PELE, AFTERSHAVE…….. AND LOSING THEIR GEOGRAPHY

The Summer of 1966 was a good time to be 14.

The Beatles had issued “Paperback Writer” amid rumours that their upcoming album “Revolver” was going to be something special – a worthy competitor to the Beach Boys’  ground breaking “Pet Sounds”. If you were brave enough to go to a disco, you might be dancing to the Four Tops’ “Reach out, I’ll be there”, the Stones’ “Paint it Black” or smooching to the Mamas and the Papas’ “California Dreaming” or “Monday, Monday”.

I was just completing  third year at secondary school and starting to feel I was getting the hang of it all, with a good group of friends to help face the following year’s exams.

Though the second world war felt like ancient history to us as teenagers, in reality it was only twenty years previously, and the country was slowly emerging from a post war grey fug of anxiety and reconstruction. Some say the famous “sixties” only really started in 65/66. Television was monochrome and had three channels, but the radio pirates, on ships around the coast, provided all day music for the pop scene.

If it was not the technicolour dream so beloved of current social historians, it was still a positive experience for the young, who had also recently been freed from the spectre of National Service.

Then there was the football.

The game was still very much based on  “going to the match”. Television coverage was minimal and those who never went to a stadium had mostly to rely on newsreel footage to see important moments. Highlights of European ties, alongside live coverage of the Home Internationals and the Cup Final, completed the average viewer’s experience. Newspapers and magazines would provide match reports and the occasional interview piece, but there was nothing remotely similar to the current  wall to wall coverage – even punditry was still in the future.

So there was a strange dichotomy of reaction to the arrival of the World Cup in England. For football fans, it was obviously an exciting development and much anticipated. There would be sixteen teams from four confederations. A number of stadia were upgraded for the finals – Ayresome Park, Middlesborough, Goodison Park in Liverpool, Old Trafford in Manchester, Villa Park in Birmingham, Hillsborough in Sheffield, Roker Park in Sunderland and Wembley and White City in London. Other stadia had upgraded in the hope of being selected and for most fans this was the first sign of stadium modernisation since between the wars.

It is perhaps an indication of scale and influence of the competition that Uruguay v France had to be played at the White City stadium, as Wembley stadium  refused to cancel the greyhound racing on that date!

Commercial activity in advance of the competition was very limited compared to today’s levels. Esso garages offered “World Cup coins” as a promotion, there was merchandise based on the lion mascot, “World Cup Willie”, and the teams had deals with sporting goods companies. However, even in late spring, those who were not football fans would scarcely have noted the imminent  arrival of the football festival.

In fact, the biggest event of note in the lead up to the competition was the theft of the Jules Rimet Trophy, and its discovery under a hedge by a dog called “Pickles”, which, of course, the media loved. In these more cynical times, we might be tempted to regard that as an inspired piece of publicity, back then, in our naivety, we accepted it as a funny story.

It is interesting to note that, even in the mid sixties, though football was a mass spectator attraction, it was by no means universally followed. Indeed, until the arrival of luminaries like Rod Stewart and Elton John, the idea that you could be equally into music and sport was seen as rather odd. Not being hugely gifted at either, I was able to keep a foot in both camps, but few of the lads at my school who played in beat groups were football followers, and the footballers were seldom heavily into music beyond the pop charts.

So, while the football public were eagerly anticipating the World Cup, there were many others who were less interested or even unaware.

As a supporter, I noted a small advert in the magazine “Charles Buchan’s Football Monthly”. Apparently, if you sent a postal order to the FA, you could purchase three tickets for games at a ground of your choice. As far as I recall, I sent off less than two pounds, and by return received tickets for Bulgaria v Brazil, Brazil v Hungary and a quarter final, all at Goodison Park. I do not recall having any choice in which games I would see, but seeing Brazil twice certainly seemed like a good deal!

Given today’s offers and deals, and corporate packages, and Ticketmaster online queues and the like, it seems ridiculously easy, and reflects the fear back then, in some quarters, that the games might not be well supported.

Of the 70 countries who entered the competition, fifteen, plus England as hosts, had qualified for the finals. Four groups, two winners of each in the quarter finals, then semi finals, and the Final. It was very Eurocentred. African countries had not been given a direct qualification entry route and so boycotted it, and there were strong indications that the head of FIFA, England’s Sir Stanley Rous, was less than progressive in his views.

My first game was Brazil v Bulgaria – and well highlighted  the state of the world and football. As a team from “behind the Iron Curtain”, as the Soviet Bloc was known, the Bulgars were an unknown quantity. Like most of the  Bloc, their players had no freedom of movement and their top club sides were largely army or union based and heavily controlled politically. Whilst we were familiar with players from Portugal, Spain, Italy and Germany through European Cup, Cup Winners’ Cup and Inter Cities Fairs Cup competitions, the team who ran out in white with red trim were unfamiliar to most of the 47000 crowd in Goodison Park.

The same could not be said of the boys from Brazil.

Gilmar, Altair, Djalma Santos, Denilson, Jairzinho were all well known to us from their stellar exploits in 1958 and 1962. Then there was Garrincha – an almost freakishly talented winger – and none other than the great Pele.

It does feel like another age. And I suppose it is.

The train to Bank Hall station, then the walk up the hill, along street after street of Liverpool’s terraced houses, the thought of an international game, in the World Cup. When I met my school pal, we wondered what it would be like – it was a completely new experience to both of us. I had very vague memories of my first football match, when I was not yet four, with 63000 packed into Hibs Easter Rd stadium in 1956 for a New Year Derby with Hearts, but this crowd was easily the biggest I had experienced since I started going to football as a teenager.

The atmosphere was good, though, like ourselves, many in the crowd were a little unsure of how to behave, normally being passionate in their support of Everton or Liverpool, or in my case, Southport or Hibs. Watching two teams with whom you had no connection was a little unsettling. This resulted in the slightly unreal ambience of sustained applause whenever there was a passage of good play rather than the chanting with which we would have been familiar. However, there was an undercurrent of support for the great Brazilians and any chance the Bulgarians had of underdog sympathy was rapidly extinguished when it became obvious that they were on a mission to kick the talented south Americans off the pitch.

To be fair, the Brazilians responded with a fair amount of physicality themselves, and the game was hardly a celebration of silky football.

However, I still feel blessed to have been there.

Pele was eventually forced to leave the field after the ongoing brutality against him – but not before we had seen him score with a rocket free kick. He would play no further part in the World Cup and this would be his only competitive appearance in the UK – so history being made. Equally momentous was the second free kick scored by Garrincha: “the little bird”. This legend had been involved in a serious car crash and after surgery  was reputed to have “two left legs”. True or otherwise, he was certainly mesmerising as a winger. In the second half he scored from a free kick which curved round the wall in one direction and then left the keeper in the opposite direction. We were in the perfect position around the half way line to follow its flight and I can still remember my amazement and the roar of the crowd.

A two goal win for Brazil was a good start, though if less dazzled, we may have noted there was more energy and less fluency than we may have expected from the Samba Warriors.

There was also a subtext to the competition in that the press speculated on attendances at the various group games around the country. My impression was that though crowds were good, at this stage there were few sell out gates. The day after the Bulgaria game, the other game in the group, Portugal and Hungary, attracted less than 30000 to Old Trafford. These were times when international travel was very expensive and long before ordinary supporters could follow their teams around the globe. Most countries only had the support of an official party and some ex-pats who happened to be resident in the UK. Local fans had far less knowledge of the various teams than would be available now, and many were uncertain whether they were  interested enough to go to see the games, especially given the novelty of full television coverage. A harbinger of the future perhaps!

However, it was generally expected that Brazil v Hungary, three days later, would be a good game and accordingly there was an improved attendance of over 51 000. The Hungarians had lost 3-1 to Portugal at Old Trafford so the general assumption was that Brazil would  recover from their rather stolid start against Bulgaria and reassert themselves as “champions”.

There were bigger numbers of visiting supporters, Hungary perhaps being more open to letting its citizens travel than Bulgaria, and the colourful Brazilians with drums and flags making their presence felt.

It turned out to be a game which would resonate down through the decades as one of the great contests. The level of play was such that now the Merseyside crowd were moved to find their terracing voices, though admiring applause was perhaps still the overriding atmosphere.

The game got off to a cracking start with a thunderbolt strike from Ferenc Bene after only three minutes. Brazil reacted strongly and were level through Tostao after fourteen minutes. Thereafter the game pulsed to and fro and this energised the crowd. Brazil had probably been seen as favourites and their supporters’ chants of Braaaazeeel were echoed by a section of the crowd – but there was also sympathy for Hungary as apparent underdogs. Despite their Soviet bloc membership, as a nation they were less obscure than Bulgaria and there was still sympathy for them from the brutal Soviet invasion ten years before. The crowd listened to the chants of their supporters and decided to copy them, and soon the cry of what sounded like “Oo Oo Magyars” echoed round Goodison.

I suppose, in retrospect, we were witnessing the handing on of the baton from an ageing Brazil squad. Eventually, Hungary gained the upper hand, and goals from Farkas on 64 minutes and a penalty from Meszoly nine minutes later gave the Hungarians victory.

Of course, Hungary had humbled England 6-3 at Wembley as long ago as 1953, so it was no surprise that they could play a bit, and we left the ground, partly saddened by Brazil’s apparent decline, but enthused by the style and method of the Magyars approach.

I had another reason for interest in Hungary. They were based at the Palace Hotel by the beach in Birkdale, which was about half a mile from my house, and that had caused great interest locally. They had also played a couple of training games against Southport at their Haig Avenue ground.

The Palace was a massive thousand roomed hotel, one of a number built on seafront locations in the mid nineteenth century when Queen Victoria had indicated an interest in a “Summer palace by the sea”, in the hopes that she might grace them with her attendance. She opted for the Isle of Wight, but the Palace went on to have an interesting history hosting the great and the good of fin de siècle society and then becoming  a rest and recreation base for American servicemen during the war, and hosting such luminaries as Errol Flynn, Frank Sinatra, and Clark Gable.

With the insouciance of youth, I decided to cycle down to the hotel to see if I could catch the Hungarians training. I left my bicycle at the end of the long semi circular drive and headed for the front entrance to the hotel. The squad had just finished training on the front lawns and were headed inside the hotel. Autograph hunting was very popular among teenage boys at the time and there was a group of half a dozen, books in hand, standing by the entrance.

There was no attempt by hotel or football officials to move us away, indeed, there were no adults around at all until a coach pulled up and the players emerged from the hotel foyer. They were more than pleased to sign our books.

We were keen to get their autographs, of course, particularly those of Florian Albert and Ferenc Bene, who were the “stars” of the team, and whom we recognised, but, like any fans, we were delighted to get close up to these players and to see people from “behind the Iron Curtain” at first hand.

There are two major memories from the encounter.

The first was the overpowering scent of their after shave, which they all wore. Certainly in my circles, the only familiar aftershave would have been “Old Spice”, much favoured by grandfathers and the older generation, and perhaps the odd cheap Woolworth’s imitation – none of which produced a tolerable scent. These guys smelled wonderful, having obviously taken full advantage of the increased shopping opportunities in the West, and with their smart blazers and slacks, and carefully combed hair, fully lived up to our adolescent image of sportsmen.

Once we had all the signatures and they drove off in the coach, our next surprise, when we checked our autograph books was that they had signed their names using Hungarian Cyrillic script – a relation of Russian script, which made them even more indecipherable than normal signatures, and there was a mad rush to write the names under the scrawls, with much comparing of books and  while we could still remember who had signed in which part of the page.

There is a wonderful innocence about that memory – not just in footballing terms – where you could casually stroll into a team’s World Cup camp and meet the players who were surrounded  by none of today’s chaotic hoopla, but also in a wider sense.

This was the height of the Cold War – East v West, and the rigid control that the Soviet Union exercised over its satellite states. It was only five years since the Berlin Wall had been erected, and, before that, the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the world was on the verge of nuclear war, and yet these players apparently, were completely unguarded, at least as far as we could see. Perhaps their status as international football stars guaranteed them a good life in Hungary so that the authorities were confident they would not seek to “escape to the West”, or perhaps we were just naïve.

Whatever the truth of the situation, it is a memory that not too many children in this century would be able to replicate at a World Cup or any major sporting event.

Now I had just one more game to anticipate. It would be the quarter final, and we had expected it would probably involve Italy and Portugal – a fascinating encounter between attack and defence in their relative styles.

What happened, of course, was that North Korea – “these little men from North Korea” as commentator David Coleman inevitably called them – shocked everyone and won through to face Portugal.

Now if Bulgaria and Hungary were mysterious to football fans in the West, the North Koreans were completely unknown. It was little more than a decade since the Korean War, one of the many “front lines” in the battle between Capitalism and Communism. It had finished with the creation of “two Koreas”, North and South, separated by a “demilitarised zone” – a situation which still pertains today. Whilst South Korea, with American backing, pursued a western style future, its neighbour to the north became shut off, enclosed and invisible to the rest of the world – a much easier achievement before the age of the internet.

The average football fan had no idea what life was like in North Korea – nor what to expect from their football team. The British Foreign Office did not want to give them visas to enter the country, as the UK did not officially recognise the legitimate existence of the “Democratic People’s Republic of Korea”.  FIFA threatened to take the World Cup away from England if the Koreans were not admitted, and so they arrived in the country, and sang patriotic songs on the train all the way up to Middlesborough where they would play their games.

It would be fair to say that the locals in the north east of England were a little non-plussed by the North Korean team with their identical hairstyles and names like Pak Doo-Ik. When they lost 3-0 to the USSR in their opening game, there was  a general nodding of heads and a patronising: “Well, they ran about a lot and were very energetic, but…..”

However, by the time of their next game when they drew 1-1 with the soccer heavyweights of Chile, they were taking on the role of “loveable underdogs”, and the folk of Middlesborough really got behind them. It emerged that the squad had spent the last three years training and living together and clearly the North Korean regime saw successful World Cup participation would be a major propaganda coup for their political system.

In their final game at Ayresome Park, against Italy, local sentiment was firmly behind North Korea, while expecting a classy display from the Italians. Perhaps the busy style of the men from the East was unfamiliar to the more languid Italians but, when reduced to ten men, no substitutes in those days, after Bulgarelli crocked himself making a crude challenge, the Azzurri struggled and that man Pak Doo-Ik struck to give the Koreans an unlikely victory, the press a wonderful underdog story to cover, and a quarter final against Portugal at Goodison Park which  became a focus of media attention, especially after a lacklustre Brazil had been beaten  by Portugal, 3-1 at Goodison, in the final group match.

Still, the football mad Merseysiders were  choosey about which games they would attend, even if it was a World Cup quarter final.  Almost 59000 had turned up to see Portugal beat Brazil for qualification, but just over 40,000 for this tie suggested most folk felt that the immensely talented Portuguese would make short work of the Koreans.

My pal and I had no thought of that. As far as we were concerned, this was as exciting as it came. We had lapped up all the coverage of the mysterious North Koreans, Portugal had megastars like Eusebio, Torres and Simoes, and the school summer holidays had started. The previous Goodison games had been under the lights on a Tuesday and Friday evening, but this was a Saturday afternoon kick off with a different atmosphere. I had also spent the three previous days watching my cricketing heroes, Lancashire, play Somerset at Southport in one of my  annual sporting highlights. I had no idea how blessed I was!

Such was the crowd’s curiosity about the Koreans that there was a sense of everyone standing on tiptoe to get a good look at them as they ran out of the tunnel – as if they might be aliens!

They were smaller than most football sides we watched and with that uniform haircut were difficult to identify, but they were clearly overjoyed to be at this stage of the World Cup, and while the experienced Portuguese looked on phlegmatically, they smiled and waved to the crowd before kick off. This was a surprise to us as we had been assured by the Daily Express and the BBC amongst others that all who lived under the oppression of a Communist regime were dour, miserable folk, inhibited from any shows of emotion.

The Koreans certainly did not match that stereotype as they started the game and they would play with great verve and freedom of expression. The crowd lapped it up and settled down to support the underdogs while appreciating the predicted skills of Portugal.

At fourteen, I had no vast experience of football matches – not more than three years, mostly watching Southport in the Fourth Division, but even then I could appreciate the enormity of what transpired over the next twenty five minutes.

Portugal started steadily at kick off, confidently passing the ball around, threatening the Korean goal, where their keeper, Lee Chang-Myung, seemed a very slight figure to face up to the undoubted barrage to come.

However, the Koreans had not read the script.

Within a minute they had taken the lead with a real screamer from Pak Seung-Zin and their delight was as contagious as Portugal’s shock was palpable. Of course, the crowds were energised by this and chants of Koreeeeaa – Koreeeeaa rang around the stadium. Further drama occurred on 22 minutes, when experienced Portuguese stopper, Pereira, perhaps traumatised by that unlikely  early goal, completely “lost his geography” as David Coleman was wont to say, when coming for a cross, and was stranded in the middle of the penalty box when a deep return ball  from the left was turned in by Lee Dong-Woon.

The roars of the crowd were now edged with excitement – what was happening here?

When Yang Song-Guk dispatched another screamer just three minutes later, it would be fair to say that the crowd noise became a little hysterical. I have heard nothing like it since in a football ground: it was somewhere between laughing and cheering, crying and roaring. Portugal, the mighty artisans of European football, favourites with many to win the tournament, were three down to the men from North Korea after only twenty five minutes. The crowd could hardly believe it and neither could the North Koreans who jumped about and waved to the crowd after the third goal like kids on a school sports day.

We looked at each other. The Portuguese were a great side, with five of the all conquering Benfica side in their line up, but to overcome a three goal deficit? Could even they do that?

Eusebio – the Black Pearl – it seems, was in no doubt that they could.

By half time he had scored a memorable solo goal and stuck away a penalty after Torres had ben fouled.

The chatter was intense over the half time break – could the Koreans hold on? How  fantastic  was that Eusebio? What a game we were witnessing.

With the second half starting, the crowd were nervous. They really wanted North Korea to hold on, but they were also mesmerised by the craft and trickery of Eusebio, well supported by his colleagues. Just as the excitement of the crowd had benefited the Koreans in the first half, so, I suspect, did their nerves transmit on to the pitch in this second half, and in only ten minutes, Eusebio, who else, had scored a fine equaliser.

Nobody in the ground was in any doubt about the result now, and, inevitably, Eusebio gained the lead for Portugal three minutes later with another penalty, his fourth goal of the game.

Augusto added another with a header ten minutes from time and the dream was over for the Koreans who nevertheless celebrated at the final whistle and acknowledged the support of the crowd.

We were breathless and emotional. It had been the sort of experience which probably cemented my love of attending football matches, as live spectacles rather than television events, for the rest of my life.

We talk often of “one man teams” and the ability of a single player to make the difference between defeat and victory.  Ronaldo and Messi would be quoted in the past decade, I suppose, but it is a view that does not usually stand scrutiny. George Best had Law and Charlton beside him, Gordon Smith shone as one of the Famous Five, how much did Jimmy Greaves benefit from John White and Danny Blanchflower? These players were, of course, capable of sudden flashes of magic to produce crucial goals, but it usually takes more than just one star performer to change around a team’s fortunes over the course of a game.

However, there is no doubt that Eusebio did that at Goodison in July 1966. His four goals and a determination not to be beaten, added to his quite unique ability, pulled the Portuguese out of their first half shock. It was a remarkable performance and I remain privileged to have witnessed it.

And so concluded my World Cup experiences in 1966. I would witness other World Cup games, though not in the Finals,  – notably Scotland’s win over Wales at Anfield in 1977, and I was on holiday in France to share in that country’s joy when they won the Cup in 1998, but those three games in 1966 remain central to my football memories, even all these years later.

It is, I suppose a combination of my age at the time, the era in which they took place, and the remarkable luck to attend three games which were each unique for different reasons. It was only recently I realised that I had seen Pele’s only competitive appearance in these islands; the Hungary victory over Brazil is still mentioned  as a classic; and that Portugal win over North Korea is the perfect tale of the possibility of a massive upset overturned by individual brilliance. To see players like Pele, Garrincha, Bene, Albert and Eusebio within the space of  three weeks still seems a little like fantasy.

And so we come to the current World Cup tournament.

Since 1966 there have been fourteen World Cup campaigns. Between my support of Scotland and Ireland, I have had an interest in five or six of them. In others, I have admired the play of France, Belgium, Spain and Holland amongst others, and despite myself, through the years I  have watched far more televised games than I intended, and seldom missed a final. The usual memories pertain: Gemmell’s goal for Scotland, Pat Bonnar’s penalty save for Ireland, the rise and fall of Zidane and so on.

But of this year’s tournament I have watched not a second. 

The ludicrous decision to make Qatar the hosts, the disruption to football seasons around the world, the evident graft involved in the decision, and the appalling human rights record of the host nation all combined to produce a sense that there was not much point to watching football in such a scenario. It had happened before: after a lifetime of being a runner and a big fan of athletics, the behaviour of the  Chinese Government  in the preparations for the Beijing Olympics of 2008, people being made homeless and relocated forcibly to facilitate the building of stadia, combined with rampant substance abuse and manipulation amongst athletes, made it feel like athletics was not worth watching in such a context.

Indeed, in the decades since elite sport went “professional”, that is to say, became the property of global corporations and  oligarchs, and driven by megabucks, it seems to me nigh on impossible to retain any of the childlike naivety  which, for most of my life made it so enjoyable. As fourteen year old, I saw sport as a chance to step aside from the serious concerns of life, to lose myself in watching honest endeavour, or playing to the best of my ability. It was, it seemed to me, part of the best of humanity.

Was it perfect?

Of course not. Even then, the tales of brown envelopes, shamateurism, drugs, and exploitation were current – but were still seen as aberrations rather than the norm.

There was enough honesty to maintain the dream, if you like, to preserve the aspirations to Olympic values and sportsmanship, at least nominally.  We seem to have reached a stage where there is no longer a pretence that major sports events are about anything more than marketing opportunities and broadcasting rights – with the sports men and women operating as commercial assets.

However, perhaps this is the inevitable view of someone who has loved sport for over six decades; maybe older folk cannot be expected to maintain the joyous naivety of their teenage years. We should, perhaps, acknowledge that the world and its attitudes have moved on, and the current state of sport is merely reflecting that.

Whether that is true or not, there is nothing to be done about it, except perhaps to try and ensure there are enough supports in place to react to the emotional stress and mental pressure imposed on the sports people operating in such a milieu, and to manage the fallout.

Not surprisingly, I prefer to look back on the innocence of 1966, before elite sport “lost its geography.”

It was an autumn Wednesday in the early 1970s.

Being a Holiday of Obligation, when Catholics were expected to attend Mass, I had made a quick exit from my midday lecture at the university along in George Square and headed for the upstairs chapel at St Francis in Lothian St, known to Southsiders as “The Friary”.

Honesty demands that I don’t claim any particular feelings of piety. It was a time when we “did our religious duty” without much reflection, and the major thoughts in my mind during the service concerned Hibs European tie that night at Easter Rd. The Tornadoes were flying and we expected to win every European tie we played.

As I queued to take communion, I hoped, rather superstitiously, that my pious keeping of the religious rules would play well with the Big Man upstairs when it came to getting a result later that day.

Then, looking up, I noticed something very familiar about the two men in front of me as we approached the altar. Unbelievably, it was Pat Stanton and Jimmy O’Rourke. Here they were, my two heroes, just hours away from a major European tie, just next to me in church. Surely that guaranteed a victory! (It did!)

Footballers were less high profile in those days – even the legends of Turnbull’s Tornadoes. If you knew the family or stayed near to them, you would see them around, otherwise their life off the pitch was not visible – rather like teachers, who, for all we knew, could have been kept in the classroom cupboard overnight – so to see the guys at church was a surprise.

I went for some lunch, still feeling excited about seeing them, and reflected on how we come to support a football team and what it means to us and our sense of self.

My family had been involved with the Hibs since arriving from Ireland in the 1890s, we ran grocery stores in the Southside, my uncle James played for the team briefly in the 1920s, and though we moved down to England after my father’s death, there was never any doubt that I was a Hibee, and my return to Edinburgh, to go to university, gave me the opportunity to jump in fully, with both feet, to that particular agony which is Hibernian supporting.

But seeing Pat and Jimmy that lunchtime became a kind of consolidation of my connection to the club.

We follow football clubs for many varying and personal reasons. Sometimes it is family history, or maybe geography, or a friend’s choice, or perhaps the happenstance of the first game attended, the colour of the kit, or a perplexing name. It may be as deep as a combination of all these reasons, or as superficial as a pin stuck in a list. At the end of the day, the reasons carry little weight compared to the passion shown in following “the lads”.

I thought of all the connections reflected in that lunchtime event.

Like Pat and Jimmy, my dad and his brothers had attended Holy Cross Academy. Had we not moved to England, there was a good chance I  would have followed them there – and I ended up playing cricket for their FP team for over three decades. Having honed his talent on the East Meadows, where Hibs originated, and opposite our family’s grocery store, uncle James  was Holy Cross’s star player in his time, netting them victories in a number of cup finals.  After football, at Hibs and Ayr Utd, he became a Franciscan priest and spent some time at the Friary In Lothian St where I had just seen the Hibs players.

Holy Cross Academy, the Southside, The Friary, my dad and uncle – there was a swell of connection there which made Pat and Jimmy “familiar” to me, in every sense of the word.

I should point out that I have always been proud that Hibs embraces all its founding influences, without marketizing any one particular strand of our heritage – as is reflected in our badge – and it just so happened that these two had an overlap with my own  specific background. But I may have been a Reddings boy, proud of John Blackley, from Montrose and in awe of Gordon Smith, or a Dunfermline lad who idolised Alex Edwards. It is not the origins but the depth of connection we feel which makes our  support so special to each of us.

However, I should admit that when I recall the famous League Cup win over Celtic in 1972, and the goal contribution of Stanton and O’Rourke, I still have a tendency to think “Holy Cross Academy 2-1 Celtic”!!!

So Jimmy’s death today  feels like much more than the loss of a sporting legend. Speaking to Pat Stanton last week, he mentioned his old school pal  was unwell, and couldn’t help recalling the famous tale of Jimmy scanning the jailbirds on a prison bus seen by  the Hibs touring party  outside Fulsom Prison on a sixties American tour: “He said he was checking to see if there were any lads from Clerrie on board!”.

Jimmy’s pawky wit is well documented. My own favourite involved the time when he was coaching the Hibs youths alongside Jackie McNamara. Having locked up the stadium after Tuesday night training, they were headed along through Abbeyhill when Jimmy nudged Jackie: “Hey! Did you leave the lights on?” he asked, pointing down Easter Rd to where the glare of the floodlights lit up the night sky.

For those who missed the pleasure and excitement of seeing Jimmy play each week, I have been trying  to find words to describe his style of play. It’s not easy, because he was quite unique – in build, in style, in application – but, ultimately, I think his play matched his humour: it was impish! He would pop up everywhere, deceptively skilled for his build, strong as an ox, but capable of the most sublime touches. His goals were a joy – the explosions primed by the finely tuned Tornadoes mechanisms, and it was hard to tell who got most delight from them – Jimmy or the supporters.

That his special song was based on the theme to that most irrepressible of characters, Rupert the Bear, seems fitting, and it was true – everyone did know his name.

And, here’s a thing. For some reason, it was almost impossible to refer to Jimmy without using an Edinburgh accent. My auntie Nellie, deeply rooted in the Southside, would always point out to me that, for all my mongrel English/Scots accent, I always pronounced his name as  “Jimmehoroork”. He was so much part of Clermiston and our city that anything else would have sounded odd – despite  always being  `James’ to his family.

I am writing this about half a mile down the hill from Clermiston on a dreich, grey, wet and miserable day, and sad as I am at the death of Jimmy, an ultimate relief though it may have been, neither the weather nor the sense of loss can quite extinguish the pure joy that this bouncing dynamo of a footballer brought to the Hibernian support.

He was very special man and a very special footballer. He was all we would want an Hibernian Hero to be.

Driving down Ferry Rd, past the site of Holy Cross Academy, I often think of all the connections, and I will always think of Jimmy as I go past – and how, in so many games for the Hibs, he reflected his old school’s motto: “Spes Unica” – “Our Only Hope”.        

Thank you, Jimmehoroork.

The tributes to football manager Billy  Bingham, who has died at the age of 90, quite rightly highlight his great success as Northern Ireland manager, and mention his time at Everton, but, to me, his place in the pantheon of great managers is a far more personal matter.

Statistics will tell you that his most successful stint as coach, with a 43% win rate,  was in his first appointment, at Southport FC in the  old fourth and then third divisions.

However, as any true football follower would affirm, statistics won’t give you even half the story.

His time at Southport – from 1965-67 coincided with my moving from the age of 13 to 15 – perhaps the most formative years in anyone’s life, and the Southport team he forged  in that time –  Bingham’s Boys – remain heroes to me till this day almost sixty years later.

As a coach, he was  innovative and  ahead of his  time. Arriving at Haig Avenue in his first coaching appointment, at the young age of  35, he found a club which, if not exactly moribund, was fast going nowhere. He understood the need for impact, not only on the field and training pitch but also around a town which had long been famous for its indifference to football.

By the time he moved on, two years later, Southport had reached the last sixteen of the Cup and been promoted for the first time in their history, and were regarded as one of the fittest squads in the entire football league.  They had garnered more national headlines that in any previous era.

The point about Bingham’s flair for publicity was that all of his “stunts” had a positive impact on the club’s playing record.

Poor atmosphere in the  ground? How about flagpoles flying international flags along the open end of the ground – as seen contemporaneously at Fulham’s Craven Cottage? Along with the rocketing playing standard, this innovation improved the matchday experience.

Looking for coverage, and increased attendance, before a crucial cup tie? Here’s a picture of burly forward, Eric Redrobe in ballet tights. The press got their angle, but players were protected from cold weather muscle and sinew  injuries long before such an approach became general.

A must win game against high flying fellow promotion hopefuls,  derby neighbours, Stockport County? Here’s the players running out with strange numbers on their shirts – 11 for the right back, 8 for the centre half, 3 for the centre forward and so on. Before County’s man marking  players had worked out what was happening, Port were well on their way to a rousing 4-0 victory.

There was some comment that Bingham’s side was rather dour and defensive, and notable cup victories away at second division Ipswich and at Stockport might confirm that thought. However, he was also flexible as a manager and well able to switch systems to match the opposition or to surprise them with attacking intent. He was adept at changing players’ positions if he felt they had the skills to perform better elsewhere, and his organisation was such that, in the Stockport cup game, Les Barratt, signed hours before kick off and unknown to the support, was able to slot perfectly in to the system and even score the decisive goal.

Most of all, his side had resilience – frequently shown on the pitch, and even more so after the devastating Boxing Day fire in 1966, which destroyed the main stand  and all the club’s infrastructure, but couldn’t derail their run to promotion.

In two short years Bingham put Southport on the map. In the town’s newsagents on Monday mornings, little old ladies who had previously not known the town had a football team, could be heard asking “How did the lads get on?”

It was a remarkable impact, which left Bingham, in Southport’s terms, as associated with the club as Busby with United, Shankly with Liverpool, Nicholson with Spurs and Stein with Celtic. He was, in short, a force of nature.

There is little doubt that without the exploits of the Bingham Boys, Southport FC may well have fallen into terminal decline, or that, at the very least, their exit from the Football League could well have happened years before that eventuality in 1978.

For those of us who were there to witness those remarkable times, Billy Bingham remains an iconic figure, whom we were privileged to witness at the start of an impressive managerial career. His World Cup exploits may get the headlines, but, arguably, what he achieved on the West Lancashire coast, with another team not accustomed to glory,  was just as impressive.

These days, “influencers” are to be found and feted on social media, but, for this writer, as a teenager, the greatest influencer was Billy Bingham.

Which is why anyone caring to look at the old guy on an Edinburgh station last Friday, staring intently at the message on his phone, may have noticed a couple of tears running down his cheeks.

Thank you, Billy.

Thank you for the Bingham Boys.

Derry punk band, The Undertones, provided the anthemic “Teenage Kicks” as a run out tune for Hibs’ “Golden Generation” under Tony Mowbray, but a number one single, by their erstwhile front man, Feargal Sharkey, provides an even better fit for an examination of the Academy of today.

“A Good Heart”, the song’s title,  is a phrase which encapsulates the needs of a modern day football academy – and it works on different levels.

Locationwise, an academy needs to be the good heart of a club’s philosophy: especially its approaches to talent identification, development and support.

A good heart will be as strong as possible to support the physical and mental demands placed on an elite sportsperson.

As the supposed root of human emotion, the good heart is crucial in providing the passion and engagement with the club’s history, community, culture, style, and support, as well as that love of football which drives on young academy players towards the professional game

And a good heart is necessary to help develop and shape good people in all areas of the club’s operation – because good people bring trust, honesty, and inspiration, and serve as persuasive role models.

If young players are in good heart – in a comfortable place in themselves, then they are more open to coaching and development, better able to progress – physically, mentally and technically, and better fitted to displaying confidence as individuals in meeting the many challenges they will face,  allied to having the necessary team awareness as part of a squad.

All progress needs a strong jumping off point, and being in good heart can provide that.

All fine words – but how do they translate into practice?

Nobody expects, realistically, to turn out a first team comprising only Academy players – that’s neither feasible nor desirable. However, a senior squad with a core of Academy graduates – at Hibs, think Stevenson, Hanlon,  Porteous – is well placed to embody the club’s philosophy and ethos – explaining the club to newcomers and youngsters alike, carrying the onfield torch for past heroes and current staff, providing mentoring and role modelling to the current academy aspirants.

Just as the central spine of a team is crucial to onfield success, so an Academy-nurtured understanding of what the club is about contributes crucially to the team’s overall spirit and resilience.

Physically, we know the heart is the muscle that needs to be strong and well prepared to bear the load of effort and athleticism, and it needs to be well monitored and cared for by a staff with the fitness and effectiveness of the players at the forefront of their focus. A good heart comes from careful and informed treatment and expertly managed exercise, where the needs of the individual are paramount in shaping the overall team.

But while the heart’s role in physical strength is based on science, our human belief in the heart as the metaphorical seat of our emotions has also a role to play in the football academy.

Young footballers are not machines – though they may be monitored and checked on a daily basis. They cope with all the normal challenges of adolescence in addition to the pressures of trying to make it as elite sportsmen. For this reason, they need to be surrounded by good hearted staff who care for them as people, as much as seeing them as talent to be further developed. Any adult who works  with young people has to be aware that they have a duty of care – whether legally  or morally imposed.

There are many who would suggest that football and winning matches must trump over all in an Academy, and that the high stakes being played for in the top level  game these days mean that the pressure is on everyone involved to “deliver”.

Luckily more are now realising the value of emotional intelligence, empathy, and  positive interaction. This means that the recruitment of Academy staff needs to go  far beyond technical or even coaching expertise. We all know WHAT we want to achieve at an Academy, but successful staff also focus  on HOW it is achieved.

Academy staff are not just teaching skills or fitness or nutrition or game awareness, they are working with young people at the most formative stage of their lives, young people who may be footballers for ten or fifteen years, but who will also have lives to lead beyond that, and alongside that.  Their development has to be personal as well as professional, emotional as well as technical. Good hearted people, folk who genuinely care about their players, are best placed to provide this kind of positive development. They need to do more than pass on skills, they need to give of themselves.

The players need to feel that care, need to trust the staff and feel valued by them – as individuals, not just as positions in a team plan. The good news is that players who are helped into this “good place” by staff, and who feel confident in themselves as people, are best positioned to make good progress on the field, as well as off it. They are better able to take on board coaching and other information, more prepared to take the risks and meet the challenges which will drive their development to full potential.

If they can approach the training centre or game day in good heart, they will have fewer distractions, a calmer approach, and the best chance of performing to their top ability – which fulfills the Academy aim.

Progress needs a firm jumping off point, just as a good heartbeat augurs well for general fitness and mental alertness. For this reason, young players need to be offered a vision – not just in a philosophical sense, but in a practical sense also, answering their concerns about progress. What is the route they will take? What role models can they follow? Is there a loan plan for them? How will they be monitored and supported? Are there dual career opportunities – in trade apprenticeships, college or degree courses, coaching and  sports science qualifications. What role is there for parents and family? The Academy carries a precious cargo and needs to be fit for purpose, and the road ahead needs to be well signposted.

And at the root of all of this is the need for a good heart – in the club and in the Academy.

Because an Academy is not just about football, it is about people.

People with good hearts.

Dani Garavelli’s excellent Guardian/Nutmeg   piece, on the strange 2020 introduction to the game for young professional footballers gave me pause for reflection.

She points out that the normal expectations for the transition from school pupil to professional sportsman have been met with difficulty, if at all. The steady, confidence building routines of training centre timetables, game preparation, playing matches, and debriefing, have all been disrupted, to a greater or lesser extent.

Even youngsters graduating to first team substitutes’ bench, or appearances for the team itself, have done so in the strange atmosphere of empty stadia, with no crowd noise to pump the adrenaline or drown out the nerves.

For those charged with guiding young players’ development, familiar approaches have not always been possible. Social distancing can lead to emotional distancing. The instinct for how comfortably a player is adapting to his new environment can be dulled, the opportunities for one to one support are lessened.

My own role as Education and Welfare Officer for the Hibernian Development Squad has always centred on giving young players a sense of perspective. In signing their first contract, they are not becoming professional footballers as much as being given the opportunity to carve out such a career for themselves.

We know that not all Development Squad players will make the first team – but many, should they wish it, will go on to have the possibility of a career in football – full time or part time, at various levels.

At the same time, as well as adapting to full time employment, in a pressured environment, with constant monitoring and competition, they are, like all 16-21 year olds, negotiating the often tricky emotional path from teenager to young adult. If football is all they have in their lives, they are putting themselves under enormous additional pressure.

As a teacher, my role is not concerned with football’s technical skills, but rather supporting the young players into a place where they can better access those skills by seeing their football as part of their wider life. In this way, they can  appreciate that  working on their general emotional intelligence, their life choices, and their own mental wellbeing, as it is for anyone of their age, provides the best foundation for the development of their football abilities, as well as their social and life skills.

A young person who, for whatever reason,  is struggling psychologically, will find it difficult to focus on developing new skills or honing existing talent, or even taking on board new instructions and information. At a transitional stage in their life, they need to have a firm perspective on what is important and how they can best manage the changes they are experiencing.

We have heard far too many footballers, some of huge talent, describing their personal decline by saying that they only feel ‘comfortable’, or ‘happy’, or ‘themselves’,  when they are on the football pitch. The other parts of their lives, particularly in retirement, is challenging and meaningless. And it’s not just in Scotland, nor in football, that elite sports people find coping with life away from performance is a serious problem.

In general, those with a balanced view of the world around  them tend to  succeed and make better progress in each area of their life. So, even if we see a football club, in a ruthless sense, as being there merely to provide on field success, there is a reason to safeguard the mental wellbeing of their players – especially those starting out on their career

But for a young footballer, perhaps one whose every thought since he was a child has been focused on ‘making it’ in the professional game, how do you provide that balanced view – especially when a first contract has just been signed?

Coaches will keep young man grounded – and the best of them will get to know that each player  has an individual learning style and responds to varying training approaches. The best of young players will also learn from what they see around them – the deportment of   senior players and coaching staff, the values and expectations of the club, the level of openness and honesty that they encounter.

However, this may lie in the realms of hope and  fate, and surely young people deserve something more structured in their development.

The reality lies in the need for a football club and its academy to be a place of learning, and this in itself requires hard work and clear club guidance.

For perhaps a majority of youngsters, signing that first contract is as much an ‘escape’ from school as an entry to the world of football. The temptation is to wave goodbye to what they think of as a “world of learning”. Distracted by football, or with learning styles not fitted to the school system, they may have found their experiences as pupils were challenging or irrelevant, something to be put behind them.

In this area, perhaps the English system of football ‘scholars’ – sharing football and school time from early teens, faces more challenge than our approach in Scotland where we offer ‘continuing learning’ after school, while letting a youngster remain in their own school setting until sixteen or eighteen.

Part of the task of the club education department, then,  is to point out that “learning” never ends, that there are many different modes and stages of acquiring knowledge, and that a dislike for the school learning experience should not necessarily presage a rejection of future models and opportunities. In all walks of life, we need to keep learning if we are  to progress and develop, and this is surely particularly crucial to a teenager transitioning into young adult and professional footballer.

It is incumbent on the club to provide a continuing learning model which the players find accessible, relevant, and useful. Like all effective education, it needs to be based on a needs analysis: what do these young people need at this moment in time to support their successful development in all areas of their lives?

This is where club guidance and values are paramount. On starting to work at Hibernian, it was made very clear by Chief  Executive, Leeann Dempster, and Head of Football Operations, George Craig, that no player leaving the Hibs Development Squad – whether to first team, at Hibs or elsewhere, to part time or lower-league football, or, indeed,  if leaving the game altogether, should feel that their time  at the club had been ‘wasted’. They should have experienced a measurable progression and development in football and also in their maturing from adolescent to young man.

So the education programme is about what they need to know, and to reflect on how that knowledge can help them – as individuals and as members of  a  team.

Like all young footballers at elite academies they study an SFA/SPFL- backed  two year Modern Apprenticeship in Sporting Excellence – which gives them the tools to self assess and monitor their progress. This continues structured learning and provides a recognised academic qualification. A First Aid in Sports Injuries qualification is also included.

Outside of that, the programme is a varied and as eclectic as the development needs of a group of young adult elite sportsmen. The development squad will receive an in-house Hibernian Academy Diploma after a series of lectures and workshops from staff members of all departments at the Training Centre. They will learn from Sports Science, Nutrition, Performance Analysis, Sports Psychology, Administration, Talent identification and Communications departments. Each department will explain what they do, why they do it, how they do it, how the youngsters will access their support, and how it will impact on the player’s development. This gives the young player an understanding of the club’s infrastructure and  expectations, and lets each department reflect on their own input and approaches – teaching as learning, you might say.

However, variety and perspective are central to this education model, so visiting speakers – from different sports and disciplines are a regular component of the programme. In the past five years, the development squad have benefited from visits and discussions with staff and players from Cricket Scotland and Scottish Table Tennis international teams, from Scotland Rugby captain Stuart Hogg, from Ireland’s GAA,  and  hands on support from Andy Murray, whose agency manages a number of our young players.  

As part of an ongoing commitment to reflecting on women’s sport, Maureen McGonigle, Shelley Kerr,  and Eilish McColgan have all discussed their experiences with the young players. In terms of men’s issues – a fairly potent area for development in football – successful workshops with Graham Goulden, formerly of the Violence Reduction Unit, have proved thought provoking, as have sessions on racism  and  addictive behaviours. “Managing finance” also opened more than a few eyes within the squad.

There were opportunities for more “off the wall” moments. Allied to nutrition support were cookery lessons; balance and spacial awareness were boosted by dance workshops; and a visit from a Naval Jet pilot training officer provided riveting insight into ‘Thinking Correctly Under Pressure”!

The most popular and perhaps most effective inputs in the programme, however, have been the “Question and Answer” sessions with senior staff and players. Part of an ongoing ‘mentoring’ programme, this has been an opportunity for young players to hear about the various paths followed by successful players or coaches in their careers, and, crucially, none of them have reported entirely smooth sailing. The chance to learn from the combined wisdom of characters such as Alan Stubbs, Neil Lennon, Grant Holt, Marvin Barclay, Daryl Horgan, Darren McGregor and Lewis Stevenson has been a relevant and powerful eye opener to many of our young players over the past few years – a crucial part of the continuing learning experience.

Crucially, in partnership with Napier University, we have now added to the learning experience by offering the opportunity at sixteen for young footballers to embark on a university course which will lead to a degree in Sport and Business. Clearly it is not for everyone, but it effectively removes the binary choice at school leaving age: ‘Sport or Degree?’ It is also invaluable to the process that the young players also see senior players and staff following degree courses as a parallel to their careers, rather than something to be accessed in retirement.

It is understandable that young and talented footballers may see signing their first professional contract as an end in itself – but, really, such a moment is only the opening of a door.

Rather than pushing them over then threshold, clubs have a responsibility to guide these players into the space beyond and equip them to deal with what they find there.

As Frederick Douglass memorably said: “It is easier to make strong children than to repair broken men.”

My brother-in-law  left Scotland in the eighties and has lived in Spain for the past decade, so perhaps his light heartedly deprecating remarks about Dundee, during an exchange of email banter  earlier this year, were not particularly surprising. What gave me more pause for thought was recognising the alacrity with which I then defended, and indeed praised, the City of Discovery.

My connections with Tayside are tangential to say the least.

My grandfather had a nephew, Michael, son of his brother, who was born at the turn of the twentieth century suffering from a serious form of epilepsy and other challenging disabilities. As was often  the norm in those days, he spent most of the eleven years of his short life in an institution, by all accounts well cared for in an unusually enlightened regime for the times. This was at Baldovan to the north of the city, now identified as Strathmartine Hospital. He is buried in the area.

In the mid twentieth century my uncle, James, who had played football for Hibs and Ayr Utd, became a Franciscan priest and spent much of his life at the Friary in Tullidelph. Even sixty years after his death there, I am told by Dundonians of his kindness to their parents when they were ill, his entertaining  talents on the piano, or his inspirational sermons. Visiting his grave in nearby Balgay Cemetery has fostered a feeling of connection to the area for me.

Then, in the 70s, at Edinburgh University, in an ambience not entirely unaffected by posers and the pretentious, I made friends with a number of students from Dundee, who stood out for their down to earth connectedness to their roots and origins, thus cementing my good feelings towards the city.

A couple of years ago a visit to the wonderful Verdant Works Museum left me in awe  – not just of its excellent exhibits, but of the rich working history of this city – not just the familiar “jam, jute and journalism”, but Timex and NCR, shipbuilding and all the other monuments to manufacturing and hard toil. The V and A and the Waterfront are a great advertisement for the ‘new City of Discovery’ –  but they are really only the icing on the Dundee cake.

In recent times, football trips to support Hibs in Dundee have been amongst the most anticipated of the season. I like how the clubs connect with their communities, I like the quirkiness of Tannadice and the Leitch cranked stand at Dens with the standing paddock in  front of it, I like the madness of two stadia in one street, and their surroundings of housing schemes and tenements. I love the potato fritters at Jamie’s Fry on Clepington Road.

All of which brings us, on a route far less direct than the Tay Bridge, to Jim McLean, who died yesterday.

This is not a sentimental take on the legendary manager. There is little point in diminishing his reality by ignoring his rough edges – and he had many, despite them being sometimes smoothed by the sandpaper of success. To ignore his awkwardness would be like refusing to acknowledge that the industry which made the city great, whilst bringing wealth to the owners, created wretched living conditions for many workers.

McLean was a joiner, and at heart remained so – a tradesman proud of his craft. He didn’t make superstars, he built teams. He was a man of exact angles, solid materials, and careful construction. In his world, you didn’t short change the punters, nor did you base your ambitions on vague visions or daft dreams, you worked them out carefully and accurately. In this way, despite being a Lanarkshire man, he was a fitting reflection of Dundee in its many guises – no nonsense, hard work, but capable of unexpected beauty – like a sudden glimpse of the sun on the Tay between two crumbling gable ends.

Every now and then a manager brings together a team that transcends supporter loyalty, whose line-up trips off the tongues of fans of all clubs decades later: Bill Nicholson did it with Tottenham in the early 60s, Shankly with his Liverpool side in the same decade, Busby with his United team that included Best, Law and Charlton, Hearts with the Terrible Trio, Hibs with the Famous Five, and Stein with his Lisbon Lions. No matter your football affections, these were teams you loved to watch in action.

Jim McLean achieved that at Tannadice.

Of course, I hated him and his team when they played Hibs – because they were so good!  

But they were a  team that gave enjoyment to all supporters, not just its own Arabs.

I’ve seldom enjoyed watching a  player as much as Ralph Milne in full flow. Then there was the gallus goalscoring of Luggy Sturrock, the dependability of Hegarty and Narey, the artistry of Bannon, the non-stop energy of Holt, and the drive of Richard Gough to compliment the eccentricity of Hamish the Goalie!

And they were put together with a craftsman’s eye for detail. They were a fitting reflection of a city built on industry and hard graft, but with flair and creativity employed successfully, and a confidence born from its sense of self worth.

Jim McLean, like Shankly and Busby, was  a man of his time, but there is little point in longing for days that are gone. The world has moved on, and football has moved with it, seeking men of a different breed to fit in with changed circumstances. Whether we like it or not, there is nothing to be done about it.

But “Wee Jim” was a complex character – that was, I suspect, part of the reason for his success. The man who could ask an interviewer to avoid pictures of his smiling, in case it wrecked an image “I’ve spent fourteen years building”, could also deck a reporter with a right hook. The manager who could enslave a young player with an unfeasibly long contract and  could destroy tough footballers with a few well chosen words, was also capable of great personal kindnesses. He was human, and that humanity fed his strengths and his weaknesses. I suspect that’s why people  warmed to him despite themselves.

Like the city in which he lived and worked for so long, and to which he brought such success, he was a man whose craft and lightness of touch should never be disguised by the weight and impact of the tools he used to employ them. The silver of the Tay always shone through the murk from the mill chimneys.

We shan’t see his like again, but we will never forgot what he brought to the game. To walk down the slope of Arklay St and see the glow from the floodlights is to recall the excitement his teams brought to so many European nights. His spirit will always haunt the echoes in Tannadice St, and what he built will stand the test of time.

Shoogly legs would never do for this joiner!

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…………