Sporting Glories

On the annual plod around the Lines I finished nineteenth, the high spot of a cross country record that had improved year by year. Though pleased to have made the top twenty, the achievement had little to do with grit and determination, and much to do with a rising number of cross country rebels. For whatever reasons the amount of lads that weaselled out of it – good runners amongst them – hit a peak in the fourth year. No matter, nineteenth was creditable and I returned to gym number one happy, if slightly disappointed, that a shifty glance through the door of gym number two – where the girls were changing – went unrewarded for the fourth year running.

In a game of football on the top field, played in a PE lesson, I dashed to the goal line as Phil Jones dribbled the ball around our goalkeeper – a wonderful piece of anticipation that put me right on the spot to head Phil’s thumping shot over the bar and earn praise from Mister Charlesworth… if only it had happened that way.

‘Well done Ly…’

The words died on Mister Charlesworth’s lips when, to the delight of a whooping Phil, the ball screamed into roof of the net. In a moment of cowardice I’d seen the ball coming lace first and ducked at the last second.

I redeemed myself in a game of rugby. Dropping on a loose ball was never a good idea but with something to prove, I did and took the consequences. After getting trampled and raked, and then buried under a pile of bodies, I got up with my chest stinging. Some sneaky bugger had taken the opportunity to gouge me with their fingernails, drawing blood.

‘I know who did it,’ said Raymond Wright, staring accusingly at the opposition. ‘Leave him to me, I’ll sort him out.’

I had my suspicions too, but I didn’t mind leaving it to Raymond. If he said he’d sort him out, then he surely did. Raymond was good at sorting people out.

Another person to suffer on the rugby field was the unnamed number eight whose job it was to bind the pack on the day Kevin Garlick, in the second row, chose to play on after his shorts got ripped. As Kevin wore nothing underneath, the unnamed number eight got a nasty shock at the next scrum when the back of his hand came into contact with Kevin’s sweaty plums. ‘You should have heard him scream,’ Kev laughed.

Wednesday 19^th November 1969. Gillingham beat Southend in an FA Cup replay. After a desperately poor start to the season for the Gills, a win of any kind was welcome. And Paul and I were there to see it.

Paul and I watched most games at Priestfield Stadium that season, sometimes with Clive, and usually from the Redfern Avenue/Rainham End corner. Besides affording a good view, it was handy for the pies at the stall at the back of the terrace. And on Saturday afternoons, ours was the first corner on the circuit for a chap – a Tommy Docherty lookalike – that flogged papers early in the second half, meaning we found out the half time scores quicker that most. By pouncing to ask someone who’d just bought a paper, of course. 

Someone else who favoured that corner of the ground was an old chap in a flat cap who loved to shout ‘Come on the naval port!’ The reaction of people in earshot was always the same; a frown, a smirk, a shake of the head. Poor old sod.