13- WHITE BEAR FC
“It is not whether you get knocked down, it is whether you get up.” Vince Lombardi
My earliest recollections of the Bear are as a pioneer of twenty four hour drinking. Not that café culture was coming fast simply because of a few rotting and wonky garden tables; but 24/7 living had come to Idle.
By this time, John and Pearl had left the Swing Gate and a sad, slow decline had set in; it was time to move on. We had effectively been institutionalised and turning us out onto the streets with nowhere to call home seemed rough justice.
After brief flirtations with “up market” pubs we decided that down market was where we belonged and where better than The Bear. In those days the pub was run by a lovely old Irish couple named Billy and Pat. She ruled Billy with an iron rod, not that Billy seemed to notice as he was permanently pissed.
Each time Pat was out of eyesight he could be seen having a secretive “nip” but she almost always caught him out eventually and some of the bollockings he got were comical although he was rarely deterred.
With Billy’s flourishing reputation as a nightclub promoter, there were times we left the Bear so late we may as well have stayed for breakfast. It was obvious that we should end our association with the Swing and so White Bear FC was born.
Sunday Brunch
Pat welcomed us with enthusiasm and we had no problem negotiating the terms of our new franchise; two trays of chips and a platter of bread and butter after every game. We politely declined her “Coddle”, a greasy mix of who knew what, masquerading as Irish stew.
One day when the game was called off early, I popped down around 9am to tell Pat not to bother with the culinary fare of the day only to be amazed to find the pub full.
The local Watmoughs print works, having just clocked off the night shift, were enjoying morning beers. Truly this was continental drinking at its finest.
In the years since those heady double-winning days at the Swing, despite having had several successful seasons, the team was starting to break up and we were desperately in need of new blood.
Bagpuss had been sectioned at the local psychiatric unit; Trotsky, began plotting a Communist overthrow of the Town Hall; Dayks had also left for pastures new and the average age of the team was rapidly pushing North.
Shut That Gate!
We were extremely fortunate to be approached by three great lads who knew us from being in opposition and were all looking for a new challenge. We could assure them that playing for the White Bear was definitely going to be a challenge.
We got a new keeper – fondly called Fat Sam – a slightly more rotund, if calmer and more genial version of Bagpuss. Colin “Shut That Gate” Dunne, our new right back, was a smaller, balder and much more vicious version of Trotsky. Finally, we got Alan “Twinkle Toes” Thackeray who had poise on the ball which was wasted on us as we rarely had it.
Fat Sam was great to have around even though he maintained the tradition of most Sunday morning keepers by regularly aiding and abetting the opposition without need for a bribe.
He always looked crestfallen after yet another ball had found its way under his belly, through his legs or between outstretched arms and into the net. You simply could not get mad at him though.
Colin was a runaway train once he went on one of his favoured overlapping runs, ball or no ball. One day, he flew off again, oblivious to the fact that the ball was the other side of the field and expecting his team mate to find him with a pin point sixty yard pass.
Few of us could manage an accurate six yard pass. At the bottom of the field there was a gate, generally for the flow of ambulances each Sunday, and a voice was heard to pipe up “shut that gate, he’ll never come back!”
You could also always rely on Colin to encourage the traditional Sunday morning mass brawl; suffering from the common ailment of little man’s syndrome, he needed to fight.
Twinkle Toes
Alan’s arrival put an end to the aspirations for a regular berth for the lovable Andy “Tubbs” Taylor who had given our regular striker, “DJ” Boycey, a real good contest for the annual prize of WWF (World’s Worst Footballer).
This title had been held by Winky, largely uncontested, for many seasons until his recent retirement although he still occupied the right touchline devotedly each week from the other side of the white line, regularly goading the opposition.
Boycey had started as Toppers understudy. If it was not bad enough being kept out of the team by a chain-smoking ghost, he bravely persisted and eventually we let him in the team, mainly because he had a gorgeous girlfriend called Ruth.
He regularly turned up to games with newly waxed and spray tanned physique. If he liked the odd Clinique face pack, the same could not be said for the Sunday mud; in truth, he was a headless chicken when it came to football.
However, he had a monster long throw, regularly launching the ball from the touchline to the penalty area. Our tactic here was to move our two fat lads – Big Al and Dayks – like Sherman tanks into the six yard box. It was our best, indeed, probably only offensive tactic and occasionally it worked.
The Great Tubbs Taylor
Although often our substitute, Tubbs was worth his inclusion in the squad as a dressing room raconteur alone. His many tales contained considerable wit and imagination, rivalling Enid Blyton. A strapping six-footer, he was injury-prone and ran like the Straw Man from the Wizard of Oz.
His career was ended with a snap, crackle and pop of his hamstring as he attempted one mazy dribble too many; it was off to an arranged marriage never to be seen or heard of again.
The dressing room was much the worse off for no more Tales from the Great Man but at the same time another character was taking his place.
Youth Policy
We had tried in vain to introduce youth but it was becoming clear that younger generations did not seem to share our passions of freezing cold mud, the occasional Sunday morning brawl and Pat’s greasy chips.
Eventually, one young lad found the allure, at least of the chips, too hard to refuse and so we recruited an almost tailor made replacement for Dayks. Jarvo helped with our new diversity policy – as he put it himself “the token black in the team” – and was the same size shirt as Dayks.
He was extremely likeable and had a sublime and God given natural talent that should not have been wasted with us. To see someone with that much talent waste it was hard to stomach but ability and talent are only a part of what you need.
And Now The End Is Nigh
It was the beginning of the end for many of the remaining stalwarts of the Swing Gate days. Now we had the slowest back line in the league and Mr Blobby to lead the front line. If Dayks had accused us of playing deep in the days of the Swing, by this time we were virtually forming a defensive line, camping out on Fat Sam’s goal line.
Those days were though, the very essence of amateur sport; it is not all about winning so perhaps that is just as well as one year we went a whole season without one, if many a laugh along the way.
We simply played for the camaraderie, the banter and the reliability of seeing Colin pick the biggest opposition player out to assault each week.
Of course we all paid to play and, annually, the Council found a way to hike up the cost of the annual bag of grass seed they allegedly slung on our pitch as part of their progressive approach to sport in the community.
Match fees barely paid for the referee and for a couple of years we did a summer 10km charity “fun” run in aid jointly of a local old people’s home, splitting the proceeds with the home.
The first year had been notable for several of us being passed on the final mile by an octogenarian who turned around to run backwards and encourage us to “keep going lads you can do it”.
We looked for him at the finishing line to take him round the back and batter him to save the nursing home fees but we were told he had set off to do the course again.
Humbled by this I decided that I would train hard for the following year’s run, usually in June, and so for three months I ran to the gym, did a circuit training class and ran back the two miles.
I had not factored in scoring a century at cricket the previous day necessitating a gallon of ale at the Bear and a Khyber “special” down the village. If it could get any worse well it did as I awoke to a raging hot sun.
Stood on the starting line, surrounded by dozens of bright and perky athletes I looked around for somewhere to throw up. It was the longest 10km of my life but there was no sign of the octogenarian.
We had all come to the end of the line.
Leave a Reply