More Sunday morning football tales interspersed with a rare bit of success too. As ever some great lads to share the mud baths with.
9 – SWING GATE FC
“The spirit, the will to win and the will to excel – these are the things that endure and these are the qualities that are so much more important than any of the events that occasion them.”
Vince Lombardi
These Sunday mornings playing football with some of the best lads I ever knew – and still do – are hard to better. And The Swing Gate pub was never the same again although it is good to see it still alive and well; good luck to you all there.
This was back when Wham ruled supreme, pastel coloured jackets were yet to be consigned to the fancy dress basket and hangovers did not last three days.
The pub was run by a charismatic couple. John was the coolest old bloke with a ponytail I ever knew and Pearl was simply a nice lady. They ruled in a very firm and fair manner.
John did what all good landlords should do by employing some great looking barmaids; if you are going to collapse in a heap then surely better to be surrounded by angels?
I found The Swing in the early 1980s; by the middle of the decade it was my local even though it was a two mile walk. We always walked as taxis equated to wasted beer money; Yorkshire boys know the colour of money.
Trial
The football team was set up in 1986 by a group of lads who knew each other from the local St James’ Church. I already knew a few of the lads and at this time I was playing for Mad Fred.
He managed the nearby Cricketers Arms team on their Sunday crusades to start battles all over Bradford in the name of football. Imagine the Ricky Tomlinson football manager character on acid and you have Mad Fred, the sort of character Sundays we all about.
The Swing team had a bar on “outsiders” and, as there was no way I was going to join a church choir or pretend to blow a trumpet to get a game of footie, the best approach I devised was to drink myself into the team, hoping to bond with the “coaching” staff.
And so my pre-season revolved around Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday at The Swing. This was also the summer I moved into my first house; this was not good.
Kick Off
I had shown promise and was duly admitted to the squad, liver failure permitting. I was selected on the bench for the first game of the new season, although it was not clear where I was to slot in or whose liver would fail before mine to get me in the team.
In common with most sporting teams, everybody had a nickname. Our star player by a country mile was Steve “Dayks” Daykin who could have made “pro” but opted for a career in the Fire Service, the fattest lad ever to go up a ladder.
If ever we were in need of a goal to turn a game there were not many times he failed us but expecting him to pass the ball was totally naïve. As far as I was concerned, he just knew I was crap so would only have to go get it back again after I lost it.
One game, after he had gone on what was clearly a mazy run just to amuse himself, leaving several defenders on their backsides, he found me up alongside him, in space, with only the keeper to beat. He smiled, kept the ball and, having finished taunting the defenders whacked it into the top corner.
My Lucky Break – Sorry Vidal!
So it was that one warm August morning in 1987 I was on the bench – well stood up actually as there is never a bench – waiting to impress not knowing when I would get my chance.
Our centre half, Darren “Vidal” Haynes – named after the famous hairdresser, ironically because his hair had all but vanished – went for a ball, heard a crack, let out a yelp and that was it. One broken ankle and I’m being asked by Big Al “can you play centre half?”
Sunday morning footballers should adhere to certain minimum “standards” before they have to play centre half. Most certainly, they should have already broken their nose, have free dental cover, be at least six foot tall and not be afraid of big, shiny black men. Had this been the case I would not have had to play in this position for the most of the rest of my career.
On I went to replace Vidal, who was being stretchered off and about to be taken to the local hell hole, Bradford Royal Infirmary, one step up on a Sunday from Kabul General.
My New Partner
I was playing alongside Big Al who operated the Sweeper role which basically meant that I went for the ball when it was aerial, got smashed to pieces by somebody far bigger and Big Al “swept” up first the ball and then me.
I was a human target for some tattooed monster reeking of ale and curry. Sunday afternoons meant lying in state on the sofa waiting for pain relief at The Swing a few hours later.
Big Al was one of the laziest men I have ever played with, albeit another very skillful fat lad. He was always the last to come out of the changing rooms, especially if the dreaded nets had to be put up.
Invariably this meant being perched on a team-mates shoulders with biting winds numbing fingers trying to hook netting up with Big Al on his big fat arse in the warm changing room. He liked a beer as we all did and it was good to play alongside him.
When I was not getting smashed senseless by the opposition No 9 there was some great banter and you needed that in a force nine gale on the top of Queensbury in mid-December.
Care In The Community
There were other great characters such as our psychotic left-back Jon “Trotsky” Whitehead, founder member of The Swing Gate Communist Party and Nigel “Winky” Winckles, the slowest footballer on the planet.
Winky played full back and one Sunday was trying manfully to mark an opposition winger who was much too quick for him – they all were. Unbeknown to us, the lad had a false arm and so, when he flew past Winky one too many times, Winky instinctively grabbed his arm only for it to come off in his hand.
From that day on he never touched another opponent and adopted a growl if he was chasing a player, based on the Hill Street Blues character, Sgt Belko. Off would speed the opponent only to hear a growling noise from behind coming from a little breathless balding man. Totally confused, the opponent would generally muff his cross or simply stop all together; it was classic Sunday morning madness.
Alongside Dayks we had Paul “Casper” Topham, as pale as Casper the Friendly Ghost; a more unlikely athlete you would not see. Scrawny and bespectacled, he would generally rival Big Al for last man out of the changing rooms, simply to ensure the wind and rain did not blow his pre-match fag out. And yet he was a feisty, competitive and awkward proposition for the opposition scoring more than his fair share of goals.
At the other end of the pitch we had Martin “The Cat” Binns who, in keeping with the necessary credentials to be a goalkeeper, had more than a few screws loose; more of him later.
Winners
The season ended in a glorious triumph which I would never better with a league and cup double. We won the cup at nearby Eccleshill United FC, playing in front of a crowd of a few hundred and never have I been so nervous in my life. How the hell they play in front over 80,000 is beyond me.
The team got by that day on sheer spirit, honest endeavour and a bit of the usual star quality from the fat lad up front in the ever expanding shirt.
Inevitably it was back to The Swing and our signature tune – Swing Win Again – a crude take on the Bee Gees “You Win Again”. Trotsky put half the team up at his place, a couple of us sleeping in his twin boys’ bunk beds clutching our medals.
It was the best of times for a bunch of mostly ordinary Sunday morning footballers battling the English winter, dreadful municipal facilities and, occasionally, psychotic opponents.
The bonus of a few trophies was simply icing on a richly enjoyed cake and those days at The Swing were as good as it gets.
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