There must be few sports as basic as football. The clue’s in
the name; all you need is a foot and a ball. I daresay I, like millions of boys
before and since, was introduced to the pastime before I could walk. The sphere
in question may have been made of fluffy fur, leather or plastic, perhaps a toy
small enough for me to hold in a pushchair or a beach ball bigger than I was.
With Dad in attendance, having some form of kickabout was an intrinsic part of
my childhood for as long as I can remember – and beyond.
I was very fortunate in that I grew up in a bungalow
boasting a long lawn with ample grass on which to fashion a makeshift football
– or indeed cricket - pitch. As I matured from, in school parlance, infant to
junior, I took advantage of the ‘triangle’, a sizeable expanse of land in the
middle of our small village estate where the local boys could recreate Cup
Finals or play ‘three and in’, whereby after scoring three goals, you’d have to
take in turn in goal. There were two trees at each end of the triangular
greensward which served as single goalposts, the pairs completed – in
time-honoured fashion - by discarded jumpers or anoraks. Shades of the Fast Show's Ron Manager - "Jumpers for goalposts. Isn't it? Mmmmm"!
The Ingrave school playground or, in the summer months, a
small patch of grass adjacent to the climbing frame and swings, also witnessed
some earnest games at lunchtimes. On such occasions I could develop not only
rudimentary skills but also the all-important notion of teamwork. One winter -
I’d have been about eight - I participated in weekly school football practice
under the tutelage of Mr Peacock. I realised I was, if not one of the,
quickest, strongest or most skilful in my age group, then at least one of the
more useful all-rounders. I could spot a pass, perhaps manage to dribble past a
defender or two and even score a goal or two. Then, for some reason I have
forgotten, or conveniently buried in the deepest dungeon of my memory bank, I
missed a few Friday sessions. Wary of incurring Mr Peacock’s wrath, I was too
scared to venture back. When I noticed who Mr P picked for the school team, I
realised with a rueful sigh: that should have been me.
When I moved to Billericay at the age of nine, I found
myself in one of the largest junior schools in Essex. I was nowhere near the
standard required to play for Buttsbury Juniors. I’d blown it. I never
represented this or any subsequent school at football. My ‘career’ was over
before it had started.
It didn’t kill off my enthusiasm for the sport, though. I
still wrung enjoyment of playing football, even on the coldest, muddiest
mornings or hottest summer lunch breaks at school, and Dad and I would play in
our quiet cul-de-sac of Marks Close, in the park on a beach or with one or both
football-mad uncles. Catherine was considerably less enamoured of the game and
my football-related ill-fortune was magnified by the fact that all six of my
cousins were also girls.
In my teens, I was fortuitously granted a belated
opportunity to be part of a genuine team, albeit six-a-side. Some boys in
neighbouring streets had found themselves a player short and the captain, whose
father taught at school with mine, must have in desperation thought of the
small ginger kid in Marks Close. So began my Crescent Crushers era.
My introduction to Crusher-hood was mixed. I found that the
player I was replacing, because his family were leaving the area, was amazing.
He had talent. I didn’t. How could I fill his boots? As things turned out,
whilst none of us were particularly good individual players, we somehow gelled
as a team. Although I couldn’t tackle to save my life, and would be left for
dead by any opponent with a modicum of pace, I turned into a half-decent
goal-scoring midfielder: Essex’s answer to Michel Platini or Johan Neeskens. Well,
maybe not quite in that class.
We were one of the better sides in our scratch league and
even triumphed in a cup final. Though one was promised, I never received my
medal. Not that I’m bitter, or anything. Not much! Oddly, the end of the association came in the wake of another
Cup tie we won. Drawn against a team of kids a few years younger, it was a
ludicrous mismatch. Even I was taller than all our opponents. The factor which
led me to leave was our striker’s over-eager determination to leave stud marks
on anyone who came close, taking our team name a bit too literally. I felt
ashamed being in the same side. Walking away in my boots I knew it was over. I felt – well, crushed. While I bathed in the warm waters of
euphoric victory, the sporting pacifist in me was never far from the surface.
Unlike Mr Mourinho and his acolytes, I have no desire to ‘win ugly’; I‘d rather
not play at all.
At university I hardly participated in any sport, not really fitting in
with the boozy football ‘set’. However, a few years later I joined my local
Rotaract club. Amongst many other activities, they had a monthly sports hall booking for five-a-side, so I
dabbled in some semi-competitive footie for a while. I quickly discovered that
I was somewhat out of my depth. At Billericay we had some pretty decent
players. At first I was fit enough at least to run around for almost an hour
although I was rubbish on the ball. Later on, my engine would swiftly splutter
and conk out within minutes. In my thirties, should a game of football appear
on the calendar all I could do was channel my Dad’s genes and try my luck in
goal. I was less of a liability between the posts and, armed with a rudimentary
positioning sense, I might even make a save or two.
So, in terms of Mike Smith on the pitch, that was that. Of
course, I have always followed the sport by reading, watching, listening and
know I can slip into almost any footie-based conversation without causing
myself cringeworthy embarrassment. Just because I believe winning isn’t
everything doesn’t mean I’m unable to feel passion for the ‘beautiful game’.
It’s not essential to be a partisan supporter. Sometimes you have to sit back
and simply admire a pass, a save, a shot, a team performance, even if it’s your
team on the receiving end. Read on for my reminiscences of favourite teams,
matches, tournaments, players and managers, as well as those who have driven me up the wall with fury or
frustration. Given a certain event in Russia, it seems appropriate to begin with the Mondial, la Coupe de Monde,.... the World Cup.
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