Stuck in the Mud

It’s December 30th 1967.

After a summer of sunshine and promise, the winter has been drab and wet. Christmas has been more Gene Kelly than Bing Crosby and the skies have been grey with rain and steely blue with frost.

Gigg Lane, Bury, might have been designed by LS Lowry – the splintering wood and black corrugated iron of the stadium only brightened by the blue and white vertical stripes painted on the front of the stand at the back of the Enclosure.

Around the ground are neat streets – a level above the often imagined dingy “back to backs” of industrial northern England, tidily kept, front steps painted and swept, the odd car here and there.

I’m fifteen and this is the first season I’ve been following Southport to away games in the Third Division, four years after the lifelong bug of attending live football first attacked me at their Haig Avenue ground.

We don’t know it, but they are in the middle of the best period in their history. They operate in the National League North now, having lost their league status in 1978, but I still go down to watch them when I can.

What Southport gave me as a teenager was a lifelong love of “going to the match” and, incidentally, for a lad born in Edinburgh, a fair knowledge of the geography of the north of England: Bury, Blackburn, Oldham, Stockport, Barrow, Hull, Wigan, Tranmere, Chester, Chesterfield. At times, going to away games was like a seminar on the industrial revolution and its long term effects.

But this pre-Hogmanay Saturday is cold and damp. There is no segregation, and we find ourselves at the front of the Manchester Rd Terrace with a rumbustious section of Shakers’ supporters behind us. They don’t much like the Southport travelling support – seeing us as effete seasiders from a posh town on the coast. Like many of Southport’s residents, they don’t really see the point of football in a place like that. Waiting for kick off, we drink our sweetened tea and keep our heads down in a crowd just shy of 8000.

Neverthess, the game is engaging, with an end to end rhythm on a gluepot of a pitch, and a surprising amount of technical skill amid the fierce physical battle.

It’s 1-1 at half time, and anyone could win the game.

Shortly after the game re-starts, I’m hit a glancing blow from a bottle hurled from behind us. Most games at this level in those days were peaceful, with a lot of camaraderie between opposing supporters, but occasionally you would find teams whose support had excess testosterone and felt they had to impose their presence.

There had been any amount of threatening chants and some shoving and pushing but I don’t think anybody felt that it was a dangerous situation. Football crowds were like that often in those days. I didn’t take the tumbling bottle personally, as it had arched up over the crowd, hit the metal framework of the terracing roof and dropped on me at random.

In any case, the game was too engrossing to be distracted by such an incident.

With ten minutes to go it was 3-2 to Bury but Southport were doing the pressing. Our big centre forward, Eric Redrobe, (who was, coincidentally, 75 years old yesterday) burst through and lobbed the keeper. Our arms were raised aloft to celebrate the equaliser. The ball bounced once in the six yard box, poised to cross the line, bounced again, and………

stuck in the deep clinging mud of the goal mouth.

It was cleared and we lost 3-2.

The game has remained clear in my memory ever since. It was the only time I went to Gigg Lane, and I moved back to Scotland three years later, but, inevitably, following the news of Bury’s struggle to survive in the league over the past few weeks, that day has been in my thoughts, as have the Shakers’ supporters.

Looked at dispassionately, it was a game my team lost, a coach journey on holiday-busy roads to get there and back, in cold and damp conditions. The pitch was almost unplayable by today’s expectations, and the football more physical than technical. I was hit by a bottle, and we were robbed of an equaliser by mud in the goalmouth. For most of the game I was stamping my feet to try and keep warm, and the pushing, shoving, and chanting of the crowd around us made for a less than relaxed atmosphere.

In short, you would imagine it to be the kind of experience to put you off live football for life – so why do I remember it so clearly, and, to be honest, so fondly, over fifty years later?

Basically, because it was what I signed up for when I started going to the football every week: a feeling of being part of it, a sense of ownership – of the team, the support, the players, the ground; familiarity, belonging, and passion. The chance to lose yourself in something, in the company of other similar souls who might well have absolutely nothing else in common with you for the rest of the week. Being there was the whole point: the result, the level of skill on display, the state of the stadium, even the excitement provided, or not, by the competition – all of that was secondary – and still is.

And so, I really feel for those Bury fans this week, paralysed by the uncertainty of their club’s immediate future. Like football fans all over the country, they will each have their memories – whether fifty years old, or two or three seasons worth. Gigg Lane to them is more than a football ground and Bury FC more than a team. All of it is part of who they are, their past, and, hopefully their future. They are Shakers by association and everybody who knows them and cares about them is aware of the fact; it is a part of their personality.

And, of course, it’s not just Bury and Southport. It’s hundeds of clubs across the country. I’ll be watching Hibs this afternoon, but watching out for the Southport score and noting the progress at lots of grounds or clubs that have provided me with memories through the years. That’s what Saturday means to hundreds and thousands of supporters.

And in lots of places today an event will happen – a missed goal, a disputed penalty, a piece of wizardry, a wry remark, a refereeing decision, a managerial rant, a red card, or a witty chant – that people will take away and gather carefully in their memory and remember it, at random almost, throughout the rest of their life. And they’ll be remembering who they were with and how much they meant to each other and they’ll be glad they shared the moment. And it will be about their club.

That’s why Bury are important, that’s why their survival matters, that’s why clubs are in people’s hearts and minds.

It’s not about oligarchs, television rights, pundits, VAR or marketing.

It’s about love and memories, corrugated iron and splintered wood, old fashioned buses in endless traffic jams, the shot that went in and the one that hit the post, the hot sweet tea and the frozen toes; it’s then and it’s now, and, hopefully, it’s this afternoon, tomorrow and next year.

It’s about passion and belonging.

It’s going to the game.

So VAR – not so good.

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You’ll remember the scene well.

The sweat on your shirt clings to your back and feels cold and clammy; the school, shoes you promised not to wear are scuffed and muddy. Though you tell yourself you’ll be able to shift the green stains from the knees of your school trousers, you know in your heart your goose is cooked with them as well. Your feet are hot and sweaty and your socks have slipped down under your heels making you feel uncomfortable. Looking around, you see that the lights are coming on in surrounding houses and shining brightly in the gloom. Checking your watch, you realise you are twenty minutes late for the time you said you would be home.

Yep – playing football “down the field” as a lad was great fun, though also fraught with the danger of parental disapproval.

But what’s this?

The ball lies still and forgotten behind one of the goals. Instead of running about daft, making footballer shapes, and generally enjoying the game, there are twenty to thirty boys, all stood still, shouting at each other. Hands are on hips, heads are shaking, fingers are pointing.

In the nearest goal, for some reason, one of the guys is carefully rearranging piles of clothing.

“Coats for goalposts” was one of the staples of our football education, alongside “three and in” and “attack and d”. Whether the ball had passed “between the posts” had long been a source of dispute in the game – after all it was the reason for the introduction of a rope and then a crossbar, and eventually goal nets.

But there are two important things to remember about those games of our childhood. Firstly, nobody ever refused to come back the next day because there were disputes about goals or handballs or tackles – it was accepted that was part of the game. Secondly, there were no spectators nor, despite parents’ best efforts, was there a definitive time by which the game should be finished. Whilst the arguments could become heated, they were seen as part of the game rather than an interruption. There was an acceptance by everyone that “the truth might be out there” but it wasn’t necessarily attainable. Goal mouth scrambles, guys searching for their jackets, goal line clearances, and sometimes even duplicitous keepers, meant that the goalpost coats had a habit of shifting, widening, narrowing or expanding. There were guys more adept at folding and refolding the garments than any mammy down at the local steamie.

But, of course, there is a lot more at stake in today’s professional game – billions of pounds of advertising, contracts, television rights and betting company profits. It was probably inevitable that someone would look at sport in general and decree that leaving results to chance and fortune as well as skill – for many the whole point of sport’s addictive unpredictability – was no longer acceptable.

And, given the age we live in, how better to solve this ‘problem’ than with computer technology?

It’s a display of digital technology at its best – detailed views from many angles and the ability to fast forward or slow mo as necessary. It can be viewed in a remote location and also in the comfort of your own home.

There is much to recommend the new Video Aided Referee (VAR) technology – so we should welcome it as a furthering of global footballs’ progress into modern times.

Well, mebbes aye, mebbes no.

Perhaps we should look at the reasons for its introduction, its application in other sports, and its initial impact on recent tournaments.

There has always been a quarrelsome reaction to those who police the rules in sport. Those who play and watch sport are by their nature competitive. It is important to them that they win and anything they feel that is impeding their chances of victory is going to produce a major reaction from them. Referees have probably been advised to “Get a pair of specs” since opticians first invented eye glasses.

Perhaps the interesting word there is “feel”, because there is nothing more subjective than a player or supporter’s take on a piece of play which may or may not have infringed the rules of the game. That’s the reasons all sports have referees, umpires or officials to adjudicate on whether rules are being kept or broken. And to go back to the childhood games analogy, the need for referees in games with spectators was seen as necessary so that kind of “pause for discussion’ was eliminated.

However, some games “flow” more than others. Tennis and cricket both “change ends” frequently, for instance, but football is based on more or less continuous play. Part of its visceral excitement is in the instant reaction to a goal, a tackle, or a piece of magic. As we’ve seen in recent tournaments, “halting and rewinding” the play while VAR is consulted interrupts the momentum and can often hand an advantage to one side or the other. The sight of spectators unsure whether or not they can celebrate is graphic evidence of the problem. Sure, we’ve all looked at the linesman after a goal to check for an offside decision, but that is the act of a moment. Waiting for a “considered decision” can take minutes and kill the moment. It is a construct which fits television needs far more than those of the live audience.

In tennis and cricket, the use of “hawkeye” is far less contentious. The reviews fit into the natural start and stop rhythm of the game and, crucially, they eliminate human judgement – surely the intended result of digital interference in sport. The snick on the bat, the line of the ball, or the position of the foot or bat – these are all factual and the replayed and frozen pictures confirm position. In tennis, the position of the ball adjacent to the line is also clear.

For this reason, goal line technology – instant and irrefutable – is a comfortable fit for football, but replays of handballs and tackles ultimately come down to the same thing as live action: what does the referee think? Is it worth the interruption to the play to allow a referee a second or third or fourth look at an incident?

Instant reaction is an important part of all sport. In our quest to make it “perfect” and to minimise human frailty, should we now give a striker a second chance to connect with an accurate centre, or a goalie a second chance to collect a fierce shot?

We are now in a position where pundits opine on the referee’s reading of VAR as well as his original decision. We are no further forward – except the broadcasters have more content to dispute and the bookies have better chances to limit their payouts. Neither of these are crucial or even important to the game as a sport – they are addressing the needs of those who live off the sport.

In a lifetime of watching live football, and other sports, I have accepted that the referee’s decision is final. That’s why hectoring an official and putting pressure on him is such a distasteful element in professional sport. If the ref thinks it’s a goal, if the umpire thinks it’s a wicket – then that’s part of the rules of the game. If they think otherwise, it’s not a goal and not a wicket.

Of course it’s frustrating – for fans as well as players. They may feel financially cheated – fans of their entrance money, players of their win bonus. But we entered into our love for sport fully aware that there would be errors by players and officials – sometimes leading to ridiculous results or monstrous injustices. But that is sport – that is what feeds our passion.

“How did he miss that?” is the cry at every sports ground on a regular basis. If he never missed, what would be the point, where would be the excitement?

And, I’m afraid, that has to apply to officials as well as to players.

We are not robots and we shouldn’t want sport organised as if we were.

Sport is about humanity in all its glorious frailties and unpredictability, as well as its skills and talents – let’s enjoy it for what it is – anger and frustration, joy and relief – in more or less equal portions.

It really does not exist to make rich men richer – or it shouldn’t!

Watching the grass grow

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Haig Avenue, Southport FC (pic from Southport FC)

They are replacing and relaying the pitch at the Haig Avenue ground of the National North League’s Southport FC. On their Flickr page there are nearly a hundred pictures recording the process, featuring tractors, drains, sand, sprinklers and the appropriate machinery.

These pictures have received around 1000 views, not least on a number of occasions from myself. For this was the ground where, in my teenage years in the 1960s, I fell in love with live football – “going to the match” as we tend to call it.

It is, in my memory, a place of hot sweet tea, compacted mud terraces on which you had to stamp frozen feet, the incense of pipe and cigarette smoke, players’ shirts so smeared with mud that the numbers were sometimes indecipherable, and boyhood heroes who shine just as brightly for me now, as men in their seventies and eighties.

However, my family has been attached to Hibs for over 120 years, they were spoken about when I was growing up almost as if they were siblings: a crucial part of the family, but, it was in the ten years I lived in Southport, before returning to Edinburgh at 18, that I fell in love with football live, the matchday routine, and the feeling of being “part of it all”, and so Southport have that special place in my heart.

It is clear that the game in general is heading in different directions. Eventually there will be the “local” game, for those who want to “be there”, and the “global” game, operated at the behest of subscription television and marketing, and the focus of attention for those who watch on huge television screens, tablets, or smart phones.

It is, I suppose, the difference between walking through a very high end wine cellar, impressed by the vintage and quality of all those bottles around you – even if you cannot drink them, and sitting in your local pub with a dubious pint of beer, but surrounded by friends and supporters who will share their memories of the team – your team – at the drop of a woollen bobble hat.

Like the Football Manager games that the European leagues are more and more resembling, those who are armchair fans pick and choose their games, their favourite players, and, ultimately, the teams that they follow. This is a different approach to that of the fan who attends his local ground each week – not better or worse, just different. How the grass grows or the state of the stadium catering is immaterial to them. Seeing the best players from multiple angles, and commenting on the stats and pundits, provides their hook for viewing. No pies and dodgy coffee for them – their food comes from Dominos or Just Eat, their carefully produced craft beer from their latest carry out.

It ill behoves an old lad to be critical of the young generations – our fathers probably thought that what is now referred to as the “football product” was inferior in our day to that which they had enjoyed between the wars. However, it is fair, I think, to point out the differences and comment on what is being lost.

Anticipation, routine, loyalty and social contact are all major contributors to a sense of mental well being. I believe each of these elements is provided by regular attendance at football matches in a quite unique and consistent fashion. Their presence for the “couch supporter” is possible, but arguably less visceral, though, of course, the two approaches are not necessarily exclusive.

Just as a gambling addict is in it for the thrill rather than the winnings, so those of us committed to “going to the match” revel in the experience, as much as the team’s performance. Of course we want good football and a winning side, but few supporters have that experience throughout their lives. Of its nature, sport is a roller coaster, and the unpredictability is one of its major attractions. The angst caused by failures can be as all consuming as the joy produced by victories – a good reflection of the emotions of love in any relationship!

So while some may be scanning their social media accounts for some sign of television fixtures – the Super Sundays and European Nights – there will be many others, like those Southport supporters on that Flickr feed – looking for the green shoots appearing, the grass beginning to grow, along with the hope.

Maybe THIS season…………

Boxing Day on the A590

I was 17 at Christmas 1969, with a holiday job as a postman. Nash was the older brother of a guy I knew at school, and we were dedicated supporters of Southport FC. I bumped into him in the bleary early morning of the sorting office, before we went out on our rounds:
“Hey Nash – you going to Barrow on Boxing Day?”

“I might do, aye. You want a lift?”

And so, it seems, are the minor moments upon which our lives may turn.

If we hadn’t both been doing Post Office student shifts, or had missed each other that morning, the trip to Barrow may never have happened.

It was a Boxing Day 11am kick off, so Nash arrived in his mini van around 8.00am, with his brother, Peter, sitting sideways in the back. We were celebrating that peculiar Christmas feeling – happy to be at home, but seeking to escape as well. My aunt and her family always visited on Boxing Day, but the early kick off meant I would be home in time to join them, satisfying everyone.

These were heady times for both teams, perennial members of the bottom flight, finding themselves in the unaccustomed heights of the old Third Division, and, despite the eighty odd miles between us, Barrow, along with Tranmere and Stockport, counted as a “derby” game.

Fifty years ago, roads and infrastructure were more basic than they are now, but most of the journey was fine – dual carriageway to Preston and then Motorway to Cumbria. However, from the M6 to Barrow on the A590 was basically a winding two track country road.

The conversation was desultory, hampered by the hangover from Christmas over indulgence. We talked about the prospects for the game, as you do. Neither side was going particularly well, and we would have settled for a draw.

I was quite drowsy after the early start: there was a fierce and low winter sun which added to the dozy feeling. We were about half an hour outside Barrow when Nash said:
“Bloody Hell, I can’t see a thing!”

The sun had flooded the windscreen completely and he slowed down to a crawl.

The next thing, we stopped. Very suddenly indeed.

I was jerked forward and hit the windscreen. My face was hurting and numb at the same time. Peter was groaning in the back and Nash was shouting:
“I’m paralysed, I can’t move” – till he realised he had put on his seatbelt. Their use was not yet compulsory, but luckily he had chosen to strap in.

We jumped from the car – propelled by some kind of fear that it might catch fire.

Once out in the sunshine, it was obvious what had happened.

The road curved to the right here, but a farm track ran off to the left down a slope. Separating the track and the road was a stone wall, and, driving straight ahead because of the sun glare, Nash had hit the end of it. Had he not slowed down so much, we may have been in a far worse situation – as was confirmed by the police, who arrived shortly afterwards.

“Aye, well, lads, you’re lucky – couple of guys were killed here last week!”

We checked ourselves out –Peter was bruised from rolling about in the back after the collision, Nash had a stiff neck and sore ribs. I put my hand to my mouth and realised there was blood, causing me to check my teeth were all still in place. No damage there, thank goodness, though I found myself spitting out bits of splintered windscreen from inside my top lip where my face had obviously flattened itself against the glass.

I’ve no idea what arrangements were made for the car – it was an obvious write off, with the front embedded in the wall, windscreen shattered – but the cops asked us if we wanted a lift to anywhere.

In what was probably the defining moment in my life as a football supporter, I joined with the others – without hesitation – in saying:
“Holker St football ground please!”

The police duly obliged – no doubt questioning our sanity – and dropped us off outside the ground about fifteen minutes before half time.

By that time we were just delighted to have made the game – oh the priorities of youth – and pleased that the turnstiles were still operating.

We bundled into the ground and on to the terracing, not realising we were surrounded by Barrow supporters. There was a fair amount of aggression involved in following football in those days, though to be fair, in the lower divisions, it mostly took the form of macho posturing as the support changed ends at half time, so finding ourselves in among the home support was a bit worrying.

However, they seemed strangely quiet at our presence –maybe because they were already leading 1-0 and also, as I came to realise later, because of my appearance.

My gold and black scarf was covered in blood and my upper lip was heavily swollen, making me look like Plug out of the Bash Street Kids. Alternatively, my appearance may have suggested I had single handedly fought my way into the ground.

Predictably, very little happened for the rest of the game, and we began to wonder how we would get home. Barrow to Southport on Boxing Day was not an easy itinerary.

Possibly still light headed from the crash, I formed a brilliant idea:
“Why not ask for a lift on the team coach?”

The others looked doubtful, but could think of no alternative, so, after the final whistle, we headed round to the front of the main stand, hoping.

Holker Street in those days, and I suspect now, could never be mistaken for the Etihad. There was a door open to the street and various officials busy with post match tasks.

Suddenly the Southport manager, Don McEvoy, appeared in the corridor. With a boldness born, I guess, out of desperation, I shouted out:

“Hey, Don! Could we hitch a lift back on the team coach, our car crashed and we’re stranded!”

He was hardly nonplussed at all, and motioned us to wait where we were. He may have been preoccupied – given our slide towards relegation and his dismissal, which would come a few weeks later.

Now the disorientation of having been in a car crash was rapidly replaced by the excitement of getting to travel on the team coach!

It would be easy to rewrite history and say it was no big deal – but that would be unfair to our teenaged selves. In those days, supporting Southport meant as much to us as if they were a top division side. Indeed, Best, Law and Charlton were plying their trade an hour’s drive away, but we still chose to watch these Southport guys each week. In addition, the media focus with which we are familiar today was much less intense. What happened “behind the scenes” at a football club was rarely shared with the public.

Eventually the players came out and we felt the shyness that always pertains when the on field hero becomes the on street person next to you.

We climbed on the coach without comment and took our seats. My particular idol, Alex Russell, was sitting in front of me. I wracked my brains for a conversation starter – to no avail. Then he turned round and said:
“Were you lads in a crash?”

It wasn’t the chat you would imagine with your favourite player, but I filled him in on the details.

Most of the journey down the motorway, I sat there thinking:

“I’m on the Southport Team Coach!”

A bit of the mystique of the game was finally broken when I heard the captain, Arthur Peat – a battle hardened veteran, giving some advice to our young tyro centre back, Chris Dunleavy. It referred to the importance of being able to knee an opposing forward in the back when the referee was unsighted! So much for the beautiful game!

Back in Southport, sadly having driven past nobody we knew, the whole day started to seem like a dream. It was just after 3pm so I was in time for the family meal and I looked forward to telling them all, or boring them all, about my trip on the team coach.

It was only when my mother opened the door and let out a gasp that I realised I must be looking rather the worse for wear. These days, mobile phones would telegraph such news ahead, but back then, she knew nothing about our adventures.

I had to work quite hard to reassure her I was alright, and then had the presence of mind to go and clean up before I faced the rest of the family – “face” being the operative word.

That was when more glass splinters were spat out and, in the mirror, I finally noted my resemblance to Plug!

It was a day which taught me about the vagaries of fate – though it was some time before I fully took on board its significance.

I had gone to Barrow only after a chance meeting with someone whom I knew had a car. Had anything more serious happened that day, and 20mph faster and it might well have, I would have been linked for ever with a couple of guys who weren’t even close pals. My ending would have come about through a trip to see two obscure football teams in the lower reaches of the leagues, on a Boxing Day morning of sparkling sun and clear blue skies. There would have been no exams, no university, and no career, no partner and no son. Barrow v Southport December 26th 1969 would have meant something much more than a football fixture to everybody who knew me.

The other irony, of course, is that I’m a Hibs supporter and my family have supported them since 1894. I was living in Southport because my father had died when I was five and my mother had moved there from Edinburgh so she could be closer to family.

However, my thanks to Southport are due because it was during the ten years I lived in the town, the crucial teenage years, that I established the routine of “going to the football” every Saturday – a life long habit that has, predictably, brought joy and sorrow – but defines part of who I am.

And that day, in retrospect, was the crucial instigator of that passion for live football – when I realised that “watching the lads play” was more important than my own condition or the tragedy that we had narrowly avoided.

Of course it’s more complicated than that – life always is; but that collision in the Lakes taught me that, just as sometimes you have to treat bad times with humour, equally, on occasion, you have to take seriously some things that aren’t really that serious – like football.

A good motif for a balanced life.

I am currently Education and Welfare Officer at Hibernian – hopefully giving something back to the club after a lifetime of supporting them – and working with the development squad youngsters. They know I’m Hibs daft, but also are aware of my affection for Southport FC. One of them set me the question:

“European Cup Final – Hibs v Southport – who do you want to win?”

After some hesitation, I plumped for Hibs, who are, after all, in my blood for generations – but I wouldn’t be devastated if Southport won this game – for, after all, they gave me a lifetime of going to the match.

I still go down to watch “The Port” when Hibs duties allow. The signposts on the road point to a succession of former league clubs: Workington, Barrow, Southport – as we drive down the M6, passing the junction for the Lakes and Cumbria.

But whether in Edinburgh or Lancashire, it’s a Saturday habit happily engrained in me for life, dating, I suspect, from that Boxing Day on the A590.

The Journey Begins

Thanks for joining me!

I’ve been watching live football since November 16th 1963. It’s been a lot of fun, a consistent presence in my life, and a real eye opener about sport, people and personality.

With around 2000 games under my belt, I thought it might be time to share a little of what I’ve found, and what I think about, the sport which likes to call itself “The Beautiful Game”.

Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn’t and sometimes it merely reflects humanity in its unpredictable and thrilling twists and turns.

That’s why we love it!

Read on!