The Geoff Bray Story

I could never claim to be a friend of Geoff Bray’s, since we only ever spoke once, but I’m the only person in the world who can tell this story...

December 1966: England were champions of the world. I was an Upbury Manor first year and football mad.

On a grey afternoon there was gloom in my heart when 1A1 traipsed into Mister Berger’s classroom for Science, the last lesson of the day. Standing behind the classroom door, Mister Berger was in conversation with Head Boy Geoff Bray, a rising star in the football world. What was he doing in our classroom I wondered. Then something wonderful happened; Mister Berger left.

‘Just read your library books or get on with some homework,’ said Geoff, as he strolled across the classroom to make himself comfortable at the teacher’s desk by the window.

Though Eddie Adams and I flopped our school library books on our desks, we sensibly decided to get some homework done, only my head was still buzzing from Mister Berger’s departure and I found it hard to concentrate. I observed how dark it was getting outside. Then I observed how the rest of the class seemed to be absorbed in their work and how relaxed our minder appeared, sitting nonchalantly behind Mister Berger’s desk. A peaceful, scholarly atmosphere existed until an ink spatter suddenly appeared on the pages of my exercise book.

Eddie apologised. An accident, he said. It surely was, but a quick flick of my fountain pen made us even anyway. Eddie wasn’t happy. He gave my exercise book another spattering, which I duly returned with interest. Then Eddie spattered me across the mush and an ink fight broke out.

Alerted by the commotion, our stand-in teacher sprang to his feet and came to investigate.

‘What’s going on? You two, stand up. Come here… and bring your library books with you.’

Eddie led the way. With a heavy heart I followed.

Little Eddie had ink on the left side of his face. Tall gangly me had ink on the right. We must have looked a sorry sight as we stood in front of the class.

‘Well, well, what shall we do with these two?’ our minder asked, loud and invitingly, which raised a titter round the classroom.

Sensing a show up, I squirmed. Sure enough, comments about Spotty Muldoon and Spotted Dick turned titters into shrieks of laughter. The class loved it, not least the fawning females on the front row, who lapped it up.

‘Let’s see your book,’ Geoff said to Eddie.

After a cursory glance through the pages of a book about gardening, he gave it back to Eddie and instructed him to read to the class – a doddle for Eddie, who’d quickly established himself as an orator in assembly and drama.

The certain knowledge that I’d next filled me with dread. It didn’t matter that five years of living in Gillingham had taken the edge off my Northern accent, I knew exactly what coming having heard it all before from people who rhymed grass with arse.

After calling time on Eddie’s boring monologue, our minder’s eyes lit up when he saw my book.

 ‘Ah, this is more like it! I can’t wait to hear this!’ After a quick flick through its pages he returned the book for me to read, then leaned back in his chair.

I’d no sooner got the first sentence out when I heard my words coming back at me in a mock northern accent. With laughter ringing around the classroom, our head boy continued his mimicry, much to the delight of the girls on the front row. Conscious of my burning cheeks, I kept my head down and muddled along, focusing on the words of Jimmy Greaves as I battled through the hysteria. Even Eddie was laughing, the rotten sod.

After what seemed like an age the ordeal ended with Eddie and me being sent to get cleaned up ready for home time. Mercifully, there was no further punishment, for which I was truly grateful.

Spring 1967: On a bright Saturday morning I was in the Upbury under12s rugby team that lost at the new Gillingham Tech on Pump Lane. On the final whistle some of us hurried to a nearby football pitch to watch the remaining few minutes of a match in which Geoff Bray played for us, with Dick Tydeman playing for the Tech.

Summer 1967: a sunny lunchtime: strolling across the lower school field after a rare excursion to the tuck shop, a commotion in the distance alerted me to something happening at the perimeter fence by the tennis courts. Curiosity drew me so far, until I saw girls coming away in tears.

One of the girls said a dog had been kicked to death on the Lines and that Geoff Bray had gone out there to remonstrate with whoever did it. Sickened at what I’d heard, I backtracked to the playground.

There was further trouble after school that afternoon, though I knew nothing of it until next morning. It was said that the villain of the piece had confronted Geoff at the upper school gate. In the fight that followed one of the teacher’s got involved too. If the account I heard is true, he didn't just break it up. A sad and sorry episode, certainly, but Geoff and the teacher came out of it with a lot of credit.

Summer 1967: When it was announced in assembly that Geoff was leaving Upbury to become an apprentice footballer at Gillingham Football Club, the applause he received from pupils and teachers alike was loud and enthusiastic. Geoff Bray wasn’t just our head boy; he was a school icon. Hugely impressed, I drew a line under the ink incident and clapped as loudly as anyone.

By late 1969 I was a regular at Priestfield Stadium to see the first team and the reserves. Geoff was established in the reserves by then, where he’d been joined by Graham Knight, another Upbury old boy. 

Geoff’s career appeared to be well on track at the beginning of the 1970/71 season, when he was playing against the big boys on some very famous grounds.

In a night match against Peterborough Reserves I saw Geoff score a hat trick in 5-3 win, the third goal being the most memorable. Following a goalmouth scramble at the Rainham End the ball looped up in the air and dropped in the six yard box. Directly below it and with his back to goal, Geoff went for a spectacular overhead kick. Whether he got nudged at the vital moment, or whether he simply mistimed it I couldn’t say, but he was already flat on his back when the ball caught his shin and bobbled over the line. As spectacular overhead kicks go it remains the least spectacular overhead kick I’ve ever seen, but a goal is a goal and a hat trick is a hat trick, and it earned the applause of a sparse crowd that included Mister Carroll, standing behind that goal.

With Geoff scoring regularly in the reserves, a full league debut couldn’t be far away, I believed, but it wasn’t to be. He was released without ever playing for the first team. When a small piece in the Evening Post said Gillingham had let him go, it brought a sad end to a dream lived for many.

Autumn 1972: I was up north, staying with relatives on a holiday timed to coincide with three Manchester United home games, one being Bobby Charlton’s testimonial match against Celtic. Three games became four when a drawn match at Oxford in a league cup tie required a replay at Old Trafford – a replay that slotted nicely into my holiday fortnight.

I got to the ground early for the Oxford game and treated myself to a seat in the stand, where I settled down to read the programme; teams, player profiles, manager’s comments, match statistics, the lot.

As kick off neared the team changes were announced. I didn’t bat an eye when I heard the United team changes, but I sat up in astonishment when I heard the single change to the Oxford side.

‘For Oxford United… number nine… Geoff Bray.’

What?!

I wondered if I’d heard right. I checked the programme again. Oxford team picture: nothing. Oxford player profiles: nothing. Then the name Geoff Bray flashed up on the electronic scoreboard, confirming the change.

Bloody hell

Moments later, our old head boy ran out at Old Trafford with the Oxford team.

Stunned, I struggled to take in what I was seeing. In a surreal moment I stared across the sacred turf, not to gaze in wonder at the holy trinity of Law, Best and Charlton, but to gaze in wonder at the number nine in the yellow shirt. I didn’t even know Geoff was Oxford. Four members of Manchester United’s European Cup winning side were on the pitch but I couldn’t take my disbelieving eyes off the golden boy from Upbury Manor.

United took the lead through Ian Moore (known as Storey-Moore in his Nottingham Forest days). The first of many, I thought, against a side from a lower division, but with the score still at 1-0, Oxford broke away down the left wing. I saw no danger as a cross came in at around chest height, until the Oxford number nine dived to meet the ball with a bullet header that flew past Alex Stepney into the net. Goal! The scoreboard confirmed the scorer; Geoff Bray.

For the first and only time in my life I had a deep urge to leap up and cheer an opposition goal. Part of me wanted to shout ‘that’s Geoff Bray our old head boy – he once took the piss out of me!’ and bask in some kind of reflected glory. It’s probably as well that the more sensible part of me saved me a possible punch up the hooter by keeping my Upbury pride suppressed.

In the end United were comfortable winners, winning 3-1 with George Best scoring twice. George’s goals are long forgotten, but this one won’t ever be…

Geoff Bray scores against Manchester United at Old Trafford (click to enlarge)

Though he went on to have a successful spell at Swansea, I suspect that goal at Old Trafford was the high spot of Geoff’s football career. Many years later it gave me great satisfaction to let him know he wasn’t the only Upbury boy at Old Trafford that night.