14 – MAD MEN 2: HOW TO START A WAR
“I’ve had fourteen bookings this season; eight of which were my fault, but seven of which were disputable.” Paul Gascoigne
What makes team sport stand out above all else is the glorious mix of characters often found within dressing rooms, people brought together from so many contrasting backgrounds in pursuit of a common cause.
You might see an accountant changing next to a brickie who may be alongside some poor young lad yet to enter the world of full-time work; this would have been me right up until the age of 22. Life’s rich tapestry so they say.
In every team there is a rich mix of contrasting temperaments ranging from the placid to the volatile; the diplomat to the aggressor. It is the latter who can always be guaranteed to turn a quiet innocuous contest into an all out battle.
Porkas
Whilst cricket has plenty of volatile characters it is often the more contact-based sports where things kick off. Take one character I played with towards the end of my football life, Paul “Porkas” Gartland who had “signed” me after the demise of the White Bear.
The term “signed” may be using some poetic licence. In reality, I went to his house to beg for a team to play for and he was generous enough to allow me to join, taken in by my claims that I was a midfield player, although not for too long.
I had found a new career under Porkas – wide midfield – though God knows why he thought I could play there. The key requirements are pace, ball control and the ability to cross a ball with accuracy – I had none.
Having spent my football career required to simply boot it as far as possible, preferably the River Aire to give Big Al time to recover, this was virgin territory.
Porkas was manager of Undercliffe Cricket Club FC; at last I had been picked by UCC, some twenty five years after our neighbour Fred had passed me his old bat across the garden fence, albeit the wrong sport.
As with Dayks, Porkas too had narrowly missed out on a professional career due to an unlucky injury when a junior with Huddersfield Town FC, then of the old Fourth Division.
He had gone on to play a very good standard of semi-professional football, the highlight being with Emley Town AFC and an appearance at the old Wembley Stadium in the FA Vase Final in 1988.
Supremely fit and built like a truck, he retained a fiercely competitive edge. Whilst he still had control and poise on the ball, pace had started to desert him. So he resorted, as most old pros do, to GBH most Sunday mornings.
The Warthog
Although more than good enough to walk into the team each week, he tended to favour the subs bench in fairness to others. Dayks was also playing for UCCFC alongside Rob Adamson aka The Warthog. Three fat lads in the team would have been overkill.
Rob must have been the most frustrating player ever to come up against; despite being built like a hippo and running like one, he was always a shoo-in every week on the team sheet.
The muddier it got the more delirious he became at the prospect of another Sunday wallowing in local authority shit and whacking several bells out of the opposition.
It did not matter if they were faster and more skilful – most were – once the mud got them there was no escape from The Warthog who generally mauled them like a starving lion with a wildebeest.
Porkas would brood on the touchline, ever impatient to peel off the tracksuit and make his appearance. One morning stands out vividly. We were fairly comfortable at 2-0 up when, with only around twenty minutes to go, he signalled to make the change.
Up until this point the opposition had been docile and, although we had not played well, the result was never in doubt. Soon, there was a fifty-fifty ball to challenge for and Porkas, never likely to shirk a tackle, went straight through this guy and sent him into orbit.
Bedlam ensued as Porkas simply smiled and held his hands up in apology. The opposition went ballistic, a massed ruck ensued involving all bar The Warthog, who took the chance to have a free wallow in the centre circle.
Rotation
Porkas generously restricted his appearances but when we went to the war zones of the inner city estates he was always a “tactical” selection as he clearly relished these games. Not that we did not have other big lads in the team.
One cup tie necessitated a trip to nearby Keighley, a cowboy town on the outskirts of Bradford. The game was ugly to say the least, before it all kicked off midway through the second half.
We had a number of firemen – not good for a team night out given the female weakness for anybody who could get past six rungs on a ladder in a uniform – but with real benefits when in a jam as these lads were handy.
In those days our subs all wore ridiculous padded green suits, bought by Pete Miller, the unofficial CEO of the team, which made them look a cross between the Jolly Green Giant and Michelin Man.
AC
As a fracas broke out one of our subs, the late Andy “AC” Clague, decided to take the matter into his own hands. Suddenly there was a booming voice as AC called out “who wants a piece of me then?”
And then we saw him striding across the pitch arms wafting out at a forty-five degree angle to his body because that’s as close as the suits allowed post inflation. Whether it was fear, shock or just sheer disbelief the brawl was diffused in seconds.
To the end AC had this larger than life persona and with little time left, he still insisted his colleagues wheel him down on a fire service stretcher to the White Bear so he could share another pint or two.
Larger than life, he was simply taken far too soon.
Away Days
Away fixtures could often be challenging. I remember playing Cap & Bells in the middle of Buttershaw estate with the touchline packed with locals wearing the best collection of sheepskin coats this side of Kabul. Each time you went to take a throw in the abuse was unbelievable but it was definitely not the time for any clever, witty retorts.
We once had a game stopped mid-flow on Holme Wood estate as a quad bike ran from corner flag to corner flag although it did little to ruin the playing surface which was normal Bradford Council fare anyway.
A game was postponed one Sunday morning due to wild horses roaming the pitch up at Bierley on the outskirts of Bradford, which, as a few seemed to be raging in my head after the previous night out, was a stroke of pure good fortune.
It was always more likely that the spectators were going to kick something off more than the players. All you needed was a misplaced clearance to take out a pram or two, saving social services a fortune in later years.
De Lacy FC
Quite often though we could all be guilty of pre-judging and never more so than when we first played at The De Lacy, renowned to be one of the toughest pubs in Bradford, long since gone.
We changed in the pub cellar, avoided the broken glass, viewed the bucket on the floor, giving up on the prospect of a warm shower after the game and hopped across the busy Tong Street to watch the horses being led from the pitch.
Managed in his own inimitable style by a hugely likeable nutcase called Keenan, their side also contained a character by the nickname of Chewbacca, named after the Star Wars character as he was a spitting image.
After a competitive and lively game, notable for Dayks playing an ambassadorial role, similarly tormenting their team and placating the voluble supporters, we had as good a post match bit of hospitality ever with warm-hearted, high spirited, generous lads.
That’s sport for you in a nutshell, even though we honestly expected our cars to be gone by the time we left the pub.
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