The Bromley Boys Read online

  Some of my ideas were radical; others were plain commonsense.

  Top of the list was persuading Carshalton to give back Alan Stonebridge. I was convinced he had somehow been forced to join them against his will.

  I also wanted all powers to be returned to the committee. The team were much fitter under Alan Basham, but they were also much worse. The Isthmian League had to share some of the blame for the club’s decline, as the refereeing had been substandard and we had conceded too many goals that were clearly offside and blatant penalties had been ignored. No-one was spared as I addressed a wide range of issues. I felt the supporters (apart from the three which I named) weren’t supporting the team properly.

  My other big idea was to get a board made up with the words ‘THIS IS HAYES LANE’. It would be placed in the players’ tunnel so the teams could see it as they were running out onto the pitch. I’d got the idea after reading about the ‘THIS IS ANFIELD’ board at Liverpool’s Anfield Road ground, which was there to intimidate opposing teams. I also felt that a suitable tune should be found to greet the appearance of the Bromley players at home games. Something that would become as well known as Palace’s ‘Glad all Over’ and Everton’s ‘Z Cars’.

  My suggestion was to use ‘Bend Me, Shape Me’ by Amen Corner. I even offered to lend them my spare copy of the single.

  The marching music, I told them, was too old fashioned.

  And finally, I put forward the radical theory of approaching the Isthmian League and suggesting a mid-season injury break. This would allow players to rest for a couple of weeks, allowing them time to shake off those niggling little aches and pains that had accumulated over the first few months of the season.

  If our twin strike force hadn’t been affected so badly by leg boils and swollen knees, things would surely be different. Thinking about this topic had dredged up the memory of our ten-man injury list for the Oxford away game that we’d lost 7–0. It had me seething at the injustice of being forced to play with such a weakened side.

  I typed the letter up on my dad’s typewriter, making a carbon copy, which I sent to Charlie King (his address, which was ‘Rosings’, Falcon Avenue, Bickley, was on the front cover of home programmes).

  I then posted both envelopes and eagerly awaited that Friday’s Bromley and Kentish Times, particularly the controversy I knew my words would stir up.

  •••

  If one game summed up all that is wrong with Bromley, it was their final Kent Floodlit Cup fixture, away to Erith and Belvedere.

  I went into Erith’s Park View ground knowing that Bromley could still, technically at least, finish top of the group. It required an unlikely sequence of events – we needed to win tonight’s game by approximately 30 goals, while Gravesend and Northfleet had to lose by ten goals or more. But where there’s life, there’s hope.

  Bromley didn’t even look interested in giving it a go.

  The game was an embarrassingly one-sided affair and the first time I had ever seen Bromley go an entire game without having one single shot. The home goalie literally did not have a save to make.

  Alan Soper had a far busier night, including picking the ball out of his net three times.

  It was a terrible, terrible performance and I couldn’t understand why Alan Basham had decided to rest Eric Nottage and Bobby Lennox, our two best forwards.

  It was as though he’d decided the game didn’t matter and was happy to lose. I couldn’t imagine the committee having that attitude.

  Mercifully, the end of the game also signalled the end of Bromley’s participation in the Kent Floodlit Cup for the season. The first phase was over and Bromley’s group, Group ‘D’, was incredibly close. Erith and Belvedere’s 3–0 win was enough for them to finish in first place with 69 points, just ahead of Gravesend and Northfleet on 67. These two teams qualified for the quarter-finals, with Bexley United on 65 just missing out, together with Grays who had a mere 52 points.

  But the team that stood out at even the most casual glance at the table was Bromley. In their eight games, they had managed a grand total of 12 points, the lowest of any of the 17 teams in the competition.

  This made them undisputedly the worst amateur team in Kent at playing football under floodlights.

  •••

  The big story on the back page of the Bromley and Kentish Times was Johnny Warman’s return from suspension. I was a bit disappointed that my letter hadn’t had priority over that, but could accept that this was newsworthy.

  My feeling of understanding turned to full-blown anger when I looked through the rest of the page and saw no mention of my letter. I hurriedly opened up the paper, assuming it had been relegated to the inside, but all I saw was reports of various hockey matches, Sunday league results and news of the official opening of Eric Fright’s Bromley Sports Centre.

  My letter had not made it.

  The feeling of powerlessness was greater than ever. Not only did I have to suffer appalling decisions, bad luck and injustice, but my thoughts were being ignored.

  I tried to concentrate on reading the preview of the upcoming game against Woking, but was distracted by the sounds of hail crashing against the window. I gazed outside and thought that the bad weather could easily mean the match would have to be postponed and provide the break Bromley so desperately seemed to need.

  •••

  When snow is falling heavily, the early afternoon sky is dark and threatening, and ice has formed a skating rink-thick layer over the ground, it’s the perfect Saturday to sit around at home with the heater on watching the wrestling on TV.

  Unless your team’s game is one of the few that hasn’t been called off, that is.

  Woking v Bromley was one such fixture. I rang their ground and was told that the game was on. They had a bit of snow on the pitch, but not enough to cause a postponement. This was exciting news. I’d already prepared myself for the blow of having no football and the news felt like a reprieve.

  My next phone call was to Peter. He, too, had heard the game was still on and would be picking me up after he’d got Roy. I got ready for the journey, carefully packing my boots into my duffel bag, confident that the chances of at least one Bromley player having a non-fatal road accident in these conditions was high.

  When Peter announced his arrival by tooting his horn, I ran out of the door and immediately slipped on the icy pathway. I picked myself up and walked slowly and tentatively towards the car, unable to see how a football match could possibly take place in such conditions.

  The drive was a nightmare right from the start, the car crawling along at under 30mph, the tyres with a tenuous grip on the road and a flurry of thick snow being constantly swept aside by the windscreen wipers.

  It all brought out the worst in Roy, who was a born worrier. His concerns ranged from being convinced the game would be called off, to us not making it on time to Bromley losing heavily because they’d be tired after their nerve-wracking journey.

  It took the best part of an hour to get to Raynes Park, which was about half-way to Woking. By this time conditions had deteriorated so much we decided to find a phone box so that Peter could put in another call to Woking’s ground, unable to believe that the match could possibly take place. He came back to the car with astonishing news – it was definitely on, although the kick-off had been delayed because none of the Bromley players had arrived yet.

  By the time we got to Esher, it was already dark despite being only 2.45pm. By now, driving was next to impossible and there was a long hold-up due to an accident. I immediately felt overwhelming guilt – what if it was one of the Bromley players?

  Peter decided to ring the ground again for another update. Surely no game could possibly go ahead in this?

  He was told that the referee was stranded in Streatham, but that the senior linesman had arrived and declared the pitch playable. Bromley were still stuck in traffic, but kick-off had provisionally been scheduled for 3.30pm.

  Eventually, it got under way at 3.45pm.
We weren’t there to watch it, though. Peter had decided to turn back. We had no hope of getting to Woking in time. I volunteered to find out the score if Peter could stop at some phone boxes on the way home.

  Peter agreed and the news that Bromley had lost 2–0 only added to the general air of misery in the car.

  I was finally dropped off at home around 7.30pm, thankful that the next game was at Hayes Lane.

  •••

  The Woking game was the last time I ever took my boots with me when I went to watch Bromley play.

  I heard a few days later that Graham Farmer, who had made his debut in the first game of the season at Wycombe Wanderers, had been fatally injured in a car crash.

  I couldn’t help but feel partly responsible, as the reason I always packed my boots in my duffel bag was in case any players had been involved in an accident on the way to the game.

  I felt guilty.

  Guilty for ever wishing for accidents (even though I always made sure to specify that they were to be non-fatal), guilty for never including him in any lists of my favourite players and guilty for being so selfish in thinking only of what would benefit me.

  I didn’t know much about Graham Farmer. He only ever played in the Wycombe game, but he was still registered as a Bromley player. I could only vaguely recall what he looked like, but I was still deeply upset by what had happened.

  The only games I took my boots to after that were ones involving Hayesford Park Reserves.

  •••

  The four-mile bike ride to school at the start of the week was every bit as difficult as Saturday’s car journey.

  The weather was still atrocious. Our Sunday league game had been mercifully called off after an hour, with Hayesford Park Reserves trailing 6–0. The excited chatter in the changing room afterwards was down to Roy’s theory that we might be awarded a draw since we hadn’t played the full 90 minutes.

  Following a frantic phone call to the Orpington and Bromley District Sunday League later the next day, Peter discovered that the game had been awarded to our opponents, Chelsfield Colts. Apparently it was felt unlikely that we would score a minimum of six goals in the remaining half-hour.

  I felt that we should appeal, citing Portugal’s remarkable comeback in the last World Cup, when they went 3–0 down to North Korea and then came back to win 5–3.

  No-one seemed to think this would help sway the League and the matter was quietly dropped.

  But while football continued to provide disappointments in my life, school was going brilliantly. The skinheads seemed to treat me with benign amusement and Morrie hadn’t followed up with any further assaults, despite having several opportunities to do so. It was as if he considered justice to have been metered out and was content for the status quo to return.

  While I hadn’t actually made any friends yet, there were several boys who I enjoyed talking to. Just about all of them seemed to like football and it definitely helped my credibility when I told them I played in a men’s Sunday league. I gave the impression that I was a goalkeeper and also hinted that my team were better placed than they actually were.

  This led to me being approached by one of the boys, who ran a team in a local Beckenham league. He wanted to know if I’d consider playing on Saturday mornings for his team, which was made up of the best players in the school.

  They badly needed a goalie. My immediate instinct was to agree. But then, I wisely told him that unfortunately I wouldn’t be able to do it. The official reason was that I wouldn’t have time. The truth was that I had finally realised that I was a terrible goalie.

  I felt as though I’d had a close escape. If I’d played for them, I probably would have humiliated myself so much, I’d never be able to live it down.

  Then I remembered I had a trial for the school team coming up. And I couldn’t see a way out of it.

  •••

  The trial didn’t go as badly as I imagined it would, but that was only because what I’d imagined had been so horrific, it would have been impossible in real life.

  There were positives to be taken out of it. While it was soon obvious to everyone that I wasn’t a good enough goalie to play at that level, I did make a few good saves.

  And despite my fears, no-one had laughed at me. I was replaced at half-time and asked if I wanted to play up front, like I did in my Sunday league team.

  I wisely declined.

  ISTHMIAN LEAGUE HOW THEY STAND

  4TH DECEMBER 1969

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I had a love/hate relationship with snow.

  I loved sitting at my window at home, watching it fall onto the garden in the orange glow of the streetlight.

  But I hated how it sometimes put Bromley’s games at risk of being called off, after I’d been looking forward to them all week.

  Today’s game was a game very much at risk. Heavy snowfall had led to a procession of postponements being announced on Grandstand and if I wanted to see Bromley take on Wembley in the London Senior Cup, I knew I had to play my part.

  Wrapping up in my Hayesford Park Reserves shirt, two jumpers and my anorak, I took the bus to Hayes Lane, where a small party of volunteers were already hard at work, clearing the snowfall and pouring salt on the ice.

  After changing into my wellington boots, I was handed a shovel and got to work clearing the touchline on the Main Stand side of the ground. It was hard work, but I was driven by the prospect of seeing my heroes in action later that afternoon and knowing that I was at least partly responsible for the game taking place.

  After about 20 minutes, Roy came over and said that everyone was going to go to the canteen under the stand and get a cup of tea.

  I joined them, enjoying the feeling of a hot cup warming life back into my hands.

  But when everyone else got up to get back to work, I stayed behind. I wanted to have a look around and see what was under the stand.

  I wandered up the corridor, my heart beating fast as I smelled stale liniment coming from the dressing room with a handwritten sign saying ‘HOME’ on it. I checked no-one was around and then pushed the door slightly ajar. It was where Bromley changed. The pegs they hung their clothes on, the bench they sat on while the committee delivered the team talks and the baths where they washed the mud away before changing back into their everyday clothes.

  I stood there, allowing it all to sink in. This was it, the club’s inner sanctum.

  I sat down on the bench and closed my eyes, rubbing imaginary liniment into my thighs, fantasising I was part of the team about to take the field for an important cup game. It was almost a disappointment to open my eyes and see empty pegs and unoccupied benches.

  Somehow, I managed to drag myself away and back to the corridor.

  Opposite the changing rooms was another door. I couldn’t help myself and let myself into a tiny room, the size of a large cupboard. It was where Charlie King sat and made his matchday announcements. I was a bit disappointed. I was expecting some kind of high tech set-up, straight out of Tomorrow’s World, but instead found an old mono record player with a huge 1950s-style microphone dangling over it.

  There was also a pile of marching LPs scattered across the tiny desk, although one of them looked a lot more dog-eared than the others. I wasn’t surprised to see that it featured the familiar recordings of ‘Colonel Bogey’, ‘The Dambusters’ March’ and ‘Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines’.

  Taking the record from the sleeve, I could see that it was badly scratched. Why didn’t they just play one of the other LPs?

  In the next room down the corridor, I found the nerve centre of Bromley Football Club. The boardroom.

  Here, I imagined, the committee met to discuss team selection, where members took it in turns to put forward their ideas. The furniture was noticeably more opulent than anywhere else, giving the room an aura of power – an impression that was heightened by the ashtrays stuffed with cigar stubs.

  In contrast, at the end of the corridor was the supporter
s’ bar. I had never been in there as I was too young. But I’d walked past on many occasions and glanced inside where I’d seen a few wooden chairs and tables, with open packets of Sovereign and Number 6 cigarettes, where men drank beer under a cloud of thick smoke.

  I slowly jogged up the players’ tunnel, soaking up what it was like to make the short journey from changing room to the pitch, imagining the fans calling out my name.

  I then picked up my shovel and carried on clearing the touchline.

  •••

  It was a tense time as the referee, Mr AC McGuire, inspected our handiwork before deciding that the ground was in good enough condition for the game to take place.

  My big hope was that it was also in bad enough condition to turn the game into a farce and earn Bromley a replay at Wembley in ten days’ time.

  For many years, I had assumed that Wembley played their home games at Wembley Stadium, but over the last few years had realised that this was unlikely.

  Unlikely, but still possible. One of my favourite football facts was that Queen’s Park, a useless Scottish Second Division team, played all their home games at Hampden Park, one of the world’s biggest stadiums.

  This fact was in just about every football book I owned.

  So if a replay was to be needed, it wasn’t out of the question that it would take place at the same ground England won the World Cup. Which is why I was hoping for a draw, although a win would have been even better. I just found it best to have downgraded expectations these days.

  The crowd was pathetic. Even Charlie King admitted that it was ‘around 300’, which was the first time he’d publicly admitted to anything less than 400 spectators being in attendance. It was officially the worst gate of the season. The truth was even worse. There were only 85 people at the game. It didn’t take long for me to count them.

  I later found out from Peter that the poor gate had meant the club had lost money in staging the match. It cost Bromley and Wembley £4 each to cover the loss.

  Bromley played with absolutely no confidence. It was painful to watch. No-one seemed to want the ball. And when they did get it, they got rid of it as soon as possible.