times have changed and things are much different from when I first dreamt of scoring a century at Lords or the winning goal – for anybody – against Leeds United. My arenas have been far more modest but that is not to diminish the experience; sport has so much more to offer than fame, fortune or the end result.
Of course, not everybody can be a winner; most of us have to be content with just taking part. I was brought up in an era where you learnt that there are losers too and that you did not get a medal simply for turning up and that this is not the worst thing that will ever happen to you in life.
As a brief forerunner to this book here is a quote donated by an old pal of mine, Graham “Goal a Game” Lee, who like me, has long since having vanished well over the hill, out of sight of the opposition.
“Your worst sporting moment can’t have been worse than mine. When I was told by the Manager that I was being released at Bradford Park Avenue I said ‘but why Boss, I’m good in the air.’
The reply was ‘so was Douglas Bader and he wouldn’t get in the team either’.”
Thank you for supporting this book in celebration of my fiftieth birthday.
I hope it raises a few smiles and, to those of you that warrant the odd mention, I have enjoyed your company immensely along the way.
Thank You
Steve
February 2013
FOOTNOTE
Since I “launched” the book essentially as a giveaway in return for donations to BVCC we have raised in excess of £1000 which all goes to keep the cricket club alive. If I failed to land a copy on your lap, hand out expectantly, then if you enjoy this read please find it in your heart to donate a small token of appreciation to the Villas.
Enjoy!
Steve
September 2013
DEDICATED TO MY MUM, MY DAD AND NUMEROUS TEAM-MATES ALONG THE WAY.
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
Excerpt from the speech “Citizenship in a Republic” delivered at the Sorbonne, in Paris, France on 23 April, 1910 by Theodore Roosevelt
“It’s unbelievable how much you don’t know about the game you’ve been playing all your life” Mickey Mantle
“Don’t worry son when the populous say your past it at thirty becos’
To be past it means you’ve been there see and a has been’s always better than a never was. So for once just listen to father, as advice I give you for free.
The next one who says your past it at thirty, well you just refer ’em to me.
That person will be given a flea in their ear as the sharp side of my tongue they will test.
I’ll tell them no wonder he’s past it, it’s from always giving his best!!”
Ken Hemsley, father of a much respected opponent, Chris of Bingley Congs CC 1994.
A FEW ADDITIONAL THANKS
Sincere thanks once again to my old mate Judith who has edited all three of my books with supreme patience raising me in the process from Special Needs Primary School level to occasional published author in the Yorkshire Post and various other publications.
Of course, all our efforts so far have failed in our twin goal of matching villas in Barbados and a tent on Idle Moor looks as good as it will ever get; but it has been great fun and I am grateful for what Judith has taught me…if not some of the bollockings along the way.
It is not cheap to produce a book in such limited numbers but thanks to the generosity – once again – of three of my most enjoyable business relationships and now enduring friendships, all proceeds are going to continue to support junior cricket at Bolton Villas CC.
I would like to thank Adrian Brown and Steve Cartwright of Olympus Labels, Glyn Rogan of Advanced Processing and Mark Waddington of P Waddington & Co who have kindly covered the production costs of this book ensuring every penny raised benefits the game of cricket and especially the kids.
I would also like to thank John and Richard Town of Raymond Town Menswear, Saltaire, who have kitted me out almost exclusively for the best part of the last thirty years, again for a kind contribution to the pot here.
It’s a great experience shopping at “Towny’s” and I know many of you who read this book will have enjoyed this inimitable double act whilst watching your credit card melt and walking out with a new wardrobe instead of that single shirt you came in for.
In a world where we are told that soon Amazon will control our every decision and the big retailers squeeze the pips out of choice, I simply love shopping here. Long may quality independent retailers survive.
DERRICK ARMITAGE
For all the money washing around top level sport, most amateur clubs survive year to year, pound to pound, hoping to avoid a major financial disaster like the mower blowing up or some petty, mindless vandalism that costs dearly. When a major project like the rebuilding of a clubhouse comes around most clubs are on a wing and a prayer…or looking for an angel.
I am not sure I could ever have got away with calling Derrick an “angel” given he was a builder fashioned out of rock. But he was ours in many senses when we needed one most, back in the early 2000’s when the clubhouse at Bolton Villas CC was one kick away from collapse.
Operating with a ridiculously small budget and having to show the patience of an angel in the face of many who claimed to know far better than our marvelous master builder, Derrick brought to life a project most of us had begun to despair of ever achieving.
There are no Lottery Grants for clubs like ours from the Camelot mandarins so we just had to roll our sleeves up; but without Derrick we would have got nowhere. Next time you go to the club, pause if you will and consider the abilities of a man who built that superb facility on a budget far less than a moderate Premier League footballer gets paid in a week.
Patient, generous, committed, diplomatic but above all supremely skilled and proud of what he built, Derrick has left us with something we should be eternally proud of.
Rest in peace Derrick.
CHAPTERS
1 – I’M FRANZ BECKENBAUER!
2 – THE GREAT MILK CRATE TEST MATCHES
3 – WHATEVER HAPPENED TO SCHOOL SPORT?
4 – THE GOOD OLD DAYS
5 – LEARNING TO LOSE
6 – BELDON SPORTS AFC
7 – GOLF AND WHY I AM CRAP AT IT
8 – ON TOUR WITH LORD LES
9 – SWING GATE FC
10 – VIDEO KILLED THE SPORTING STAR?
11 – THE JOY OF CAPTAINCY
12 – MAD MEN 1: THE FAT KID BITES BACK
13 – WHITE BEAR FC
14 – MAD MEN 2: HOW TO START A WAR
15 – GOING THROUGH THE CHANGE
16 – BIKE RIDES
17 – THE MAN IN THE MIDDLE
18 – A VIEW FROM THE BACK OF THE CLASS
19 – CATCHES WIN MATCHES
20 – BY ORDER OF THE COMMITTEE
21 – PLAYING FOR LAUGHS
22 – THE BIG SOCIETY
23 – DAYS OF OUR LIVES
24 – AND NOW THE END IS NEAR
1 – I’M FRANZ BECKENBAUER!
“Too many people grow up. That’s the real trouble with the world, too many people grow up. They forget. They don’t remember what it is like to be 12 years old.”
Walt Disney
I grew up totally obsessed by sport; God knows why because it is a fact that I have never been better than mediocre at my utmost best and generally hovered wildly and inconsistently between poor and (very occasionally) not bad. But that is the beauty of sport, or indeed anything that one chooses to take up as a pastime; simply put, it does not matter how good or how bad you are as long as you give your best and have the character and desire to try to do better next time.
There are so many spin-offs in life that you gain through the highs and lows of sport that set you up to deal with all manner of challenges in later life. In addition, the friendships formed, sometimes in alliance, sometimes in opposition, occasionally as victors and many times as vanquished – chastened accordingly – are the best you can ever have.
I still love sport now, although the allure of the very top echelons of most sports is fading fast, tarnished by the influx of television money and the conversion of many sports to sanitised entertainment shows for the titillation of the privileged subscribers
You should not need to be rich or have immaculate facilities at your disposal to enjoy sport; growing up as kids all we needed was open space and whatever “kit” we could beg, steal or borrow. I remember vividly my very first cricket bat passed over the garden fence by our neighbour, Fred Dawson, a lovely, genial old guy with a broad love of sport especially cricket, and at the time a member of the local Bradford League big boys: Undercliffe CC.
That’s the bat I am holding in my garden with a grip not from the coaching manual and far too much bottom hand if I allow myself a stern coach’s gaze. Fred knew that I had just joined nearby Bolton Villas CC, which compared with Undercliffe at that time was a bit like comparing Bradford City to Manchester United, so was keen to help where he could.
One day, into his garage he went and came out beaming with his old pride and joy – a Gray Nicolls bat, the prized brand of all. It was so dark from years of embedded linseed oil that it looked like a wooden Joan Collins. As a somewhat small 10 year old, it almost towered over me as it was a Size 6, a man-sized bat now complete with a pip-squeak new owner. And so my dad offered to cut it down effectively lopping a few inches off the bottom with his rusty saw (did Geoffrey Boycott start like this?), which meant that I could just about pick it up.
It had no gaudy stickers like today’s expensive, high fashion creations; it was just a bat but a bloody Gray Nicolls at that! This was the brand I had dreamed about with that distinctive red stripe down the back and the knowledge that most of the best players in the world used these.
I think it was the first thing I ever took to bed and cuddled; I spent many an hour sanding and re-oiling, topping up its tan, before tormenting my mum late into the night with a constant thud-thud-thud of a ball (in a stolen pair of her tights) “knocking” it in. This was a little bit of overkill as you generally knock a bat in when new and this was probably over 30 years old but it was new to me and we had to get used to each other.
And when winter came I duly ruined one of my pillowcases by wrapping up my best friend for the winter complete with another smearing of oil and gently placing my pride and joy into hibernation because Fred told me that’s what you did. He also told me not to store it near a radiator which was okay as we did not have any.
In later life as new theories on bats emerged I had to adapt my faithful friend as I did not have the money to go out and buy one of the new bats displayed at local sports shops like Carters and Knuttons in Bradford where you could buy sports equipment from people who knew what they were selling you. Today the independents have been almost obliterated from our high streets by the new nationals such as Sports Direct, JD Sports & JJB Sports (now defunct too).
Reflecting society in general the provision of sports equipment has become big business but these monster sheds are generally staffed by witless kids with no knowledge whatsoever of sport, which is just as well because most of the rubbish they are selling is often barely fit for purpose.
Avoid them like the plague if you are serious about sport and support the last few independents for you will miss them when they are gone. I recently shocked Pete Graham, proprietor of the excellent PC Sports, based in Yeadon on the outskirts of Leeds, with my intention to buy a new bat, aged 50; although grateful for the business I think Pete was half tempted to question my sanity. There were more bats on show than gaudy shirts at Towny’s.
When Gray Nicolls brought out the Scoop bat with its distinctive hollowed back many years ago, the theory was that the design allowed the surplus weight to be distributed to the edges; with the amount of edges I get these days this makes sense?
My reaction years ago was simply to get my dad’s wood chisel and planer out, risking losing a few fingers, to replicate the new innovation as best as my non-existent wood-working skills allowed. When I finally graduated to a new bat I kept Fred’s old Gray Nicolls like a dead body for post-mortem experiments, slavishly copying new innovations from time to time.
One such experiment copied the Bob Willis endorsed bat of the time. As most will know Willis was a fast bowler for Warwickshire and England and now commentates for Sky Sports in a manner guaranteed to knock you out faster than a dose of sleeping pills. How he ever got to endorse a bat is beyond belief because he was, from memory, little more than the traditional number 11; in other words he was what we all term a “walking wicket” and, at best, a good old “slogger”.
His bat makers Duncan Fearnley brought out a new concept with holes drilled through the middle of the bat to allegedly increase its aero-dynamics, thereby increasing the critical bat speed at the point of impact. Where the design fell down was that because there was so little wood left on point of impact, bat speed often resulted in bat explosion with the owner left holding only a handle. To test it on a proven number 11 was perhaps a touch optimistic as well, as they are not known for middling many balls.
No matter, I decided to subject my faithful bat this time to my dad’s drill and, miraculously, emerged still with all fingers intact and a bat that looked like a holed piece of brown cheese. If this appears a touch cavalier, I had moved on by then as I was the proud owner of a new Senior Counties bat, handmade at the factory near Dewsbury and well known as “unofficial” suppliers to many on the county circuit including, allegedly, Sir Geoffrey.
These were seriously good because they were individually made with care and high skill – I still would have preferred an SS Jumbo at that time simply because Viv Richards had one, but he could lift it and that’s where the comparison fails to even start.
With Senior Counties though you got to visit the factory and choose the bit of wood that would be the controller of your hopes and dreams for the next few seasons. A week later you would come back to collect with another pair of stolen tights wrapped around an old ball awaiting the pre-season knocking in, which would begin around November.
Commercially cricket was light years behind where it is today and generally the only logos in sight were those on the bats. The whispered rumour of the time was that Sir Geoffrey, although contracted to and wielding a Slazenger bat, actually got his from Senior Counties – just like me – and simply applied Slazenger stickers.
I suppose they could have detected this as the Senior Counties bat had a unique cushion grip handle; most that did not have one simply replicated this by slipping several extra rubbers on the bat handle and the older lags said it was a bit like wrapping your hands around a donkey’s dick – not that I ever tried.
Over time, Senior Counties simply vanished under the commercial pressure from the wave of new, mass-produced bats that were inferior in every way to the marvellous blades they had manufactured for generations. Progress this was definitely not, and today’s bats have more stickers than a Formula One Car and tend to react like one when they hit anything solid; a definite case of style over substance.
If cricket kept me obsessed in the summer then football did the same in winter and the two seasons seemed to respect each other in the way one ended and the other started almost seamlessly. Today, in large part thanks to Sky TV money, football is a year round assault on the senses and is never away from our screens.
Growing up, football seemed to be much more of a sport and far less of a circus than today’s over-paid and over-rated peak time drama shows with a foreign legion of B-list actors. True enough England still flattered to deceive, believing with a degree of deluded arrogance that only we English can truly muster, that we deserved much more than a place amongst the also-rans at each major tournament.
And although there were plenty of shady characters in those days, comparing them with the seedy, sometimes invisible crookedness that stains the game today is difficult to do, especially because of the obscene amount of money that modern day football is awash with.
Back then it was largely all about a ball, a few mates and a couple of coats down as goal posts. Old sleazy himself, Sepp Blatter, FIFA’s President and self appointed Dictator of World Football would have loved our approach given his aversion to goal line technology.
If a ball was adjudged to have crossed the non-existent line you simply adjusted the offending duffle coat on the ground and made sure the line was wonkier next time. The fact that a character like Blatter is the game’s figurehead sums up football and all it represents these days.
We played most of our football on a spare bit of grass at the cricket club and occasionally, if we were brave, on the actual outfield itself awaiting the arrival of the groundsman and ready to grab our coats and exit through the closest garden. Our old “pitch” is now the clubhouse car park but given our ability back in those days the windows, which would have been situated behind one of the goals, would have been in little danger.
In truth most of us were useless but I doubt whether the likes of Messi and Ronaldo would have been able to dribble on our lunar landscape of a playing surface. And so rather than idolise the more crafted and skilled players of the age, we all became defenders, keen on mastering the assault from behind and the invisible tug of the shirt to haul back somebody much quicker, which in my case was most people. I never forgot those early lessons in later life.
The ball we played with would vary from one of those horrible plastic things that burnt a mark on your thighs for weeks if it hit you – which was okay if you fancied “Mitre” being tattooed on your leg for free – to very occasionally, a shiny new “leather” ball that looked great until it actually rained and very quickly dropped to bits, gasping like an asthmatic old man as it died a rapid death.
Then one year we actually got real goals courtesy of my best mate’s dad: Billy Stockdale. This was fine until we realised that when son Allan, aka Duck, had to go in so too did the goal posts and it was back to the coats. Imagine Man United having to dismantle the goal posts with Fergie still checking the minutes of extra time remaining?
Often it was wet, muddy and cold but nobody cared because we were outside having fun, competing hard and although we did not realise it, forging friendships as well. And as I said, no matter how bad you were, you just wanted to get better and would try anything to achieve this.
Although you could not classify us as street kids, we were so poor that, at times when our equipment failed us, we had to get inventive as Duck described to me many years later.
“One thing I do remember was the time our plastic football burst. We were that keen to carry on playing, I had this bright idea of setting a small fire in the cricket milk crate to try and mould the plastic over the hole. If you remember the only thing we achieved was to totally melt the milk crate into a plastic puddle and for Jonathon Elliott to grass me up to Billy resulting in clip round my ear in front of all my mates. This also delayed milk crate cricket for some weeks until we could nick another one.”
Even though we had a total “meltdown” of our equipment, a “grass” in the camp and evidence of parental “brutality”, little could quench our passion for sport and the great outdoors. And so it was that I convinced my mum to buy me a pair of new boots in my last desperate attempt to convert to a striker – rather than be consigned to the defensive lines for the next thirty plus years – aged eleven.
One cold and rainy Saturday afternoon, well after the cricket season had ended, I knocked on Duck’s door complete with brand new Adidas Beckenbauer boots endorsed by the eponymous, legendary West German captain. These were the first real leather boots I had ever owned and I had unceremoniously dumped my old Woolworths “Winit” boots back in my mum’s bin.
The Woolies boots had three stripes in a copy cat attempt at mimicking the famous Adidas trademark and could be disguised with a heavy application over the stripes of black dubbing; but they were such a bad fit and so non-breathable they gave me blisters and made my feet smell like a sewer.
It was now time now to see if these boots would change my destiny – oblivious to the fact that old Franz was a high-class defender not a lethal goal machine – and I was likely to be neither. Duck had also got a new pair of the same boots as well – this was serious stuff – so off we went to the field.
Three hours later, two crestfallen lads were resigned to being picked last for the rest of their lives. We trudged off the mud heap, looking down at our muddy new boots and trying hard to find some blame to attach to them, but we both knew, deep down, we were both hopeless cases, unable to hit the proverbial barn door from two yards.
2 – THE GREAT MILK CRATE TEST MATCHES
“I tend to think that cricket is the greatest thing that God ever created on earth – certainly greater than sex, although sex isn’t too bad either.” Harold Pinter
Over the last twenty years or so at Bolton Villas CC we have seen massive improvements in the facilities we enjoy, not only for general practice but also on match days as well. Perhaps the most significant “upgrade” pre-dated most of these with the advent of running hot water with the new changing rooms towards the end of the 1980s.
Believe me that was “one giant step for mankind” at least in our small world; prior to that the only running hot liquid was behind the tea tent in the cess pit that acted as the Gents, offering competing odours for the cakes on offer on match day afternoons.
So growing up as a young lad passionate about playing cricket in the 1970s was a different experience from that facing the kids I now coach today. For a start we did not have the luxury of a twin-lane practice facility or the comfort of being padded from head to toe in expensive protective equipment.
Gear was shared and we had a team bag – actually we often even shared the dreaded “box” (abdominal protector) although you were careful who you shared with depending on the latest rumours at school.
My earliest memories are of being thrown in to bat against the senior bowlers on practice wickets situated on the outfield, with barely a cursory mowing or rolling before the battle for survival began; it was the school of hard knocks.
One of the deadliest and nastiest exponents of this clear advantage of ball over bat was Paul “Wisey” Wiseman who spent a few seasons at the club prior to a career in the Bradford League as player, coach and umpire. To say Wisey was a character does not get close to defining him but what was certain is that he was a tough competitor and had little in common with the modern day “everyone’s a winner” theme.
You either survived or perished and there was no middle ground. I am certain this kind of approach – almost tough love – hardened up many of us over the years. Of course it was sometimes scary and I much preferred batting against him many years later when he was at the end of his career and having to battle up the steep hill at the old Idle Upper Chapel ground.
Even if his pace had diminished he still had fire in his belly and one game at IUC stands out in my memory. I had just driven Wisey through the covers for a glorious boundary and, in a fleeting moment, I thought I was David Gower so I held my stance – they call it posing – something batters at the top level do to say to the bowler “hey, that was pretty good wasn’t it? Now bowl me another!”.
Wisey slowly and calmly walked up to me and offered this advice: “If you don’t put that bat down Willy, you will be walking home with it up your arse”.
Recently installed as Chairman of the Bradford Junior Cricket League, I sense Wisey may not have much time for the modern day bleeding hearts handing out medals for simply being there.
In the school holidays a group of us would turn up at the field to play out seemingly never ending games (often with a hard ball – a “corky”), and usually without any pads, gloves or protection for the nether regions. The wickets were a milk crate – assuming Duck had not incinerated it – and were often provided by Stevie Dunwell who lived adjacent to the cricket field and across the road from the Medley family.
The Medleys were cricket mad, with lads Paul and Craig encouraged all the way by dad Harry who umpired in the Bradford Central League for many years with distinction and respect from players and officials alike; mum Maureen was a constant supporter also.
Although well respected and famous for a legion of tales, Harry the umpire was a “not-out” man; that is to say that many bowlers felt they got a raw deal as Harry generally refused point blank to give LBW (leg before wicket) decisions in the bowler’s favour.
I think I saw him give only one and nearly collapsed in shock but he was steadfast here believing that it had to be “stone dead” and leave no doubt for him to give an LBW. At his funeral (as sadly he passed away far too young), I am sure there were still a few bowlers mumbling in the pews as they paid their last respects convinced he had deprived them of a few career wickets.
So there we were batting for survival in defence of a plastic milk crate as everybody who bowled seemed to want to be a fast bowler and break bones. There was no place for a Child Welfare Officer in those days; it was simply survival of the fittest or, in Stevie Dunwell’s case, “it’s my crate, sod you lot, I’m off!”
As we did not have a Third Umpire – actually we did not have any umpires – then any debatable decision that went against Stevie, often resulted in a kick of the crate followed by his confiscation of his crate and a complete collapse of the game.
The only way to resume the game was to offer Stevie a “life” – an early example of the Decision Review System (DRS) – and as these always went in Stevie’s favour he would continue batting for the rest of the day or until the next implosion.
Stevie had a daily struggle to curb his temper and one match day he actually threw his bat at teammate Jonty Haigh having been run out by Jonty, there being no milk crate to assault. The boy played with passion that is for sure!
To improve our techniques we also played out long matches at the home of the future First Team Captain, Dave “Tatts” Tattersall, whose family home had a huge driveway constructed out of block paving. In its infancy block paving was likely to crack quicker than a wicket on the sub-continent and, as the ECB now send their development squads abroad to work on turning wickets, so too did we view Willow Gardens as a finishing school.
The cracks meant that the “wicket” often took spin, which was good practice for all of us hoping to make future England tours of the subcontinent. With fielders crowding round the bat and Tatts doing a passable impression of the Pakistan spin bowler Abdul Qadir, the pressure to survive was on.
Batting against a tennis ball on an uneven surface with fielders under your nose was actually seriously good practice but we simply enjoyed the competitiveness.
Tatts worked for United Biscuits so the regular tea breaks – supplied by his lovely mum Winnie – were wonderful feasts of chocolate digestives and Jaffa cakes and, as he could generally get his work done in the mornings, the only threat to play was the lunchtime arrival of dad Denis in the company Jaguar who insisted on retaining his parking slot “on a length”.
We were never quite sure that Denis shared his eldest son’s approach to flexible working practices so it was always wise to abandon the arena until Denis went back to work. With the Jag off in the distance, we regrouped and it was game on again; in the days pre-mobile phones there would be no more interruptions save for some more Jaffa Cakes at the “tea” break.
We were all highly competitive souls and simply loved playing the game of cricket so when winter came along and before we all vanished into our homes for the long dark nights there was still floodlit cricket and we always played in whatever we had on so we did coloured clothing first as well.
People credit the late Kerry Packer (the Australian media mogul), with creating World Series cricket – coloured clothing, a white ball and lights – but we got there first, at the Villas. As September shortened the days, we tried to elongate the cricket season practice nights by hauling one of the giant sightscreens across the field, painting the balls white in doing so ruining the practice mats and not a great idea as the screens were white.
By leaving every light on we could find in the changing rooms there was just about enough light to get by. Soon though, the cold would arrive and it was time to acknowledge that we would have to wait until next April to begin again. The milk crate was placed in storage and we would have a few months off from Stevie’s implosions, Duck’s pyrotechnics and disapproving looks from the Jaguar.
Still, we had winter nets to look forward to which originated on our parents’ driveways where we would play with the “floodlights” on. In my case these were the kitchen lights as we had no driveway lights in those days given my dad was desperate for somebody to have the benefit of the cover of darkness to steal his Polski Fiat, an impulse purchase in a moment of madness.
Although it was questionable, we were never likely to resort to the light meter and my brother and I played out some tense matches late into the night. I can still mark out my run up on my parent’s drive to this day and remember the pleasure of bowling a snorter past Our Kid’s nose, smashing loudly into the garage door, drowned out only by the hysterical appeal mimicking the great Dennis Lillee, shattering the neighbourhood peace.
Several decades on and with facilities we could never have dared dream of; ironically the vast majority of today’s kids are light years behind us in terms of technique and sheer commitment to and love of the game. The game of cricket has a unique language with its terminology used to describe fielding positions and the necessity to understand strategies and tactics.
Equally, modern equipment – in particular bats – have allowed poor techniques to flourish as the hitting range of these things negate the skills needed to develop cricketers in later life.
Cricket is one of the games that has suffered most by the demolition of school sport and the increasingly sedentary lives of young children. It is a game that demands many of the basic core skills we all took for granted: movement, hand-eye co-ordination, catching, communication and, always, a competitive streak.
It also demands hours and hours of practice in the pursuit of something nearing perfection. Maybe the milk crate was as good as it ever got; come back Stevie D and take guard one more time?
3 – WHATEVER HAPPENED TO SCHOOL SPORT?
“Physical fitness is not only one of the most important keys to a healthy body; it is the basis of dynamic and creative intellectual activity. The relationship between the soundness of the body and the activities of the mind is subtle and complex. Much is not yet understood. But we do know what the Greeks knew: that intelligence and skill can only function at the peak of their capacity when the body is healthy and strong; that hardy spirits and tough minds usually inhabit sound gods.” John F. Kennedy
Many, many moons ago there was a novel concept called school sport which was generally available to all, played and enjoyed by many – loathed by a few as well – and responsible in part for developing personalities and attitudes in preparation for the varying challenges of later life.
We were encouraged to be competitive, accept that we would not win every time and understand that, complaining just because our toes felt like blocks of ice and were about to fall off, would not get us one ounce of compassion or injury-based compensation.
Of course exercise and adventure carry some degree of risk, as does life, but did Scott of the Antarctic ever ring Injury Lawyers for Us to lodge his compensation claim? “Nobody told us it would be this cold here, mate!”
If we got clattered on the field of play by a heavy tackle or a cricket ball bounced off our skulls instead of our bats we did not blame everybody and anybody and then attempt to sue the school out of its very existence. Life went on more or less unchanged and we were better for it.
What we enjoyed – or in some cases endured – was far from perfect, especially in the state school system; even in those days the differences in facilities and equipment between the state and private school sectors were considerable.
However, at least in the state sector there were ample opportunities to play a wide range of sports encouraged by teachers who, even if they were not officially of a PE vocation, were dedicated and committed both to the school and the kids.
They offered up their time, almost always in a voluntary capacity, to run the training sessions and fixtures that were usually outside of school time. In short they could see the value to the kids, both in a present and future tense, and recognised the big picture a long time before any politician mentioned a bigger society.
And without a shadow of a doubt the teachers enjoyed it too – paid or not – because coaching and developing skills and interests within kids is a very rewarding process.
Sadly, that has all gone now, and we are all losers as a consequence. Teachers withdrew their voluntary activities after the militancy of the 1980s – largely in defiance of the Conservative government of the time and that relationship has never really recovered – and the PE teacher probably died a death from that day on.
Blair and Brown’s Labour governments chucked money at the problem in obscene amounts all allegedly in the name of sport. The legacy of this spending spree was another example of New Labour job creation, pouring money into a black hole and employing a bunch of witless track suits who were generally clueless about real competitive sport.
If you have ever seen the wonderful film “Kes” directed by Ken Loach and released way back in 1969, there are bits of those scenes on a freezing, rain-swept school football pitch that will resonate with most growing up around those times.
Brian Glover plays Mr Sugden, the PE teacher loosely based on every PE teacher I have ever met. Part-hero, part-bastard, part-dreamer, part-failed at everything else at school and therefore never having left the very same school.
“I’m Bobby Charlton” exclaims Sugden as he kicks-off in the absence of any referee simply because he could be whoever he wanted to be on that mud-pot of pitch, surrounded by soaked and hapless kids.
Whatever your view of the PE teacher I bet at some point many of you wanted to be him and it was invariably a male, possessing some sort of “coolness” the rest of the staff could not dream of, strutting around in a tracksuit all day.
We all smiled when he turned 40, bought the clapped out, rusting MG as a reaction to the hair starting to thin and yet the PE teacher was always a bit of an icon. The point is that the PE teacher was a fit, healthy male role model and most of us aspired to get in a team of some sorts, if only to pull girls.
I believe the slow death of the old fashioned PE teacher has been the biggest single factor behind the current social ills of growing obesity and inactivity levels, which we will continue to pay for well into the future.
As a result of union leaders and politicians being too stupid and selfish to see the bigger picture the result is that over the last three decades our children have become the unhealthiest generations in living memory which is a pathetic state of affairs; the long term costs are far and away above a bit of paid overtime for running a school sports team.
I wrote much of this piece during Olympic year arguing as to what legacy will we really be left with now the party is over? I accepted I was in the minority, but I never believed the whole show would be either worthwhile long-term nor ever fall within budget.
Initially projected at under £3bn, the final budget was expected to be between £9bn and £12bn depending on what value is actually realised from the disposal of the facilities post the games.
As I finished this book, the self-proclaimed City of Sport – Sheffield – was considering bulldozing the 21 year old Don Valley Stadium where Jessica Ennis trained because they cannot afford the £600k a year running costs. Legacy…what legacy? It is bonkers that we spent all this money on one event and so soon after may flatten a key sporting facility.
Given the woeful state of school and recreational grassroots sport, plus the escalating issues of obesity, poor health and inactivity in our young people, could this money have been spent better than on a jamboree for the privileged?
In the last three decades, school sport in the state system has all but vanished. Approximately 93 per cent of children are educated by the state so what opportunities do ordinary children now have to pursue the legacy dream?
This issue was constantly ignored as politicians from both parties sought to justify the games, pompously promising a great legacy of sports mad kids. Now the fuss has begun to die down is there any real evidence that habits are changing? And do you think MacDonald’s and Coca Cola were really sponsoring the Games to promote healthy living?
The consequences of the decline of school sport are actually incalculable. The NHS can only estimate the future financial burden in terms of obesity-related illnesses such as diabetes. Equally damaging (and acknowledged in Sport England’s “Strategy 2011-15”) is the impact on wider society.
Grassroots sport depends on school sport to survive and many clubs are an essential part of their communities not only for participants but parents, volunteers and social members. If the schools cannot play their part in providing early sporting opportunities then what chance of amateur clubs to develop more specialist skills?
The opportunities to interact; to play, to compete and to shape personal confidences for later life are all diminished as a consequence.
The Labour Governments’ attempts to revive school sport were largely through the Sport England funded Youth Sport Trust (YST), which grandly calls itself “the landscape lead organisation for school sport”.
Rather pointedly, the Department of Health noted that fitness levels in young children had actually reduced by 9 per cent during 2003-9, despite an estimated YST budget of £1.4 billion. Once again big Government deluded itself with the belief that throwing big cash could create the big impact – wrong again.
The same agency was also tasked with The School Games but you have to wonder why given that they had achieved so little on such a large budget. It’s hard not to end up believing that this is simply a huge back-scratching, gravy train and a waste of a lot of money.
As a volunteer grassroots coach, my perception of the YST is one of an expensive and bureaucratic beast. Additionally, there are so many agencies with different pots of money that it is impossible to see how this can be either focused or efficient. Perhaps some broad figures may help further illuminate the problem:
1 – 33.4 per cent of final year primary school children are overweight or obese;
2 – NHS spending £4.2 billion on obesity related issues;
3 – 90 per cent of today’s children are predicted to be overweight or obese by 2050;
After I left Barclays in 2011, I spent a year or so working on a part-time basis for a small social enterprise that specifically targeted primary schools on a health and fitness agenda. Their message was compelling and the more I got drawn into the issues of obesity and all the future health problems being stored up the more frustrated I got by the failure of generations of kids by successive governments.
Of course the business I worked with was a commercial entity and it had numerous competitors ranging from moderately professionally run to a man with a bag of balls selling his wares to whichever school had any spare funding and was too inept to offer a basic PE provision.
And the reason for this effective free for all is simply that, at the most critical point in a child’s life, the provision of PE is a shambles in primary schools. One school I assisted with some cricket coaching had engaged one of these operators to coach cricket but both its coaches did not know one end of a bat from the other as they were football coaches. It was a complete waste of money.
One of the key issues is that over 80 per cent of primary school teachers are female; I realise England have highly professional and successful international women’s teams in both cricket and rugby but, really, given this situation are these sports likely to flourish on a mass participation basis?
Call me sexist but kids need a strong male role model – some more than others with modern day family life – more than ever these days and they get little of this in the early school years.
If we really wanted a lasting Olympic legacy I suggest a much simpler approach than the confusing multi-departmental, multi-agency one we have. At the centre of any strategy has to be a partnership between the schools and the grassroots organisations and clubs that are local to the schools and that are the lifeblood of sport. Government funded bodies simply do not get it.
The role of the PE teacher in primary schools should also be central. If they need to work outside of normal hours to run teams then pay them as the costs today will be far less than the NHS tab in future years. However, it’s not all about sport and should encompass and encourage basic physical literacy and healthy living as a way of life.
We need to make kids much more aware of the choices they have even at this early age because they all deserve the chance of living a healthy life. That should be the sole remit and outside of any league tables.
As many schools have limited sports space or specialist equipment creating positive links with local clubs is essential but this would also have real benefits for the clubs struggling to attract new members. Ultimately, local communities are the long term beneficiaries here.
The YST was tasked with this, but I saw no evidence of it locally and the people I met were simply not competent enough to make this happen. Making this a key role for the new PE teacher would make sense and the clubs are full of committed volunteers willing to help.
As I said, this is not simply about sport though; we have to change our culture and arrest this decline. Reversing several decades of ignorant living is not easy. Sport in isolation is not the answer, but surely being fit and healthy should be everyone’s goal? If sport is a means to an end it’s a hugely valuable one as JFK alluded to above.
Now the VIPs have all gone home and the showcase Olympic facilities are quietly being dismantled or sold off, most likely for a fraction of what was promised, it may just be worth the price if we see a radical shift in the way we all live; if we could start with the youngest, those with the least baggage, that way, we might not fail another generation.
FOOTNOTE
At the turn of the year UK Sport, supported by Lottery funding, announced its funding support programme in the run up to Rio 2016. Some sports have effectively been cut off at the knees with the administrators taking the view that only sports where GB appear to have medal opportunities should be funded.
This is from the same body that used the mantra of “Sport for All”; further conclusive proof that these anonymous mandarins know nothing about the wider value of sport to ordinary people.
As for the Lottery, champion of good causes or so you thought, it’s senior executives have just been awarded eye watering, banker-style bonuses at the same time as announcing that the price of a ticket is doubling in August 2013 to £2.
So before you rush down to join the queue at the local newsagent try not to think too hard about the UK’s prime lottery being owned by a Canadian pension fund. You see the gravy train does not just stop at the banker’s station.
4 – THE GOOD OLD DAYS
“Say goodbye to the oldies, but goodies, because the good old days weren’t always good and tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems” Billy Joel
I have no idea exactly how and when my long association with Bolton Villas CC started, but it stretches back some forty years; so much has changed that it often seems impossible to track.
It barely seems a few years ago that we were making our first steps as a new team at Under Fourteen level to complement the only other junior team at the club in those days: the all-encompassing Under Eighteens. From a collection of mates battling for honours with a milk crate as a set of wickets we somehow became a group large enough to consider forming a team.
The preparation at the end of the summer of 1975 (prior to us joining the Bradford Junior League in 1976) was a single friendly with Sandy Lane CC; if this had been part of some detailed planning process, complete with a Mission Statement from the England & Wales Cricket Board (ECB), it would have been genius planning.
Batting for survival at Greenwood Park, Sandy Lane, was much like trying to fend off nasty old Wisey, on one of the outfield practice tracks at the Villas so testing was batting at this municipal park ground on the other side of the city.
I have to say I never ever visited Greenwood Park with much hope for an afternoon of sublime batting pleasure in the years that followed: the best you could hope for was that you did not cop a “snorter” up the nose, followed by a “shooter” along the ground to be adjudged plumb in front, unless Harry was umpiring.
Our senior years were notable for lively contests with their “star” opening bowler who looked like a fake Bee Gee and ran in off a run longer than Michael Holding bowling “floaters” – in other words slower than my mum. We often had to ask him to take off his jewellery as it presented more of a threat to the batsman than his bowling, blinding us as it reflected off the sun.
It was a natural progression for a group of mates, most living within a good throw of a cricket ball from the Villas ground, who had developed a love of the game and a good deal of camaraderie. It helped that there were a few sets of brothers as well: the Medleys, Elliotts, Tattersalls, Kellys and me and Our Kid because you had some form of inheritance and succession planning…of sorts.
These days it is so different and the kids come from far and wide with many reasons for this. One factor is that the occupants of the local houses seem to have stayed put so long (despite the regular summer shelling of rooftops) that there are far fewer youngsters in the area; it is almost like a sheltered housing complex.
Another curiosity I have noticed is that my peer group has bred more daughters than sons and, of course, people are generally more mobile these days. So will we see a group of local kids coming together in future generations? Maybe not.
Many, many moons ago, long before we ever stepped on the field there was always Brian Cresswell Haigh or, as we all know him, Haighy. Rumour has it that Haighy has been a member of the club since it was formed circa 1923.
In truth the old boy hardly seems to have changed in the near forty years I have been at the club and I suppose there is an art to looking that scruffy so consistently and so long. Haighy celebrated sixty five years at Villas in 2011, a remarkable period of service, albeit nobody has ever seen him do anything and certainly not get his hands mucky.
In our younger years Haighy always seemed to be at the ground in his slippers telling anybody that would stay still and keep awake long enough what a fine pair of opening bowlers him and his sidekick, Tom Brown, had been in the dim and distant past.
Whilst most people were enjoying the Swinging Sixties for reasons other than cricket, the already balding Browny and bespectacled Haighy were terrorising local batsmen with a twin-pronged swinging, pace attack captained by the legendary Ernest Jackson.
Haighy has seen more than most at the Villas so I thought it only right to sit down with the old man and let him recount some of his tales: I duly allowed a week for the process.
Given that over the years he has claimed to have performed many, many roles including Local Peacemaker (Henry Kissinger narrowly beat him for the United Nations job several decades ago), opening bowler, President, Chairman, Committee Man, Tea Lady and at one point, junior team manager, there are few better to give an insight into the early years at the Villas.
And so for all of you that are old enough to remember when all we had was that great big rusty heavy roller and oceans of time to kill on a Tuesday night after practice – with endless hours of pushing and pulling the thing up and down – when we listened to never-ending tales of derring-do from Haighy about “the good old days”.
In all that time I never saw him lay a finger on that roller as he casually strode alongside it in his worn slippers, fag in hand, hair slicked back about to start yet another tale from the glorious past. So read on into yester-year.
“We started playing cricket around about when I was ten so that must have been about when the war was still going on in the forties. Down at St Cuthbert’s church on Wrose Road there was a patch of spare grass where the church now stands and because there was so little space if you hit the ball to the off-side it generally went under the old building which meant you were out and had to crawl under like a miner to get the ball back.
We were never sure what we might find under that hut and so playing a beautiful cover drive was not the preferred shot. So we all slogged it to the leg side – across the line – like early versions of Viv Richards only I bet he weren’t doing it because he was crapping himself about the Boogey Man under the hut.
Don’t listen to any of the old guys about playing straight we all grew up wiping it across the line scared witless of going under that building.
There were no houses at all at that time and the cricket field stood in acres of ground with the old pavilion up in Critics’ Corner isolated and open to the elements although the Luftwaffe never seemed that bothered enough to bomb it.
There were no toilets or running water and we locked it up every winter hoping that it would still be there when we came back the following year. In truth, it was that riddled with holes that even the hedgehogs gave it a miss for winter and in those days kids did not burn things down for kicks…not that they could have because it was riddled with damp as well!
We had a bucket for a pee and if you wanted anything else well it was a long walk into the long grass and more tales of awaiting Boogey Men. It did though have a white picket fence around it and had the look of Little House on the Prairie as isolated as it was.
I’m telling you we had now’t in those days just the fear of Hitler coming and stopping play for good. Times were grim! Mind you the odd crater might have helped the wicket play a bit better.
Eventually, I made my debut for the Under Eighteens in 1947 safe in the knowledge that the Luftwaffe had gone but now even more terrified trying to bat on the Villas wicket.
We did not have nets or fancy helmets and we rarely practised because it was dangerous enough playing on the wicket let alone trying to find a patch of grass flat enough not to threaten losing a few teeth. Soon they picked me for the Second Team and I’ll never forget my first match because we only had ten men…some things have not changed.
Well we started with eleven but when we were warming up – none of these fancy cones and hoops like a bloody circus that you lot use these days – we just had two balls. Unfortunately they were both thrown at our opening bowler, Bill Tomkins, a coalman who turned up to games blacker than soot and often we told the opposition he was West Indian and fast and nasty.
He must have had some soot in his eyes and as one ball screamed towards his head and the other towards a bit lower down he must have missed the second one as he caught the first in front of his eyes only to go down pole-axed a split second later and have to be carried off on the back of his coal cart. Mrs Tomkins was not happy.
A couple of years later I made my first team debut but I had no boots so the Treasurer, Sidney Wilson bought me a brand new pair of buckskin boots. Strangely I got a bollocking after getting two quick wickets with the opposition labouring to get a total and running out of overs as the two batters had been painfully slow.
I got the bollocking because we just didn’t want these two out and when in came Eddie Paynter, ex-England captain, who promptly smashed a hundred, my team mates were livid at me for taking wickets! Nay, how can a young lad understand that one?
Ernest was livid and it was tough introduction as his view was he did not care if the opposition were none down or all out just how many they got. Still the buckskins felt that good I took the nails out and went off clubbing in them. I think I met Dot that night and even felt that flush I bought her a coke with a slice of lemon!
The club was run and effectively owned by The Three Wise Men in those days. Willie Burnhill was a textile man in the days when the industry was still one where lots of money was being made.
Then there was Albert Berry whose family owned Berry’s print works in Shipley and amongst other things The Theatre Royal and a local circus which could have been the Villas I suppose, given what went on most Saturdays in summer.
And finally there was Hubert Long, a respected local banker in the city centre who worked for the bank that became Nat West.
They bought the field from a turnip farmer through a company called Willowfield Estates Ltd and eventually they sold it to the club for £500 in the forties although I don’t think any money changed hands. Maybe it was money laundering but I don’t think any drugs changed hands maybe a cart of turnips.
So, although we were always skint we weren’t really because we had three wealthy local benefactors to bail us out. Each year at the Annual General Meeting at the Wrose Bull we arrived to see how big the loss was that year and at the end of the meeting the three of them simply opened their wallets and things were okay again for another year at least.
One year the pavilion just blew away in a storm and we had to collect the scattered bits and put it back together again. It looked like a patchwork quilt and time was not on its side by then. If you said it was air conditioned you would not be far off.
We didn’t have a garage which was just as well as we didn’t have any equipment to put in it apart from one mower. We cut the outfield by hand – honest to God – and it was like painting the Forth Bridge we just kept at it all year around doing a patch a time.
Once again The Three Wise Men came to the rescue and in the fifties we finally got a new pavilion which was opened by the legendary Brian Sellers, former England and Yorkshire captain. Imagine Boycott coming to the Villas these days – he’d want a fortune just to turn up!
Sellers were hard as nails and he stayed to watch all of our first game from the new hut. As one of the opposition was close to fifty I bounced him, hit him flush between the eyes and laid him out. Seeing their star man laid out unnerved the rest and we skittled them to win the game.
After the game Sellers came up to me and prodded me on the shoulder.
“Did you mean to hit him on the head young ‘un?” Well I didn’t know what to say to be honest and I was bricking it.
“I did Sir” was the truth but any ball on the Villas track in those days could kill you.
“Good lad” he smiled and walked away for some more cake. That man was tough as they came.
There were some great characters back in those days. Gilly Potter turned up each week, heat wave or not, in a raccoon coat, all he was short of was a hunting hat and a shotgun. And then there was the City Gent who brought his brolly to the game again oblivious to the weather but he left in a fit of pique after Norman Naylor’s dog, Dandy, ran off with one of his expensive Italian loafers – never for it to be seem again.
Around the ground though, things were changing as developers moved in during the fifties to start to build the houses you see today. What was a collection of farm fields and stone quarries started to become new houses and the old Swain House FC pitch that ran alongside the cricket pitch at the Willow Gardens end was swallowed up.
A lot of the stone for the London Embankment came from around the Villas. In a deal with the developers we traded a strip of land at the Willow Gardens end to get a much bigger piece at the other end which is why you have the short boundary at that end that woman with the beagles keeps getting peppered.
It got a bit better in the sixties when we had a Double Numbers game a bit like the Bonus Ball today which raised enough money – by now the Three Wise Men had passed on – to buy our first petrol mower, an ATCO which we all stood around fascinated by our march into the technological age.
And then Gerald “Geraldo” Taylor hit on a great idea to mow the outfield quicker. We bought some old gangers and Geraldo fixed them to his dad’s car, borrowed allegedly to go courting and drove around the field in ever decreasing circles, this big grey car with a clattering mess of metal and grass cuttings exploding behind it.
Progress even if Mr Taylor Snr had a car permanently covered in grass cuttings.
By this time Granville Lawson was groundsman and I don’t know if it was because he was one-eyed or just rubbish at painting because he painted the lines on the wickets thicker than motorway road markings. One day an umpire commented on how thick these were and Granville, as you know not noted for his diplomacy, fixed his one good eye on the umpire and said “they may be thick but they should help blind umpires like thee lad”’
Granville also opened the batting with little Wilf Binns who also only had one eye so we only had two good eyes to open the batting…no wonder we never got any runs.
Villas was no different from other grounds though and playing at Woodlands old ground was really hairy as the field was surrounded by wheat fields. Granville and me were looking for the ball one day – okay I should have taken somebody with two eyes I know – when the farmer snuck up behind us with his shot gun and chased us out of the field. Imagine that these days they’d have the Riot Squad flying in a flash!
We did try to improve the wicket and dug it up more than once often being surprised with what we found. One year there was a slab of stone that took ten of us to move and eventually lift it out – I even had to help – and we had to break it up by hand.
Then we found an old mining tunnel that runs across the ground and made the mistake of sending Browny down with a torch, only for him to get stuck. We pulled him out and filled it in before anybody found the City Gent’s missing loafer.
By now although we were surrounded by new houses and had a new pavilion ourselves we were still skint from year to year. We didn’t really struggle for players though and there were that many that if you didn’t turn up on practice night you weren’t picked.
Not that anybody practised as we had nowhere to practise save for the rock infested outfield. We just turned up to await smoke from the Selection Committee meeting room to announce the teams for the weekend. The Selection Committee had a dozen members on it and the Main Committee was over twenty so it was no wonder we got now’t done. Still we could talk and talk and talk…
There were loads of players and standards were very good – much better than today. Most Bradford League teams had internationals turning out plus Yorkshire players and could be watched by thousands. The Bradford Central League was also really strong as a result and many Bradford League players finished their days in the league still capable of playing at a really good standard.
We also had a weekend team that had several days out a year with coach trips to faraway places like Redcar, Saltburn and Birstwith. At Birstwith the opposition walked off the pitch to abandon the game in response to the calling of the local church bells at the behest of the local squire who owned the pitch. The buggers had made sure they batted first though.
We sang songs on the way there and songs on the way back. We also had a Half Holiday League team as by the sixties with Ernest as captain we had an influx of postmen. Even the tea lady for these matches – Gladys Betts – was a post woman.
Eventually I took my turn as captain and two games stand out for different reasons. I captained the side when the players went on strike in protest at me bowing to a Committee order to bowl our so-called spinner in those days the legendary Arthur “Arturo” Rooney.
Arturo’s best mate was John “Panto” Panton and together they had approached me to protest at me not bowling them. Truth was Panto had been done for chucking a few weeks’ previous which was laughable as he bowled the slowest stuff you had ever seen. Chuck it? He could barely get it from one end to the other!
Arturo bowled in this baggy sweater big enough to house a family of refugees but he bowled these big “donkey-droppers” that fell from the sky only for a batter to smash them back into the sky. I tell you my Dot could turn a ball more than Arturo!
So we had the other lot about eight down for not a lot and I brought on Arturo with the Committee men watching on. Bang went the first out of the ground followed by several more balls prompting the first ever shutters to be erected over windows around the ground the following week and neighbours reminiscing about the Blitz…had the Luftwaffe finally found the Villas?
Finally I brought back my openers and we bowled them out. When I got back to the dressing room everybody was getting changed – the team had gone on strike – nobody would bat!
Eventually, our keeper, a young lad called Terry Crabtree was persuaded by his dad to open with me. Terry normally batted at seven so this was a big promotion and do you know what..we won by ten wickets! Which was just as well as Arturo and Panto were next in at three and four and if you thought their bowling was bad!
The final disgrace on my watch though was the only time the First team have been rounded up by the police having been bowled out for the lowest ever total at Thornbury of 13.
We were so down we just thought “bugger it” and decided to go out on the ale so we dropped our bags off and got the trolley bus down to Bradford. Later on – don’t tell Dot this one – we took another trolley bus up and out of Bradford and went to a place called the Blue Cat at Guiseley where there were loads of Leeds girls who were a bit different from Bradford lasses.
Unfortunately, our opening bowler, John Pullan, had the most possessive wife you could ever meet – not that John could be bothered with other women as the one he was married to terrified the life out of him.
She ruled him with a rod of iron but remember there were no mobile phones in those days so she called the police! Somehow they tracked us down and, imagine this, told us all to get off home – which we all did without question – and I never ever went to the Blue Cat again.
By the time the seventies came along I was almost into my forties and the new houses had started to bring young kids to the club. Everything was about to start to change faster than ever before…but nobody ever found the City Gent’s loafer.”
5 – LEARNING TO LOSE
“Success consists in going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.” Sir Winston Churchill
It may seem nostalgic and almost akin to looking through rose tinted glasses at days of yesteryear but I firmly believe that the demise of competitive sport and the almost simultaneous surge in the Nanny State, feeding on the moss of political correctness, are inextricably linked.
It’s tempting to sit back and muse in the fashion of “in my day…” and as you can probably tell by now I am no favourite of any politicians, nor the concept of Big Government. Yet show me anybody – bar those whose salaries are fed from it – that will stand up and defend the surge of PC in recent decades.
Politicians from all sides of the fence are culpable; as much as I would like to launch an assault on Liberal Lefties for almost extinguishing competition in favour of rewarding all who simply turn up, the Nasty Tories have been every bit as guilty, selling off sporting fields at record levels, destroying much of what my generation grew up knowing as a sporting youth.
Opportunities available to all, regardless of class or background, have been squeezed and talent denied. In a world that has rarely been as competitive since the days of fleeing from dinosaurs and having to bribe Eve with no more than an apple, how is telling kids that they all deserve a medal as they are all winners every time even remotely fair on them?
Some you win, some you lose, so goes the old adage and never a truer word spoken. You cannot play any sport without the knowledge that you will lose a few games along the way; far better to get used to it and find a way to accept defeat with grace and, equally, to show grace in victory as well.
One of the highlights of the magnificent 2005 Ashes series was England’s victorious Flintoff consoling a crestfallen and beaten Australian Brett Lee at the very point of a historic victory.
Overall, I think that today’s kids are cosseted in a manner that is wholly counter productive and in the process the lines between right and wrong appear to have been erased. Sport mirrors life in so many ways; it teaches you that sometimes even our very best will not be good enough and that the “form book” is never the ultimate arbiter.
To imply that everyone is a winner is utter rubbish. If you have never experienced the misery of losing how can you appreciate what it takes to win?
Haighy’s son Phil, recounted a tale from many years ago from a junior match where Villas had played out a hard-fought cup game against Bingley Congs. As remains the case today, the game was officiated by umpires from both sides; neutral umpires often remain a pipedream and, as a result, skulduggery is alive and well.
With the game going to the final ball and Villas needing an unlikely five just to tie, Phil was at the wicket, rarely having scored five in total in his life. Unbelievably, with his father in the score box watching on in disbelief, the Villas pair, attempting a seemingly pointless and suicidal three, ran a five due to a mad overthrow caused by panic in the opposition, as so often happens in these situations.
Pandemonium broke out as the scorebooks were then checked only to find that Villas had actually won. The opposition umpire, having congratulated the lads on running a five, then claimed they had only run four and young Phil erupted at this blatant cheating.
Haighy – although he should have known how many his lad had run but was clearly napping in the score box – in direct contrast to his reputation at the Villas as a peacemaker, promptly booted his wailing son up the backside, shoved him in the car and declared the game a tie to avoid a mass brawl. After all, he was unlikely to kick anybody’s head in wearing his trademark M&S slippers.
In the modern age, he would have had a fleet of police cars round at his house accompanied by a raft of human rights lawyers and would have been up on a charge of child abuse. By the way, we got stuffed in the replay.
Officiating as I do in junior cricket games it saddens me still to see coaches blatantly cheating in order to “win” the game. It may be a stone dead LBW decision ignored because the opposition star player is the likely victim or, in a tight game, all of a sudden the opposing umpire’s arms start flapping like an eagle giving wide after wide and piling up extra penalty runs for his side.
There exists a largely unwritten rule in the youngest ranks of junior cricket; we tend to avoid giving LBWs as given the paucity of school cricket, the chances are that a kid will only pick a bat up once at week at best. Firing them out without the benefit of Hawkeye technology can be rough justice and in honour of Harry Medley we tend to favour the batter.
Very occasionally it backfires as it did many years ago against a very good Harden junior side playing my not quite so good Villas lot. My opening bowler absolutely nailed the star batter stone dead in front of his stumps, not once, but twice in successive balls.
Worse still my youngster had stuck to a plan we had, convinced we could bowl him as long as he did not get his pads in the way. This was even more “spicy” as it was the son of my football mate, Topper. Reprieved, Young Topper then went on to smash us to all parts giving his team momentum and confidence, leaving my lot thinking I was blind or had taken a “bung”.
Sometimes you just have to make an exception. Years later we were playing a side with an obnoxious little prima-donna opening the opposition batting; he was cocky beyond belief with the strut far beyond that of a thirteen year old learning the game.
So when a ball that Hawkeye may have shown to be missing the proverbial “another set” rapped him on the pads and my bowler shyly appealed, my finger went up quicker than the Space Shuttle. Dubious decision…you bet…Shakoor Rana eat your heart out! No matter as we got stuffed – again – but even the opposition coach smiled this time as the expensive bat and pads were discarded in one monumental strop.
Losing can take many varying forms depending on the sport concerned. For instance, whilst the mental pain of losing is bad enough, I would imagine the physical pain from being smashed to a pulp in a boxing ring or on a rugby field is doubly hard.
Likewise, some defeats can inflict mental and psychological pain alone, especially if you have to face the same side later in the same season they have just drubbed you. Few look forward to the possibility of being humiliated twice, although the glorious unpredictability of sport often produces outcomes you could barely dream of in the return fixture
In football you can attempt to limit the damage, generally because the game has a defined time span and so you boot the ball out of touch at every available opportunity, hopefully into a fast flowing river. Or, you take an eternity to slow down any re-start having collected the ball from the back of your net – again.
Sometimes, when you really are down and out adversity spawns resistance hitherto not seen. One Sunday morning we were 9-1 down and getting a brutal murdering with some twenty minutes to go when it suddenly dawned on us as a unit how bad 10-1 and beyond would look in tomorrow’s paper.
Consequently, for the remainder of the game we played better than we had all season and even snuck a consolation goal; still 9-2 hardly looked a good reason to go buy the local rag.
The same effect is seen in cricket when, often batting second and with the game apparently lost, somebody not known for their batting ability can stride to the wicket and smash it to all parts. Using the technique patented by the hopeless tail-ender – hit one, miss five – this is commonly known in cricket as “teeing off” and generally is great fun so long as you are not the bowling side.
When you see a hopeless and genuine Number 11 come in and start to smash it to all parts, some intentionally, most in blind hope, the initial amusement is suddenly chilled by the reality that this is their day and you just happen to be unlucky to be on the end of it, powerless to change the destiny of the game you had virtually won.
Learning to lose the odd battle does not always mean losing the war. In cricket, it is the dual between batter and bowler and two of the best I have ever seen at the very top level, given my years of watching cricket on television courtesy of a flexible work-life balance with Barclays Bank, involved in both cases the legendary South African fast bowler Allan Donald.
In both instances the opponents were England batters, both high class players but with entirely different styles. Mike Atherton, then England captain, was trying to steer England home to a tricky total of just over 200 to win a crucial test match.
Typically, for an England supporter, this would be no cakewalk against a highly competitive South African bowling attack led by Donald who was one of the fastest bowlers in the world at the time. England had already lost a couple of wickets and the next passage of play would be match defining.
Donald steamed in furiously and Atherton so clearly gloved a ball to the wicketkeeper Mark Boucher that I almost expected him to walk – it was so clearly “out”.
And yet, to the amazement of all, the umpire’s finger remained down – this was before the modern day referral system – but he must have been the only person in the ground that thought Atherton had not gloved it. Donald was incandescent and, after finally being persuaded to go back to his mark, he bowled one of the quickest, most frightening and exhilarating (unless you were Atherton) bowling spells I ever saw.
Both men gave nothing away and the contest could have gone either way; had Atherton succumbed there was no doubt that Donald would have fired South Africa to a vital win. As it was, Atherton, with some good fortune and a hard-bitten refusal to “walk” prevailed on the day and took England to a win.
He had won the key battle of the series and Donald had to accept defeat, although so obviously as a wronged man, which he did with the supreme grace of a top sportsman.
Another Donald confrontation was with my favourite England batter of the time, the pugnacious, highly competitive, left hander Graham Thorpe. Donald had decided to “bounce” Thorpe believing the diminutive, albeit classy, England player had a weakness against the short ball designed to break ribs and skulls.
Thorpe had other ideas and decided on a policy of taking on Donald by hooking and pulling him to all parts. The faster Donald bowled the more outrageous Thorpe’s counter-attacking with boundaries dispatched to all parts.
As furious as it was, it was clear that both men loved the adrenaline fuelled contest even if, with some balls flying past Thorpe’s nose and chin at 90mph plus, it was a curious form of enjoyment. Both of these mini-contests were shaded by the batter but Donald demonstrated how sport teaches you to understand that winning is not possible each time you step on the field – no matter how well you play.
Some days giving it your all as Donald had done so on both occasions without any luck, is not enough. And some days things can go so blatantly against you it can be hard to retain the belief that the game must be respected and your time will surely come again.
So if you are going to play competitive sport get used to the fact that you are going to lose, sometimes in a fashion so humiliating you wonder why you bothered to turn up for it is the glorious unpredictability of sport that mirrors life itself and nothing is ever that clear cut.
How sweet to be driving away from a game you expected to lose convincingly, having taken the spoils of victory against all expectations; there are, I believe, few better feelings in life.
And if I have ever appeared slightly over excited by the odd win then let me take you back to my 14-year-old self, proud skipper for the first time of our Under 14 team and with the records for season 1977 showing played 15, lost 15.
Learning to lose? At that age I had passed my Masters! Which, given some of the football teams I played for in the years to come was very good grounding indeed.
6 – BELDON SPORTS AFC
“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 I know has had a season or more with one of the longest established Sunday morning football teams in Bradford: Beldon Sports AFC. I have no idea when Beldon was formed, although there was a rumour that it was around the Boer War, nor indeed how I ever got involved with them.
I think it is safe to blame my old school pal Michael Pickles, twin brother of Andrew, who was a far better footballer than either of us and so did not have to suffer freezing Sunday mornings perched on the appalling rock-infested, debris-strewn pitches known as Myra Shay.
Looking over and beyond the city centre vista of Bradford, this was what lesser contenders like Michael and I had to endure. For mere Sunday morning journeymen like Michael and I, we played for whoever picked us and we shared that common trait with most amateur footballers, of being both as slow as carthorses and as equally heavy-footed.
It meant that football became a natural way to keep very fit, largely because we spent most 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.
Although perennial dead men seemingly lodged in Division 2B of the Bradford Sunday Alliance League year after year, Beldon had some very good players. In addition, most of them were relative giants especially when set aside Michael and I who were almost anorexic in comparison.
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 as far as Beldon was concerned. 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 Shrek-like centre forward Ray 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 overlooking a grim, Northern, mill town.
As far as Michael and I were concerned the shirts simply hung off us and the wind whistled freely up one arm, across our spindly chests and out the other arm to rejoin the free falling rain or sleet that tended to accompany most Sunday mornings that winter.
Many times I tried to avoid this fate by ignoring 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 our 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 committed.
The sheer unbridled joy of the prospect of a game of football, whatever the weather, could not have been bettered had we passed a few joints around the dressing room. All the working week’s woes were put to one side for ninety minutes of potential glory or, most weekends, another good stuffing.
Special mention must be made of the long serving and much missed manager, come Head Coach, 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 this a few years ago. A shy man of few words he was a very nice bloke and he was the focal point of Beldon if in no danger of being poached by FIFA’s technical department.
Joe’s right hand man for a long time and, indeed more often than not the team’s talisman was Ray, our giant centre forward, a colossus of a man who was a prolific goal scorer. After escaping Myra Shay, we played for many years on a pitch with a significant slope, the dreaded dog-shit covered Idle “Rec”.
Often we played large parts of most games with ten men as if Ray went off on a run he would be almost irretrievable if we were playing down hill as once in flight he was like a jumbo jet trying to stop on a runway. If ever Ray 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.
I don’t think he was a dirty player, just very, very big and occasionally clumsy with it, but totally committed. Unfortunately this meant he attracted the referee’s attention most games albeit many were terrified of him.
Being a gentleman at heart he could often diffuse a situation as the opposition carried yet another flattened team mate away with a show of outstretched hands and an apologetic look or two as the sirens wailed and the ambulance headed to Bradford Royal Infirmary. There were few confrontations as not many were daft enough to take on Ray.
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 talisman, the centre forward. Working backwards from Big Ray and saving the ultimate madness till last, in midfield we had a complementary duo in Stuart Wassell and Arthur Sutcliffe.
Stuart was, in his opinion if nobody else’s, a ball-winning fighter in the mould of those diminutive players over the years such as Nobby Stiles, Alan Ball, David Batty, Paul Scholes or even Bradford’s own local hero Stuart McCall.
In my opinion Stuart was a dirty, psychopathic, ticking time bomb who could rarely get through a game without provoking that Sunday morning ritual: the all-out brawl. I had a theory that most of these were caused by women – honest – as men denied a pre-match “quickie” often turned up to games with far too much pent-up frustration and testosterone. Stuart used most Sundays to explode on the pitch.
It is worth pointing out that for all the spats and stand offs I have seen on a football pitch not once has a punch actually landed. As far as Beldon days were concerned, this was just as well as Stuart would have got flattened well before Big Ray could have rescued him.
His fellow midfielder was Arthur, 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 giving the ball back to the opposition, 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 an attempt at a cross field pass from wing to wing (what he was doing on the wing nobody knew although most likely swigging water to allay the Sunday hangover), was sliced – again- and flew, wind-assisted, into the top corner of the opposition net over an amazed goalkeeper.
Many years later I ended up coaching cricket to his two sons, Tom and Matt, and he still insisted that the scuff marks on his plastic Patrick boots were the inspiration for the Adidas Predator creation years later, which came complete with dimples to make the ball swerve and justify a £120 a pair price tag.
I had no problem making the ball swerve most mornings with endless wild hacks going anywhere but intended and had no need for anything like the Predator boot. The introduction of gaudily coloured boots years later to the Sunday morning player was pointless as they just marked out the owner as a knob and a clear justifiable target for a knee high assault at some point during the game
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, especially when changing next to young boys new to the team – so far the Savile enquiry has not been in contact but my lips are sealed!
I understand Geoff had played at a very good standard at non-league Thackley AFC and, although he still looks the same today, the premature steel grey hair suggested his dotage was not far away. He was exceptional on the ball and 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.
Whatever the level, the best players generally are seconds ahead not because they are quicker in body but in thought. And even if Geoff could not tackle, block or assault a rival forward he could always resort to mental disintegration; a concept stolen from Geoff in later years by the Australian cricket captain, Steve Waugh.
If ever an opposing forward passed Geoff 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. 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, sharper or quicker of tongue.
He was actually a top class non-league footballer again playing at Thackley and, although paid a retainer, he 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 and should really have been sectioned
Given that I will devote a large part of a future chapter to the lunacy of the Sunday morning goalkeeper let me simply acknowledge that Screwy was the nuttiest of the lot. 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, although a scrawny, wiry and pasty-faced man, could make a ball talk. When he ran training sessions they were marvellous for their variety, lunacy and for the lung busting sessions he devised – after all, ball skills for us lot were wasted.
Based on the notion that if we had not learnt these by now – some things never quite stick as most passes to my feet were clear evidence – there was little hope for the future, Screwy, recognising we were just crap, made sure we could just 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 that 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!”
Games of “Keepy Up” where you try to juggle the ball with feet and head were pointless with us. With a combined four arms and four legs Michael and I could barely get past ten before the ball flew off somewhere. Brian Clough would have hung us from the goalposts.
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.
One particular morning saw Screwy at his finest. The opposition forward roared towards the goal, having left Michael and me floundering and had 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 so he was clearly confused. Almost stopping enough for Michael and me to recover, 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 big Ray – who ran over their keeper and scored another.
Cue the ambulance again.
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 and if I ever chance upon the local rag I always like to see them somewhere near the foot of Division 2B.
It sort of 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.
Peter Stephen Jackson says
Hi Steve ,
You knew my grandfather Ernest Jackson and you must of Known my Father Stephen Jackson, he hanged himself 1/6/1992 i was 11 years old, i remember my Dad was for the most part a great dad full of glee and happiness filling the house with silliness and a unique skewed intelligent comedy all of his own making, but at times his moods and actions were very black and self destructive, big ask but i would like some honest third party knowledge of my dad, please get in touch good or bad, and if you draw a blank then Se la-vie, thank you