Football Mad

The World Cup ignited my interest in football, but the 1966/67 season kicked off with my club allegiance undecided. As a Bolton boy my first thought was for the Wanderers but media coverage, in Kent, of a Lancashire team on the slide was practically non-existent, which brought the Manchester teams into consideration as the nearest clubs to home. Thus, a picture of City captain Tony Book and an assortment of Manchester United pictures supplemented the one measly Bolton Wanderers newspaper cutting on my bedroom wall. United were box office and with England heroes Bobby Charlton and Nobby Stiles in the side, pictures and newspaper cuttings were plentiful and before long my bedroom wall was plastered with United stuff. And when I ran out of space, the Wanderers cutting and the City picture got scrapped.

28^th September 1966. Gillingham’s big cup match at Arsenal was the talk of the dinner table. The two sides had played and drawn twice already and a second replay was taking place that evening. I didn’t pay that much attention, but I felt for my subdued fellow diners, next day, when I heard Gillingham got thumped 5-0.

 

Along with many others we Twydall boys attended trials for the under 12s football team. Stan was quick to nominate himself as centre forward. Clive was a nippy inside left, Paul a speedy right winger; each had a good chance of making it. Me, I was just hopeful but I was able to step forward when Mister McDouall asked if anyone knew what a chest trap was. He tossed the ball in the air; I cushioned it on my chest. Thank you very much.

The first trial took place on the pitch at the top of the field, after school. My side were attacking down the slope when Stan chased a pass into a corner.

‘Pass it Slaughter!’ Mister McDouall shouted. ‘Pass it!’ he shouted again, as Stan got the better of two defenders on the touchline.

‘Pass it Slaughter!’ Mister McDouall bellowed as Stan wriggled past a third defender and closed in on goal. ‘Slaughter! You’ll never score from…’

Stan cut inside…

…and burst out laughing as he blasted the ball into the net. We laughed all the way back to the centre spot for the restart. Not so Mister McDouall, though he did allow himself a little smile.

A second trial wasn’t quite so enjoyable. On a chilly day the wind was biting when we took to the field. Keen to get into the game as quickly as possible, straight from the kick off I charged down an attempted long ball and took the full thwack of a heavy lace-up football on my inner thigh. It felt like I’d been hit with a cannonball. It looked like it too. The big purple circle that appeared was still there when I showered afterwards. 

In spite of that the trials went fairly well. I hadn’t covered myself in glory but I remained hopeful of making the school team. Once we were all changed and seated, Mister McDouall named the side to play at Walderslade that weekend. Clive Ward, sitting beside me, was in with a chance and Stan was a certainty. Another certainty was Brian Lack; besides being a good player he was the only one who could get a goal kick anywhere near the halfway line. And Martyn Hooper would have to be in goal, because he was the only one that owned a goalie’s top. 

‘Goalkeeper: Hooper. Right Back: Lynch…’

I was in, as were Paul and Stan. And so was Clive, whose glee upon hearing his name called was priceless. Elated, he turned to me and flung his arms out. For a moment I thought he was going to hug me, till he remembered we didn’t do things like that. Instead, we offered each other congratulations.

The four Twydall boys had made it, but Paul and I were left with a problem when Stan and Clive said they’d be going to the match on their bikes. Neither of us knew where Walderslade was, but Raymond Wright did and he knew how to get there.

Come Saturday morning me and Paul strolled up to Rainham Mark, crossed the top road and went in search of Marshall Road – an adventure in itself, even before we met up with Raymond and caught the bus to Walderslade. The highlight of the bus ride came when overtaking two breathless cyclists while ascending a steep hill. From kneeling positions on the back seat we laughed and jeered, and gave V signs to the cyclists as we passed by, but Clive and Stan were too busy huffing and puffing to offer anything but pained grins.

The one disappointment of representing the school was our kit. It wasn’t just bad, it was awful. Quartered shirts in faded red and grey, with tails and buttoned cuffs and collars did nothing for morale. As for these…

Worn over a pair of ordinary socks these thick woolly oversocks itched like hell on bare legs. Wearing proper football socks underneath solved the problem and made my legs look nice and chunky from the knees down. Pity then, that they made my legs look a bloody sight skinnier from the knees up.

Walderslade v Upbury Manor

The opposition held the advantage from the moment they ran out in modern sky blue strip. In a one sided first half a kid called Charlie Donohue ran rings round us. We just couldn’t get the ball off him. My best moment came when, from right back, I chipped the ball across our penalty area to Trevor Hickson at left back. A perfectly weighted curling pass, I thought, as it sailed over the head of the onrushing centre forward.

‘Lynch! Never pass across your own penalty area. Don’t ever do that again!’ bellowed an apoplectic Mister McDouall from the touchline.

Half time: Walderslade 3 Upbury Manor 0

We did better in the second half. Perhaps it was the half time oranges. We pulled a couple of goals back but in truth, we were well beaten by a better side.

Full time: Walderslade 3 Upbury Manor 2

‘Three cheers for Walderslade!’ shouted Barry Roots, our captain, as we trooped off the field. ‘Hip hip…’

So we gave three cheers, as demanded by etiquette. Good ones, as demanded by Mister McDouall.

Our result was one of several announced after assembly on Monday morning. Compared to some, ours was quite respectable. A small consolation.