WEA – Creative Writing Course – Week 3
Sporting Success!
Football was my life. It had always been so.
The first ever story I wrote, at school, was about football, complete with a drawing of myself performing an overhead bicycle kick. I played football at every opportunity: before school; during morning break; straight after school dinner; during afternoon break; as soon as I returned home from school; and every day off school. There’s even a photo of me kicking a football aged 6 months old, the age I started to walk. In fact, there’s one of me kicking a ball in my baby walker before that time! My dad used to take me to the park, from a very early age and I remember playing in Jarrow Park bandstand, just before we moved house to Hedworth. I was three years old. I remember him constantly asking groups of lads to play against the two of us. He’d play in goal/defence and as soon as he won the ball he’d pass it to me so that I’d be one on one with the keeper and successive groups of kids were constantly shocked at how well and how hard I could kick the ball. I also recall playing a match aged 6, on a school field in Jarrow, with lads five years older than me. It was memorable for me, because a number of family members came to watch, including my dad’s granda’, who was a Sunderland fan, cousin of Sunderland’s goalkeeper, Jimmy Thorpe, the one that was killed during a match. His face was a picture as I dribbled past player after player, scoring a hat trick. I’ll never forget that!
I was at my happiest with a ball at my feet. No one could catch me and no one could touch me, even the bullies, most of whom were rubbish. They disliked me for it, but I didn’t care during the games. A number of people kept commenting that I was destined for a great future in football. I agreed. Apart from a brief moment, when I wanted to be a coal delivery man, I saw my future as Newcastle’s greatest number 9, playing for England and appearing on Question Of Sport on a regular basis. There was a lad called Al, who I’d play football with on a Sunday, when I was at my nana’s and he was visiting his Auntie Vera and Uncle Paddy, who lived out the back, who had the same dream, but he’d never get there.
Music was John Miles’ first love. Football, most certainly, was mine!
When I first went to St. Joseph’s RC Comprehensive, in 1980, I had a crisis of confidence. Anxiety, as I now understand it to be, was creeping into my life and had been around for approximately 4 years, but my football hadn’t been tainted by it. Until now. I was taken off during the first trial match, after ten minutes and the coach simply told me to go and get changed. Was that it? I didn’t know what I’d done wrong and worried that this was the beginning of the end. A couple more trials took place, but I kept getting taken off. I was so down and you can’t believe how bad I felt about it. We were told that the school team would be posted on the notice board. I didn’t even want to look, as I knew I’d be disappointed. Head down, I decided to go and confirm the inevitable, but before I got anywhere near the noticeboard a lad from my year came towards me, beaming and spoke a few words.
Did I hear him correctly?
There was a milling of bodies around the piece of foolscap paper, pinned up for all to see. As I tried to get close enough to read the names listed on it, 1-11 plus a couple of substitutes, I was strangely aware that I was being continually patted on the back by numerous hands.
I looked down the list. Written next to the number 11, the left wing position, was my name, then next to that, in brackets, was the word ‘Captain’.
I didn’t understand, but I also didn’t care. My face beamed so much the cars along Crawley Avenue must have been distracted by it, as I ran home to tell me dad. I felt absolutely fantastic!
Mr. Findlay, the teacher who’d picked the team, told me that he wanted me to play on the left wing, because I was fast, but that he didn’t think I’d be a centre forward, number 9, because I was too small. I wasn’t bothered. He also told me that he’d brought me off early during the trials, because he knew after a few minutes that I was going to be in the team and the way I’d organised the other players showed him that I’d also be the captain, despite being stuck out on the wing.
We had some great players in our team, with by far the best, to me, being Sparky Brown, the left back. One of the best players I’d known for a few years, John Gowens, hadn’t tried very much during the trials, maybe thinking he was guaranteed a place. He wasn’t and I was shocked.
Our first match was against St. Wilfred’s from South Shields, who had some excellent players, including my old best pal from junior school, Peter Gonzalves and a lad called Chris Hutchinson. We won 5-0 and I scored three. A hat-trick. I couldn’t have been happier that morning. despite winning our first few games very easily, Mr. Findlay came to me and explained that he wasn’t very happy with a couple of the players and did I know anyone I thought should be included. I mentioned two names: Anth Shepherd, who was a prolific goalscorer and the captain from his junior team, St. James’ School, the aforementioned John Gowens. Mr. Findlay said that he’d have a word with the sports teachers and see what they had to say. The next game, against Durham Johnstone, in the county cup, Anth was made a sub, but John was put in the team and was there to stay.
We won the league, unbeaten, that season, only dropping points in one game and I was top goalscorer, despite being one of the smallest and being stuck out on the wing. That was a match I’d missed, having stupidly caught measles from my cousin. Mr. Findlay had made John Gowens captain on that day, due to my absence and told me, on my return, that he’d like him to stay as such, with me the deputy, as John played in the centre of the team and could organise everything much better than myself, being stuck out on the wing. Of course, I was disappointed, but I agreed with him and expressed as much. I thought that John should have been captain from the start, but was proud of my time and a 100% record. The team that had drawn with us were also the team we were about to play in the county cup final – Clegwell – our rival team from Hebburn. The Proddy Dogs!
Leslie’s Stadium, well, Sports Ground, but it felt like a stadium, was packed. Emerging from the changing rooms, it seemed like everyone who’d ever attended both schools, plus most people from our town, were there to watch. It was four and five deep all around the pitch, with ropes employed to keep them away from the playing surface. I felt butterflies going crazy in my stomach, so I summoned up my inner reptile, to vanquish them. Checking the long laces, wrapped around my boots, Kevin Keegan ‘Patrick’ boots, no less, the best ever Christmas present ever, then making sure my shorts were on properly, I was set and ready. The expectation was high and the noise seemed deafening. I was certain that the crowd would kick off, due to the long rivalry, but it seemed good natured. I couldn’t worry about that. I had to concentrate on the game.
We started well, but it was a very cagey match and Clegwell were difficult to break down, having a couple of great players in midfield. Kev Caizley, being one of them. Just after half time they forced a corner and it became apparent to me that they hadn’t read the script for the day, because their centre half had the temerity to score a headed goal from it! The crowd went crazy, well half of the crowd, anyway. Our keeper, Joe Miller, touched the ball for the first time, picking it out of the net!
We were behind. We hadn’t gone behind all season.
I felt sick, but knew what we had to do and knew that my chance would come.
Clegwell defended throughout the second half like demons, but we were controlling the game. Mickey Kiely was playing well down the right wing, but Peter Bent, our centre forward was always well marked. Shaun Richardson, was more than equal to the Clegwell midfield and Joe Donaghy stopped every attack they had, along with John Gowens. I felt that I was destined to get through, especially with the passes Mark Brown was providing, but I kept getting fouled, often before the ball was anywhere near. They knew!
Kicking up the slope, we forced a corner, with five minutes to go and I could picture, in my mind’s eye, what was going to happen. Instead of getting amongst it, in the box, I decided to hang around the D, knowing that I’d just have a token marker on me. Mickey Kiely swept the ball over, with the crowd’s anxiety at a peak, yelps, cries and gasps coming from all around, but it was headed out by their big stupid centre half. He’d fallen into my trap!
Suddenly, everything seemed to slow down and the sounds of the whole world were placed on mute. Everything was a haze around me, like a vignette photograph, with a deathly silence in my head. I was in full concentration mode and it often felt like I could slow down time, thinking of exactly what I was going to do with the football, whilst everyone else was static, on hold. I kept my eyes on the ball, steadied myself on my right leg, slightly shifting my weight to that side, then swept my left foot, up and round to meet the centre of the ball with my laces, just very slightly to the left of my boot, where the eye holes were placed. I caught it perfectly and the ball flew sweetly, unopposed, into the top left hand corner of the net, giving their goalie absolutely no chance of saving it.
The silence was broken by a huge “Woooaaahhh!” Followed by roaring and cheering from the crowd, most of whom who’d lost control of their bodies, jumping wildly around the place. I didn’t want to look at anyone and didn’t want to celebrate. I pushed my teammates aside as they tried to mob me, pointing at the ball. We hadn’t much time and needed to get it back on the half way line for the restart.
I spoke with the referee and he informed me, looking at his watch, that there were only two minutes left. I didn’t want extra time and a possible replay. I wanted the match won, then and there.
Clegwell kicked off and sprung, ready to pounce, I darted into the centre circle to pinch the ball, as it was kicked back to their centre midfielder. This was something I employed in every match, because teams never seemed ready for it. I knew I was explosively fast up to 30 yards, but most of my speed came in the first five. I’d read that Bobby Charlton used to do sprints over 5 to 30 yard distances, again and again, so that he could gain space on the pitch, making it easier to receive the ball, or move with it. My dad used to come to the park with me, to train me doing this, again and again. I stretched out my short, stubbly big toe and managed to sneak the ball away from the Clegwell player, who was convinced I must have moved before the ball was kicked. I hadn’t and as he complained to the referee, gesticulating and trying to grab me, at the same time. He didn’t even come close. I was away!
The difficult part already done, I weaved and bobbed, bobbed and weaved through every challenge, jumping over flailing legs aimed for mine. I had made it into the edge of the box, 18 yards away from glory. I glanced up at the goalkeeper, who didn’t seem to know if he should come out to meet me, or stick closer to his line. He started to move forward, so I picked my spot and then looked back at the football, seemingly grinning back at me, waiting to be part of a great moment.
All of a sudden I noticed their full back coming in from the right side of me, sliding to take my legs from under me. I felt a pain in my right ankle and my body crumpled to the turf. I heard a whistle amongst the gasps.
Penalty!
You know what happened next. Hero of the hour!
I could tell you now about being carried off the pitch by hundreds of school kids, taking over my boots and strip for souvenirs, like Jairzinho, Tostäo and Pelé after winning the 1970 World Cup for Brazil! I could, but it didn’t happen.
What really happened was….
Everything I’ve said was true, up until the point where I scored the left foot volley, to equalize against Clegwell. It all happened, but my shot hit the bar and went out for a goal kick. I didn’t sneak the ball from the restart, because the match hadn’t been restarted. However, following the goal kick, we won the ball back and it fell to Sparky Brown at left back. I started running into the centre, in between the two defenders and an inch perfect pass placed the ball just in front of me. I controlled the ball and beat the challenge of the centre half, who’d tried to bring me down. I was through on goal, entering the box, as mentioned, with the full back bringing me down. I did go down, but stumbled back up, with the keeper racing out at me. Off balance I managed to claw my left foot at the ball, which hadn’t moved away from me, because the defender was nowhere near it. However, partly due to being fouled, maybe due to the slope of the pitch, or, perhaps, because a butterfly had flapped it’s wings on the other side of the earth, causing a slight change in air pressure around me, at that precise moment. Whatever the reason, the ball didn’t find its way into the net, but flew over the crossbar and into the crowd behind. The ref then told me that he was going to blow for a penalty, but I started to get up, so he didn’t! If he’d had the whistle to his lips, ready in anticipation of the heinous foul, he would have blown immediately, but the time that it took for him to move the whistle, tied with an old boot lace around his wrist, held between his forefinger and thumb, to his mouth, was just too long and I’d argue that not hearing the whistle, with the keeper bearing down on me, like Goliath over Davy, I decided to unleash my sling shot, but ultimately failed.
We’d lost for the first time.
I felt really sick.
We went on to win the league every year, for five years, losing only one match against Whitburn 0-1. Peter Connolly, who’d become our goalkeeper that year, was missing, along with myself and John Gowens, as Peter and I were on an expedition with the Air Training Corps and John was away captaining England schoolboys. I also heard that Joe, the old first choice keeper, had turned up without his boots and played in his dad’s slip on shoes, in the rain! We played them in the cup the following week, with a full compliment of players and destroyed them 10-0. The only other matches we lost were cup finals, but we won a few, as well, the last being against Clegwell 3-1, again at Leslie’s “Stadium”. I scored and was awarded man of the match, but the goal of the game was a 40 yard screamer by Sparky Brown. I tore the full back a new backside in that first half and they put Kev Caizley to double up against me in the second half, but it was one of those games where everything went right.
I never made it into a professional team. I had interest from Notts County and Bobby Robson’s Ipswich in the year after that first season, but I had a serious head injury int he summer of 1983 and it took me a long while to get back to top form. By then it was too late. Maybe I just wasn’t good enough. I had trials for Sunderland, when I was 17, with them putting me at left back. I thought I’d played well coming forward, overlapping down the wing, again and again, getting some cracking crosses over and scoring a couple of decent goals, but, defensively, I wasn’t great and after a week of looking at me, they decided against taking me on. At least that solved my dilemma concerning signing for Newcastle’s arch rivals!
As for the other lads mentioned, Chris Hutchinson, Kev Caizley and and Hutch’s younger brother, Mickey, all signed for Newcastle, along with another Clegwell player, whose name escapes me. None of them made it further than the reserves, but that alone was a great achievement. John Gowens, as mentioned earlier, was captain of England Schoolboys, going on to sign for Coventry City, captaining them to the FA Youth Cup in the same year they won the FA Cup, but he had to stop playing soon after, due to injury. A couple of other lads I played with, especially from Clegwell, signed for other teams, including Notts County and Sunderland, but the best of them all, Mark Brown, signed for York City, when he was 16, playing for the first team in the old 3rd division. Sadly, his career was ended by injury, as well.
As for Al, the lad who used to play with me on a Sunday afternoon, I lost touch with him and have no idea what became of him.
I remember his full name, though: Alan Shearer
So, if anyone knows anyone of that name, it would be nice to know what he’s up to!
Davy Craig 