Lord of The Manor

Head down and seeing red I charged across the kitchen towards my sister and her friend. I was like a human bowling ball seeking to knock away the last two stubborn skittles than had enraged me. Deftly, and at the very last minute the two girls moved very slightly to the side and I blindly butted the blank drawer plate just below the kitchen sink. The impact, pain and shock of hitting best quality melamine and enamel rather than my intended target of soft flesh left me stunned and somehow caused my whole animosity to evaporate. The reason for my blind rage was football based. I had just watched the 1971 FA Cup Final on television. My team of the time, Liverpool had just lost after extra time after initially taking the lead. The whole build up to the day had heightened my excitement and combined with an overdose of sugar enriched soft drinks and fizz bomb sweets I was, to say the least, a bit high, as much as an 8 year old could legally be . The girls had simply commented on the result but that had been enough to cause my stupid action. I was football mad. Nothing changed much over the coming years and even today, now, I am listening with casual interest to a sunday afternoon football match commentary. The head-butting incident led to a parental chiding which was understandable. I got into trouble over other things football at school after an essay I had submitted was subsequently marked down and brought to the attention of the whole class. I had written it one evening as a set piece of homework whilst listening to a match on the radio. Unfortunately my concentration on the game was more than my diligence for the essay and the two words 'Tottenham Hotspur' found their way into a completely unrelated sentence in my submission. I had not proof read the essay which would otherwise have spared me the ridicule of the class and a duff grade. I was a very keen player but always seemed to be on the edge of the usual team picked to represent the school. If we had adopted a squad and rota basis as they do in the Premier League today I would certainly have been somewhere in the second string. The very modest secondary school team of the time could only fit 12 players onto the coach to away games as the remainder of the seats were allocated for other year teams . I did tag along on a few away trips on the pretence of just supporting the team but secretly had my full kit and football boots in the bottom of my sports bag under my cagoule and a snack based packed lunch. On one saturday morning trip to a distant town to play a cup match I went along to give some encouragement. It had been arranged to pick up two of the players from their villages on the way which was a bit unusual but their parents had not been available to drop them off at the school at the quite early start time. The first lad, our goalkeeper was waiting shivering at the bus stop on the village green. The second lad, a midfielder was nowhere to be seen at the pick up point. The bus driver was impatient to keep to the schedule as he had obviously promised himself a full English breakfast at a cafe between dropping us off and later picking us up. The sports master agreed that we should go and as he strained around to keep the village green in view, as we pulled away for any last minute appearance, he noticed me. I actually think he had done a double take but did not understand what I was doing on the bus in the first place. It did not take much persuasion to enlist me in the team. I was a fast runner and a reasonable ball player so the vacancy in midfield could be filled. I was now very excited and it took some effort to remain calm and collected with the prospect of playing the match. The venue, a large and imposing Grammar School was quite intimidating but the evocative sound of my boot studs rattling and scuffing the pathways on approaching the pitch for kick off gave me all the impetus and confidence I required. I had been given an opportunity to impress through a combination of freakish logistical events and might not get another. In the first half I ran around a lot keeping up with the play. I got in a couple of good tackles and interceptions earning some acknowledgement from team mates. Then, I received a pass out from defence and saw our striker making a good forward run towards their penalty area. Opponents were closing in fast to get the ball or just me. I executed the pass of a lifetime, a perfectly struck and weighted ball inside their full back and in a seamless continuation of his attacking run our centre forward latched on and hammered the ball into the net. In my minds eye I could see the action replay. I still can now some 35 years later. A one in a million move. Unfortunately, only the competing teams, respective sports masters, a handful of home team parents and a disinterested dog witnessed my contribution to the goal. It's funny but my action replay has me playing in front of a crowd of 100,000 including a well attended Royal Box and with the affirmation of John Motson and a panel of former players that my place in the team should be assured and my future as a professional football player bright and rosy. We lost the game 6-1. A couple of years later some kind patron of our school donated full kits and equipment for two teams for each school year group and I got into the second team for my final year before moving away. The Adidas strip was exceptionally smart and the trademark three paralell bars on shoulders, arms and shorts gave an instant boost to the team although our poor results soon emphasised that we were largely posers and the kit was all top-show with no substance. Tragically, an enthusiastic volunteering parent put the brand new team kit on a hot wash and all the colours ran into the white stripes and we looked like a grubby Manchester City. At my next school the year group was a lot smaller and football actually took a second place to Rugby Union so I got into the first eleven more by default than skillful ability. If I had any very distant aspirations of progressing my football to any higher level these were swiftly shattered in a match against the Old Boys of the school. Amongst the protruding bellies and grey or balding pates of the assembled Old Boys was a slight, athletic figure who I noted, in his warming up was quite at ease with ball juggling and tricks. I had some confidence in being informed that I had to mark him closely in the game, after all he was advanced in years, at least in his late 30's. In the next 90 minutes I spent most of the time sat on my backside or flipped off balance in a rapid and persistent succession of very subtle but professional fouls. My shirt was tugged, ankles tapped, toes stood on, character and confidence assassinated by a display of utter speed and skill. I did, out of frustration, just leg him up in a clumsy tackle but he literally bounced up running and went on immediately to score with a text book volley. I learnt the hard way that my adversary and fast developing nemesis was Malcom Lord, a former Hull City player from the notable 1960's and early 1970's campaigns in the English league. I was emotionally and physically battered and bruised by the experience but it served to concentrate my thoughts and efforts on an academic rather than a sporting path from thereon-in.