March 1968

I was quietly thrilled when Stanley Slaughter made me his first pick for a game of football one dinnertime. I believed there was no higher accolade. Or it just meant better players had gone for dinner.

Few could match Paul Parker for pace and determination. Give Paul the ball and he’d take off on a darting run that would end with a blistering shot.

Clive Ward had a marvellous left foot, only he hogged the ball for ages, sending his team mates potty. If swerving left, left and left didn’t get him clear of a defender, he’d just spin around and do it again.

Trevor Hickson was strong, fast and tenacious. If getting past him was hard, staying past him was harder still. Others, such as Alan Botten, Stephen Svensen, Peter Rowswell, Kim Weobley, Martyn Hooper and Phil Jones were useful. And so was Martin Waterman, as a large obstacle in goal.

Stanley Slaughter didn’t have Paul’s speed, Clive’s balance or Trevor’s tenacity. With legs like a pair of sausages, Stan was a bit of a plodder but for all round ability, few could touch him. He could pass, tackle and dribble better than most and head a ball better than anyone. I didn’t see many kids twist in mid-air to power a header in a required direction but Stan did it all the time, even with a tennis ball on a sloping playground.

We laughed at the bravado of Stan and Trevor when they said they’d take us all on, but they had the last laugh. Challenging for everything in game played with Martin Waterman in a shared goal, they claimed every little nick and deflection off our goal-bound shots as goals for them and somehow managed to win. From thereon Stan and Trevor v The Rest became a regular thing and we played many a closely contested sequel.

The whereabouts of Brian Lack and Raymond Wright during these games was a mystery. They were easily the best sportsmen in our year, yet they rarely featured in these playground matches. On the rare occasions they put in an appearance they didn’t so much join in as take over. Their version of ‘us two against you lot’ came with menace. If tactical tripping and a bit of manhandling didn’t swing things their way, a knee to the thigh most certainly did. Individually, Brian and Raymond were good lads, but the sum of their parts was another matter and as partners in mischief, they excelled. Since most of us had been on the wrong end of a Chinese burn, a dead limb or a twisted nipple at one time or other, we had good reason to be wary when they were around. Another trick of Brian’s was to charge up behind an unsuspecting victim and snatch them under the bum, then run them across the playground on their tiptoes. He had a lot of fun with that one.

What the terrible twosome did when they weren’t terrorising the playground is anyone’s guess. Perhaps they had business elsewhere. Perhaps they had other skills to hone. Perhaps it was a combination of both, as it was on the day they were caught on the roof above the girls’ showers, heading for the skylight. 

There was no mystery about Brian’s whereabouts on the afternoon of Wednesday March 20^th. He was sitting next to me at a rugby match, in the main stand, no less, at Twickenham, watching the England v Wales schoolboy International.

Wales won, comfortably, in a match that was far from exciting. Rugby didn’t have the thrill of football and Twickenham didn’t have the magic of Wembley. All in all the occasion left me underwhelmed. The only bit of excitement on a dull afternoon came when someone at the back of the stand threw a tobacco tin that clonked David Roper on the back of the head. A small first year, David was shaken and upset by the incident. Everyone in our party sympathised, even Brian. Sitting directly in front of David, he turned around to offer his own words of consolation.

‘Cor! I’m glad that hit you mate or it would’ve hit me.’

I was near the front of the coach when we left Twickenham. We’d not long set off when Graham Knight strode down the aisle to have a word with Mister Fisk, whose lack of surprise suggested Graham’s appearance had been expected.

Graham was a fifth year pupil and Upbury’s next rising star. Though he lacked Geoff Bray’s status and charisma, he was a talented footballer in his own right and tipped for big things. Wondering what was going on, I watched closely.

After a quick word with the driver, Mister Fisk resumed his chat with Graham. I knew they were talking football when Chelsea got mentioned. Then the coach stopped.

‘This do you?’ asked Mister Fisk.

Graham nodded. The coach door opened.

As Graham, in a light coloured raincoat, disappeared into the gloom, the coach pulled away without him.

‘Wow! He’s going watching Chelsea.’

I was hugely impressed, and a little envious. And just a little concerned, too. The thought of being alone in London, especially at night, was scary. I listened to the football scores on the wireless that evening with greater interest. Chelsea drew 0-0 with Leeds.

At Twydall Green shops… on a rainy Saturday afternoon, I pulled up sharply when a television caught my eye in Skinners’ window. A Welsh rugby international was being shown and for the next twenty minutes, I stood under the shop’s canopy, marvelling at the green pitch and the famous red shirts on the first colour telly I’d seen.