MY ADVENTURES & MISADVENTURES PLAYING ADULT FOOTBALL...

 My Adventures & Misadventures Playing Adult Football…

First thoughts…

My footballing exploits at college are catalogued elsewhere on this blog but I have to mention at the outset of this article that the only time I ever scored an own-goal was on a Wednesday afternoon at Bulmershe College in Reading. I was playing in centre-defence, our goalie called for a back-pass and from 20 yards I carefully side-footed the ball towards him but he suddenly made a rush forward and missed the ball entirely, so that I could only watch in agony as my pass rolled gently into the net…

I had of course played in an adult game with my 47 year old father in 1967, for he had been asked to fill in for his firm’s Sunday team (the Commercial Union Assurance Company, C.U.A.C.O.) and I went along too, as a rugby playing 17 year old. I played on the right-wing and scored with my right foot early on in the match, whilst my dad assisted a colleague for goal two. C.U.A.C.O. lost the match 5-2 after leading by those two goals.  

After leaving college, I had my future brother-in-law Roly Morris to thank for starting me off in Sunday soccer. He is still 9th on the Hereford (United) all-time goalscoring list and Roly knew Leslie Smith, an ex-Villa and England winger, from his own days at Villa Park in the 1950s. Les ran an electrical business in Witton at that time and his technician Barry managed a football team called Brookvale Olympic, later to be renamed Stagecoach Olympic, run from a pub on the Firs Estate near where Barry lived. We played in Birmingham’s Festival League. 

THE STAGECOACH PUB...

Roly asked if I might join the club, Barry agreed and I turned up one Sunday morning to be a substitute. However, only ten players turned up and so I was thrown in as a midfielder. I was probably fitter than the other players to be fair, having spent three years studying PE at college and thus I started every game from then on and strangely I was never substituted in any game during my career… 

Les Smith had netted 31 times for Villa in 181 games, then played for England once in 1939 and subsequently 13 times during wartime, scoring three goals. He played for Brentford before and after his time at Villa…

Brookvale/Stagecoach Olympic and Mere Green… 

I had played OK for Brookvale but I simply couldn’t score a goal, although I had gone close several times during my first few appearances. Then, one Sunday morning my brother-in-law to be, Roly turned up to watch me play but the referee had failed to turn up and Roly volunteered to officiate the match.  

Within the opening 15 minutes I had scored twice from outside the penalty-box but soon, I was denied a hat-trick by a really unusual and cruel decision from Roly. I had run towards the left byeline and as a defender slid in to attempt a tackle, I got in a cross but it was cleared by the opponents. However, both the defender and I slid across the end-line and out of play. We both jogged back onto the pitch as the ball flew upfield but after rejoining the game, clearly onside, a new passage of play began and the ball was passed to me in the inside-left slot. I turned to fire a 20 yard right-footer past the goalie for my hat-trick but as I was mobbed for netting my third goal, Roly disallowed it because I had “…returned to the field of play without his permission…” What??? That was totally wrong. If every player who slid over a touchline had to ask the referee for permission to rejoin the game, there would be anarchy…

He didn’t want me to score a hat-trick, that much was true… In truth I only ever scored one trio, a few years later on a mud heap in the Hamstead area of Birmingham. I was playing as the number 9, I had already scored twice and then a centre flew in from the left, I moved forward and from a yard out, I allowed myself to fall forwards and nod the ball over the goal-line before sliding into the net too…

PLAYING FOR STAGECOACH.
LOOKS LIKE I'VE JUST GOT UP...

I never attended training sessions, or went to the pub after games, which the other players were happy with because they knew I was fit anyway and of course being a teacher, I wasn’t easily able to commit to evening training. Drinking after the matches was not my thing but I couldn’t afford it either, on the wage I was earning as a teacher at the time. Only once did I attend a team meeting at the Stagecoach, I think to sign on for a new season.

In Sunday football, I preferred to play as an attacking full-back, or as a sweeper but I was most often used as a left-sided midfielder/winger, usually scoring around eight or nine goals per season, often one-on-one with a goalie or from long shots. 

Saints FC & Robin Holder…

However, I was soon 'introduced' to Robin Holder, who was maybe 5 feet 5 inches tall, maybe 5 feet 5 inches round, with maybe the shortest legs I’ve ever seen on a footballer. His bearded face and thinning hair made him appear older than his years, but his enthusiasm for the game of football was undiminished. I was playing for Mere Green FC at that time and we used the Moor Lane Sports Ground in Birmingham, owned by the Lucas Company, for whom I played summer cricket on the same piece of land, which possessed superb drainage. Dutch fans were allowed to camp there during the Euro’ ’96 soccer championships, turning dismal Brum into a bright orange summer. 

IN MERE GREEN KIT...

We were playing against Saints FC, for whom I would sign at the beginning of the following season and we were away from home at Perry Hall playing fields, on one of those huge areas of nearly-grass, upon which a good number of football pitches had been marked out. The Saints team was run by Ken, a tall Aston Old Edwardian, like three or four others in the team but he was indecisive. When I joined, he would say stuff like: “I’d like, I think, you to play, if you don’t mind Pete, perhaps left-midfield today. If that’s OK? Or perhaps you would rather not? What do you think Pete?”  It was all very frustrating. 

Anyway, Robin, the squat, solid, scowling, balding, bearded fellow was keeping goal for Saints, whose normal custodian was absent and Robin was simply unhappy, uncooperative and uncouth. His approach to football could be described by one word: evil.  

I chased an inaccurate through-pass into Saints' penalty-area, inside-left channel and Robin advanced to collect the ball. This would be my introduction to him… As this rugged bundle, bulging in a yellow jersey, one reason perhaps why England goalies stopped wearing them, reached the ball first around the penalty-spot, he scooped up the ball but spotted me. He must have taken an instant dislike to me because he lowered his vast expanse of forehead and dived at me, like a human torpedo, butting me directly on the right hip. I looked down at this boar-like creature scrambling about on the ground and aimed a pitying, quizzical look at his vacant eyes. The referee chose to ignore the incident to my utter and quizzical surprise and failed to award Mere Green a penalty. 

Saints then gained a penalty-kick themselves as the half wore on and Robin was vociferous in his insistence to be allowed to take it, which he wasn't and of course the spot-kick was duly and inexplicably missed. Robin bellowed some indistinguishable abuse at the failure of the penalty-taker, at team-mates in general and of course the whole world. Consequently, when another through-ball was played for me to run onto and was again too heavy, again Robin advanced to collect the errant pass. This time though, one of my team-mates was closer in attendance and sure enough, Robin repeated his missile attack and head-butted my colleague in the stomach. Pole-axed, my team-mate of course won the penalty award and Robin let out a typical tirade of abuse at the rather retiring, ashen-faced referee.  

His language was shocking, trying to explain that the player had run into his head but of course, it was all in vain. He leaned on a goalpost, seething, red-faced, eyes bull-crazy, still mumbling but was eventually easily beaten by the penalty-kick. His reaction was to curse and abuse his team-mates: "That's the f***ing way to take a f***ing penalty, you f***ing load of f***ing w**kers…”

After the break, I nipped in front of him to flick a header from a right-wing centre over his advancing obesity and scored. He  instantly threw his gloves to the turf, refused to play on as goalie and had to be replaced by a tall defender. I shot a low 20 yard shot past the new ‘keeper, some minutes from the end to complete a 5-2 victory. And I actually signed for this weird team…

In the return game at our excellent Moor Lane ground, we won again but Robin was sent off for violent conduct, in his midfield role. When I signed for Saints, it was mainly due to the fact that the guys who ran and played for the team were fellas I remembered from my Grammar School days. Robin and his mate Jack were the exceptions though, who proved the rule of fair play. Jack, looking like someone in his mid-fifties would arrive on a motor-bike and he, like Robin, spoke in a fast, nearly unintelligible Brummie accent, so that my nephews Mart and Paul Ballinger, who also joined Saints, would sit in dressing-rooms with me pre-game, astonished at the ‘conversations’ these two had, with Jack still wearing his helmet. Both would unload the previous night’s beer and curry mix into the generally ‘basic’ lavatories before anyone else could get in to urinate and the smell was usually horrific, generally unbearable. Then they would chat, which went something like this from Robin: 

ME, PAUL, ROLY, BROLL & MART...

"F***ing cold this f***ing morning, isn't it?  F***ing hell, can't f***ing keep my f***ing hands f***ing warm..." 

Jack would nod, they would both laugh at some unintelligible joke or other and we would just look on, incredulous. Now those memorable words were spoken at high speed, like the rush of a gale exploding from between Robin’s buttocks but because we were able to study their Mumbleform during the next few seasons, we sometimes understood what they had almost said… Maybe.

IN SAINTS' KIT...

So it was that when Mart, Paul and their mate Broll went abroad for the first time together, it was decided that Robin should meet them at Birmingham Airport when they returned. Not the real Robin, obviously but a life-sized model of him… 

Steve Perry, who also appeared sometimes for Saints but played for Wolverhampton Casuals Reserves in the West Midlands league too, was dating my niece-in-law Michelle and they came over to my house one evening with Beverley, Michelle’s younger sister for the making of what looked remarkably like a Guy Fawkes ready for the fire on November 5^th. We borrowed a Saints kit and produced the strange figure pictured with this article. 

FASHIONING ROBIN HOLDER'S HEAD...

I had also had a demi-perm on my very straight hair whilst the lads had been away, so not only were they faced by their uncle with an undoubtedly hilarious hairstyle but there was Robin too, propped up between the sculptors.  Needless to say, the lads were in bits when they appeared, all very tanned but they could barely contain themselves… 

ME WITH THAT DEMI-PERM...

Mart’s catchphrase after a break in the sun would be, “I can have a handsome week now…” 

STEVE, ME, BEVERLEY & ROBIN HOLDER ARRIVE AT THE AIRPORT...

When Steve ‘Perrylad’ Perry went on holiday with niece-in-law Michelle for the first time, Mart, Paul and I decided to make his departure memorable. England were travelling to Spain to play at the same time and so I thought it would be a great idea to be his ‘fan club’ and see him off at Birmingham Airport. 

The lads and I manufactured a banner, suggesting that he ‘scored in Spain’, as it were…

NICELY DONE...

We arrived in the departures lounge before Michelle and Steve, so that when they walked in, we dashed forward to pretend to ‘interview’ him and incredibly, the crowds of people parted before us and watched the interview, which I performed seriously and Steve to his credit answered as best he could… 

THE ENGLAND 'STAR' ENJOYS HIS FAME...

Michelle had run off to the toilets in embarrassment…

However, the best moment of the incident happened as we sat with Steve having a cup of tea and laughing about what had occurred… Spurs had a player called Steve Perryman at the time and he was always on the brink of inclusion in the England team, so, Steve Perry could have been confused with the Tottenham player’s name quite easily. Consequently a young lad approached with his dad to ask Steve for his autograph…

It was excruciatingly funny, if a little awkward and the lads and I struggled to keep our faces straight as Steve, to his credit, signed the piece of paper offered to him…

Even funnier was the reaction of the lad’s father, who looked at the signature as they walked away, for it appeared that his reaction was something like, “Who the f*** is that?”

Unforgettable…

Being a goalie, the crazy Saints, Castlehurst Lions, H&C Lifts & Withey Athletic…

Memorable games for me were against Birmingham Deaf, a team of deaf and partially deaf players, as the name suggests.  One was expected to stand still when a referee blew his whistle, so that the opponents knew the game had stopped. No arguing, fighting or irritation in those games but pleasant enough, if off-putting and unhelpful to the flow of the play for both teams. 

Apex Asphalt were the league’s bullies, who kicked the shit out of opponents and always beat us…

My special study in my third college year had been about ‘Goalkeeping Skills’ but I had never played as a goalie in an eleven-a-side match. One morning for Brookvale Olympic, my ambition was realised… We had suffered a poor start to the season but our opponents from a pub in Summer Lane had won all of their games. My ex-wife’s cousin played for this team and we were on a hiding to nothing. Our ‘keeper didn’t turn up and I tentatively volunteered to become the custodian. We won 3-1…  I made a few decent saves and was unlucky with the goal against, for I’d made a diving save to deny one shot but in the ensuing melee, the ball had found its way into my net.  I enjoyed that match…

As Saints players began to dwindle, my nephew Martin came in as goalie, a big lad as a 16/17 year old and his younger brother Paul filled in a couple of times too. He was later to play for Alvechurch’s youth team. Steve, nicknamed Perrylad made his debut in Perry Park too, on the sacred ground that is now the Alexander Stadium. That was a special Sunday morning. It was misty and we were horribly under-strength against a good team. Last minute phone-calls had got Steve there, whilst Mart and Paul’s dad, Vic, in his late forties, had been lying in bed when his phone had rung.  That made 10 players if Vic arrived…

ME & MART, THE MOOR LANE DJs...

After twelve minutes with nine men, we were 3-0 down. And then it happened. As we prepared to restart after the third goal, a grey-haired, wiry footballer appeared out of the mist, alone, like ‘The Ghost of Football Past’ to save this wretched team. It was Vic, an ex-semi-pro player and passably fit. He lived just up the road from the park…

The opposition froze at this remarkable sight, so much so that Perrylad picked up a right-wing pass and streaked clear. He beat a full–back and was sure to score but then he fell over, allowing the ball to roll gently to the waiting goalkeeper. We conceded a fourth goal, heads hung but Vic declared, “Don’t worry lads, it’s only 1-0!” We scowled at him, for no-one had told him it was already 3-0 when he had arrived. I think we lost about 5-0 or 5-1 that day but then Perrylad and Mart began to play regularly and Vic filled in on rare occasions and we managed to finish in mid-table.

ME, SLEEPY VIC & HIS SON MART...

I ended up skippering the team and on one awful day at Perry Hall Playing Fields, we were under-strength. As each of the nine goals flew past our goalkeeper, I shared the kick-off duties with our striker, saying stuff like, “Plan Z this time, mate, OK?” We had been so awful and I had barely been able to affect the game in my new, black boots, the only time I ever wore them because they were so dreadful.

Incredibly we won an undeserved penalty a few minutes from the end of the match. All of my players simply walked back to the middle, leaving me to take the responsibility in my uncomfortable, ill-fitting boots. I had missed the only two penalties I had ever taken, once as an 11 year-old, which the goalkeeper had saved with his feet as he dived the other way (we were 7-0 ahead at the time) and I had missed one in a 5-a-side game at college, saved by the ‘keeper, who had tipped the ball over his crossbar. 

I placed the muddy ball on the spot, stepped away nervously, turned and fired a low shot just inside the right post to wipe away my spot-kick fears…

I never missed another penalty…

I played for Castlehurst Lions next, a useful outfit which played in Castle Bromwich, behind the Arden Hall venue where my parents’ 25th wedding anniversary party had taken place in 1967. I was pleased to play at left-back but in one Coronation League divisional semi-final match, our opponents packed their team with players from their ‘A’ team, which played in the Premier Division. This was really bad form and although we lost I was complimented by a scout from Manchester City, Peter Barnes’ father Ken and I scored from twenty-five yards, when I controlled a right-wing cross on my left thigh and volleyed the falling ball, right-footed, high into the opponents’ net. I really enjoyed that one…

CASTLEHURST LIONS, AROUND 1986-7.
I AM SECOND FROM RIGHT, FRONT ROW, WITH FINE STRIKER JOHN DODD ON THE END...
THE TWO OF US HAD A GOOD RAPPORT ON THE FIELD...

However I was in my late twenties then and too old for Manchester City… Maybe I looked younger… I played for H&C Lifts for a while then played a couple of early season games for another team in Tipton but it was such a long way to travel. Strangely, I scored two goals before I left the Tipton team, Withey Athletic, including one in my final ever game. I was playing at right-back, advanced forward for a left-wing corner and leaned forth to nod the ball just inside the far post. 

Perry Hall, Gressel Lane & Norman Chamberlain Playing Fields…

The following poem about playing football on Perry Hall’s often sodden, puddle-strewn, mud caked and rutted pitches (around fifteen of them, if I recall) sums up how it felt in the 1970s.

Perry Hall Sports Pitches & World War One Duckboards…

A vast area, dull green.

Dark mud

Seemingly constant.

Damp, rutted and soft.

A turn-over for ankles

And after rain, pools appeared,

Which covered boots

To shimmering sheen.

A vast acreage, dire still.

Dingy huts,

Surely condemned.

Damp, shuttered and draughty.

A hell-hole for protagonists

And after rain, puddles appeared,

Which dampened clothes

To shivering chill.

A vast arena, draconian cage.

Dim light,

Scathingly corrupt.

Damp, confined and icy.

A hiding-place for influenza

And after rain, leaks appeared,

Which splattered kit

To communal rage.

Yet from the unique sound

Of studs on wood

When a team was in line

I certainly understood

That I was part

Of a uniformed group

Awaiting the call,

Like an army troop…

A glow of pride

Rifled through my chest,

As I moved in unison 

With the rest…

Maybe that was what

Conscripts might feel,

Whilst marching where

Death’s bell would peal…

A belonging, a need

To be with others,

Where THEY go YOU go,

Into hell with your brothers…

That unique sound 

Of boots on mud:

A target in line

For a rifle’s thud…

Pete Ray

Sunday morning football at Perry Hall playing fields, 

Birmingham. 

PERRY HALL IN SUMMER...

It was always seemingly wet and dismal there. 

The changing rooms were disgraceful but there was something sociable about running out onto one of the far-flung pitches, often 200-300 metres from the shed in which we changed…

The sound and feeling of walking in soccer boots from our changing cage on a wooden floor always put me in mind of WW1 soldiers in boots on duckboards, moving along trenches into hell…

DUCK-BOARDS...

I have always wondered whether mental traumas could be passed down from ancestors to later generations, rather like susceptibility to physical illnesses can be.

If so, then maybe my feelings about walking those changing-room duckboards had something to do with both grandfathers walking WW1 duckboards and their feelings at the time…

THE ORIGINAL PERRY HALL, DEMOLISHED IN 1928...

I was so glad when I shifted to other teams with better pitches to play on but only two of those games played were within walking distance of my parents’ house in Shard End. One happened on a New Year’s Day in Gressel Lane, behind the eatery called Sheldon Hall, which was once a fine mansion in the heydays of Aston and Blakesley Halls. The pitches in Gressel Lane no longer exist, for the area forms part of the River Cole’s nature area, an extension of the Kingfisher Trail. 

THE AILING SHELDON HALL, NOW A POPULAR EATERY...

A family New Year’s party had been held the night before and one of my sisters-in-law had slipped on ice after I had driven her home. Off to hospital she went and I stayed around to make sure she was OK, hence missing most of my sleep. The match was an 11am start and I knew that members of my team would be the worse for wear and some would not even show up. I was proved correct and despite a dangerous icy pitch, we played the fixture and of course lost heavily…

Oddly, the only time I played a competitive match at Shard End’s local park, the Norman Chamberlain Playing Fields was also on a really frosty morning and the game ought not to have been played at all. We were up against the league leaders, whose attack was scoring goals for fun and they had a pair of speedy, dangerous wingers. However, both proved totally ineffective, as they shivered on the flanks, one of whom was being marked by me because I could run quite fast and subsequently we beat them comfortably by 3-0…  

PART OF THE NORMAN CHAMBERLAIN PLAYING FIELDS...

The outdoor 5-a-side tournament at Aston Old Edwardians’ rugby ground…

Aston Old Edwardians put on a five-a-side soccer tournament in the early 1980s on the grass at their Hawthorn Road rugby ground. Games were played on Monday and Friday evenings over a period of one month. Nephews-in-law Martin and Paul played, also niece Michelle’s boyfriend Perrylad but in truth, we had a mediocre set of results, finishing ninth of sixteen teams. I had played in an outfield position but on finals night I was slightly injured and was forced to play as the goalkeeper. A preview of things to come… 

ME SAVING A LOW SHOT ON PLAY-OFF NIGHT...

As usual Martin and Paul had argued vociferously during the month and Paul refused to attend the knock-out stage, preferring instead to go to a Lucas Moor Lane disco, which the rest of us were due at as soon as we were beaten in the competition.

The top team played the bottom team, second played second bottom and so on, meaning we played the team above us in eighth place. We won 1-0. Next were the champions and we beat them 2-1. The runners-up were faced in a semi-final, which we won 1-0. Then in the final, I was beaten by a shot which struck my cross-bar but I rolled out the ball, Perrylad ran onto it and smashed a superb low shot past the opposing keeper and we had won the final, unbelievably…

ENJOYING OUR MOMENT AT THE DISCO...

We arrived at the disco late but with our trophy and Paul just would not believe it. Great evening, though…

In fact, Perrylad scored the best five-a-side goal I’ve ever seen live, in a tournament we failed in, at the old Timberley pub in Castle Bromwich. Our ‘keeper rolled out the ball to me on the half-way line, I controlled it, flicked it up and I heard Perrylad bellow for a pass as he dashed behind me. As the ball dropped, I back-heeled it and turned to see Steve, with no hesitation, volley a tremendous shot from just beyond the half-way line, an effort which didn’t rise above waist-height as it flew past a goalie who didn’t move a muscle. Everyone watching applauded and acknowledged Steve’s marvellous goal…

The 5-a-side days…

My niece-in-law Beverley was engaged to Mark, a big lad from the Black Country, a centre-forward who dealt in insurance company car write-offs. He also played in the Aston Villa Leisure Centre’s Friday five-a-side league, for Withey Athletic. Bev’s best friend’s boyfriend, Darren also played and he was a strong, quick goalscorer with a quicker temper. The goalie, whose wife had given birth to a baby, left the team in mid-season and I was asked to fill in. 

To be honest, I was terrified, as we lost my first game, 5-3 I think but my biggest problem was rolling out the ball to a colleague. This improved the more I played and became used to the players’ movements and I began to enjoy making saves, as we didn’t lose again, finishing around 4^th in the league. We perfected a free-kick routine too, involving my left foot. If we were awarded an indirect free-kick, Darren and a team-mate would stand over the ball in the opponents’ zone and I would sneak forwards along the left barrier. Darren would not look at me, the defenders would be too desperate organising and the ‘keeper simply tried to see what was happening. Darren would then back-heel the ball into space on the left and I would be running onto it to slam an angled shot at goal, scoring on several occasions. 

Mark used to shoot off the side-barrier too, as goalies ran out, the ball rolling into the empty net on many occasions. I was only beaten by that strategy once but I was cruelly and totally embarrassed. My daughter Lucy was struck full in the face by one of Darren’s shots too, recovering well after counting her teeth…

As seasons ended, after nine or ten weeks, we often shared honours with Erdington Raiders, finishing as runners-up a few times and league winners a couple of times too. The top two always qualified for a play–off evening against other evening leagues but we always blew it when it really mattered, until one special night . . .

I was forced to wear gloves after making one of the best saves I’ve ever been lucky enough to produce.  I had raced from goal to close down the angle of an attacker’s shot and was aware that although I had blocked his effort, I’d no idea where the ball had gone. As I sprawled on the tiled floor I noticed the ball bouncing towards my goal and instinctively I scrambled onto my feet and threw myself towards the goalpost, right side. Somehow, as I slid, I clawed the ball out but my fingers smacked against the base of the upright. The small finger on my right hand was hopelessly dislocated and only dropped into place as I drove home, hand on steering wheel…

The following week, the same finger became dislocated again, as a low shot smacked against it and trapped it against the end-boards. This time it was released at East Birmingham Hospital. I always wore gloves after that…

Elbows, hips and knees were constantly bruised or sore but being the goalkeeper was a great position. It helped if you were crazy, it helped if you yelled and it helped if you had scant regard for your own welfare. But what of that superb night?

The play-offs, 16th August 1991...

To be honest, I expected to be home by 8.15 p.m. We need not have been early arriving however, for our quarter-final opponents didn’t show up and we received a bye into the semi-finals. The trouble was, we had to wait quite a while until our first game, going into it cold. 

MY SON JAMIE SAW ME PLAY FOR WITHEY ATHLETIC BUT MY DAUGHTER LUCY WAS OUR NUMBER ONE FAN... 

Our opponents were to be Jagmar, a young, new team and winners of Friday, Division 2.  I was told that a couple of them were youth players at either Paget Rangers or Sutton Coldfield Town. By half-time we were 0-2 behind but as usual the referee did us no favours. He awarded, quite correctly, an indirect free-kick to Jagmar for the ball going over head-height and that was when the trouble began. An opponent, inexplicably, took a direct shot at goal, it struck no-one else on its way towards the net and I allowed it to pass, knowing the shot would not count.

Incredibly, the referee gave a goal. To say I was irritated is an utter understatement. I became busy blocking shots, as we struggled, as usual, in the play offs. However, after the break we pulled back to lead 3-2 before conceding a silly late goal. It looked like extra-time for sure but Darren took possession near the boards on the left, seemed to be jammed in the corner then impossibly, blasted an unstoppable angled shot into Jagmar’s net and as we celebrated, the final whistle blew, almost to the referee’s disdain… Withey Athletic 4-3 Jagmar.

The Final…

Our opponents were the ‘No Hopers’ and included Craig Kirkham, who had been at Firs Junior School when I taught there. He was just getting into the soccer team when I had left.  A lively player, he led his team into this tremendous match. It was the best five-a-side game I have ever been involved in.  We scored first but by half time we were 3-1 down. I had also made a number of saves and although I had conceded three goals, I was pleased, sore and breathless. 

After the break we fought back to 3-3, led 4-3, were pulled back to parity, led 5-4 but were pegged back again. It was a tremendous game, shots flying in from all angles. I had made so many saves and blocks that I was almost dizzy, stopping one effort with my face and as the final whistle blew, it was to be extra-time. Just five minutes were left and Darren struck three times with marvellous goals as the ‘No-hopers’ continued to blast away at my goal. By luck, I got in the way time and again. As the referee blew for full-time, the elation was tremendous…  Withey Athletic 8 No Hopers 5.

MARK, DARREN, ME, STUART & OUR PLAYER/MANAGER NEIL... 

The trophies were awarded to us by the Birmingham Bullets’ basketball coach and he kindly praised my efforts in goals. The team gave me the shield to take home but it was my pleasure to know that I was part of a great team that night, the only time we ever won the play-offs…

EX-ALBION FULL-BACK BRENDON BATSON WAS PRESENT AT THE AWARDS CEREMONY TOO.
I APPEAR TO BE ASLEEP...

My last game at the Aston Villa Leisure Centre curtailed my playing career because I had dived right to claw a shot away but felt something twinge in my upper right arm. I knew I had damaged it but my GP reckoned that I had a frozen shoulder, which I waited months for an operation upon. I had kept exercising my arms however but after the surgery, the surgeon revealed that I hadn’t had a frozen shoulder at all but a torn tendon…

I had been transferred to Erdington Raiders by then, a team which included forward Nigel Byfield, who was ex-Villa and Stoke striker Darren Byfield's younger brother... The Raiders were really good and I was the only white guy in the team...  

I was exasperated though… I had known that I had picked up the injury whilst playing as a goalkeeper and so, another operation was offered to me, some months later. The morning after the surgery, a physiotherapist came to see me, asked me to sit on the bed and try to lift my injured arm a few centimetres vertically. I lifted it right up to alongside my ear…

She exclaimed that I couldn’t do that… So, I lowered it and lifted it a few centimetres, just to please her… She was well amused. I used to drive to the hospital, place my arm in its sling, see the doctor, who assured me that I could drive my car in three more weeks, then walk back to the parking lot, remove the sling and drive home… 

I also guested several times for another team, which played on Tuesday evenings, run by my nephew-in-law Robert Nash. I played in the outfield for his crew and skippered the team, scoring a few goals too, but in one of the matches I received my only footballing caution… 

One of the two referees at the Leisure Centre was tall, gangly and disinterested, which made life tough for the players who suffered from his whims. In one game, the opposition players kicked us with relish, instead of the ball and I asked the referee, respectfully, if he would keep an eye on the foul play. He simply drew out a yellow card…

I wrote a letter of complaint to the Leisure Centre and was never fined… 

Managing the Museum’s football team, 1989-90…

Under the shadow of Aston Hall upon the rough sandy surface in Aston Park, the newly formed Museum soccer team played its inaugural game against a Castlehurst Lions XI. 

The Museum players fought hard early on through Scot Ken Reilly, Steve Perry and my bellowing of instructions to a makeshift and unfit team. We managed to keep the pressure on the fitter and more experienced Lions outfit for a while. My dad side-footed the Lions ahead, Perry equalised with a penalty but the decision of ‘hands’ against Ballinger seemed harsh. Two weeks after his 65th birthday, my father restored the Lions’ lead with a curling header then completed a remarkable hat-trick, drawing out ‘keeper Mark Butler and stroking home a neat shot, following a pass by my cousin Dave Eastwood.

After the break, the Museum, urged on by a good-natured crowd, reduced the deficit when my neighbour Martin Hill cashed in upon a goalkeeping error to drive a goal from 15 yards. My 25 yard drive was touched over his crossbar by the Lions goalie, who also saved from Perry and Reilly. From 70 minutes onwards, the Museum team ran out of steam and the speedy Lions’ forward Dodd was put clear five times to create a scoreline of 8-2, which seemed tough on the Museum. 

Despite the efforts of John Needle, goalie Butler and myself, John Dodd’s excellent finishing had decided the outcome.

We were being sponsored by Pertemps, courtesy of the father of two girls I had taught at Firs Junior School. Sharon and Michelle’s dad John also invited me to watch Wolves from an executive box a couple of times and I was pleased to accept. The food there was excellent… He would stop en route to Molyneux to go through a car-wash, so that when the vehicle was parked at the ground, it looked really clean and slick, something Pertemps insisted upon. 

John was a quiet and unassuming guy but when I visited his home one time, after his daughters had finished secondary school, he dumbfounded me by telling me that he had once been one half of a comedy duo, which performed in theatres and clubs…

However, one evening as he had been making up, he had suffered stage fright, left the theatre and never performed as a comedian again… Instead, he became a lightweight, masked wrestler! Again, I was totally shocked…  

John encouraged Pertemps to sponsor my Museum team and sure enough, we had a logo and a full kit, in Aldershot FC colours. We looked really smart too…

We lost a couple of ‘pre-season’ games which had offered me the chance to look at some of the Museum’s staff who were keen to play but it became clear that I would have to use folks I knew during the Council’s league and cup competitions…

THE MUSEUM TEAM FOR ONE OF OUR MATCHES,
INCLUDING MART (BACK ROW FAR LEFT), ALSO NIGEL RICHARDS, A SEMI-PRO PLAYER (4TH FROM LEFT, BACK ROW), THEN MARK (BEV'S BOYFRIEND) AND MY EXCELLENT NEIGHBOUR MARTIN HILL.
STEVE PERRY IS FRONT ROW, FAR LEFT,THEN PAUL (NEXT TO STEVE), THEN STUART FROM 5-A-SIDE, ME & DARREN... 

We beat Birmingham Polytechnic twice in the league, 11-0 and 6-0, whilst the Libraries were defeated 3-2 and 2-0. We won 4-2 v Housing, 6-4 v  the University and 4-1 v East Birmingham College. Although we had defeated Bournville College 5-0 earlier in the season, we turned up for the final game of the season with only nine men but even so we dominated the match, yet went a goal behind to the College’s only attack. We did equalise but I headed over the crossbar from a good position in the final moments which would have seen us win the game deservedly…

I scored one of the goals in the 6-0 win v the Poly, from out on the right-wing but basically I played wherever we were short. I was a midfielder once, the goalie once but usually right or left-back, as the availability of players demanded.

We won the league, the cup competition was never finished but we were presented with no trophy or medals, for the organiser of the league had absconded with all of the subscription money before the season ended, having purchased no prizes. 

He had worked for Birmingham Council too…   

Playing for the Aston Villa Old Stars’ team…

The aforementioned Roly Morris, who became my brother-in-law, played regularly for the Villa Old Stars’ team and one Sunday afternoon, they were playing at Coleshill, in one of their charity matches. Steve Perry and I had already played for our Sunday teams during the morning but Roly asked us to play for the Old Stars in the afternoon, as they were short. 

We did the running, the Old Stars did the passing and scoring and we won easily…

ME & STEVE: VILLA OLD STARS FOR A DAY...

I really liked that day…