Two Stories about Football

One

May 1977. The year of the silver jubilee. We get a free mug at school. A badly printed black and white queen looking magisterial, sceptre and all. But this year football is everything; I'm living for it. Breathing it. I go around to the newsagent early every Thursday morning to pick up ‘my Dad's' copy of Shoot! magazine. There's a pile of them growing quickly in my bedroom, and my walls are neatly tiled with team photos from the centrefold each week. I'm captain of the school team too, and take my responsibilities seriously, practising penalties with a tired leather ball against the wall of our garden every night.

Monday morning. Back at school after watching the FA cup final on television two days before. Ipswich (in blue Umbro shirts) beat Arsenal (in yellow Umbro shirts) 1-0. Trevor Beattie scored. I watched every minute. The teacher asks the class what we did at the weekend. Those of us that put up our hands get to tell the whole class what we did. My hand shoots up, stretching as high as I can. I want to tell the class about the FA cup final before anyone else does. A second-hand FA cup final report is no good to anyone. The teacher points to someone else and my heart sinks. They're going to tell everyone about watching the FA cup final on Saturday afternoon. No one is going to be interested after that.

But, unbelievably, they don't. Neither does the next person, or the one after, or the one after that. Each time the teacher asks the question again - "what did you do at the weekend?" - my hand reaches higher, but I don't get to say anything. After perhaps seven or eight reports, he stops. No one mentioned anything about the FA cup final. Not even in passing. Not even in passing! Somewhere there's been a mistake.

Two

May 1977. The year of the Queen's silver jubilee. To mark the occasion at school we're given a mug and a one-off 25 pence coin. I'm living for football though, not royalty. I go around to the newsagent at seven thirty every Thursday morning to pick up my copy of Shoot! magazine. There's a steadily growing pile in the corner of my bedroom, and my walls are decorated with the official, first-division team photos that appear in the double-page, centrefold each week. I'm captain of the school team too, and take my responsibilities seriously, banging a tired leather ball against the wall of our garden every night and trying to interest the next-door-neighbours in a kick around.

Twelve years later. March 1989. Corals leisure club in Hove. I have a squash game against Sammy Nelson, one of Arsenal's defenders in the 1977 cup final, and someone who occupied a little space on my wall, next to his team mates in a Shoot! centrefold. Sammy Nelson. I'd watched him play many times on the TV. Seen his slightly wonky face, heard his Irish lilt, and basically thought of him as a cog in the Arsenal machine. No superstar, but I knew the name. Sammy Nelson.

And there I was beating him at squash! He was taller than I'd imagined, well tanned and, well, smoother all round. Fit as footballers are. After the game we had a drink together. He was working in finance: insurance? advising? pensions? It was never too well explained. I don't think we talked about Arsenal but we might of. As I drove away, I remember smiling. Sammy Nelson. Who would have believed it?

 

 

January 2003