The Bromley Boys Read online

  •••

  Sevenoaks, unlike just about every other school in the universe, had school on Saturday mornings. Double maths, chemistry and Latin. I hated all these subjects with a passion, but Latin more than anything.

  Being a Saturday, all I could think about was getting back to Bromley and watching the game against Woking, so as soon as the bell went I rushed for the door. It was imperative that I went home before going to the ground, so I could dump the straw hat, change into less formal clothes and pack my duffel bag.

  In my hurry, I managed to collide with another boy, who was also keen to make a quick escape. ‘Oi, watch where you’re going,’ he muttered. ‘No, YOU watch where you’re going’, I replied, slightly disappointed that this was the best I could come up with.

  It was a trivial incident which would have major repercussions in the weeks and months to come.

  ISTHMIAN LEAGUE HOW THEY STAND

  12TH SEPTEMBER 1969

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At 14, when your football team is going well, life is going well.

  And it wasn’t just me who was feeling the psychological benefits of Bromley’s successful mini-run.

  Roy and Derek were going about their work at the Supporters’ Club hut with smiles on their faces. Sales of pens and enamel badges were really taking off and the recent addition of rosettes had proven to be a shrewd business decision, even if they weren’t strictly in the right colours. Most supporters seemed to be wearing them.

  I had three.

  But it was something in the recent Bromley programmes that had got me very excited indeed.

  There had been an announcement that the Supporters’ Club were looking for someone to work in the tea hut on the far side of the ground. I often helped out, collecting cups and saucers after games and returning them to Peter, who was in charge of the hut.

  But this was something far more desirable. If I could get the job, it would get me into the inner circle of supporters. Not only would I be able to serve tea and watch games from a superior vantage position, but it would be a step towards my ultimate dream – working in the Supporters’ Club hut itself.

  I tentatively asked Derek for an application form, but he just laughed and pointed out John Self, the secretary of the Supporters’ Club, and said I should ask him.

  I decided to do it later, once I’d worked up the courage.

  •••

  I took the same seat in the stand that I’d sat in for the Enfield game. I was pretty big on superstition and since my attempts at growing a Jeff Bridge moustache had fallen frustratingly short of being noticeable, I had decided to do my bit by sitting in the same place every home game throughout what I was convinced would be a lengthy unbeaten run.

  The seats in the stand weren’t so much seats as a narrow wooden bench, with wobbly white lines painted on to separate you from whoever was sitting next to you.

  I was in Seat B8. And B8 was where I was determined to stay all season. The only bad thing about this position was that it was directly underneath the tannoy speaker, which played badly scratched records by military marching bands for half-an-hour before kick-off.

  For the second game running, I had my programme reading drowned out by crackly renditions of ‘Colonel Bogey’, ‘The Dambusters’ March’ and ‘Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines’.

  When the team changes were announced, it was like having them shouted directly into my ear by a very loud Charlie King, who doubled up as Chairman and Ground Announcer. The news he gave was mixed. Pat Brown’s wife was clearly feeling better, because he would be playing. Ian McGuire hadn’t recovered from his mystery injury, so would be replaced by the great Alan Soper in goal. And the possibly-no-longer-useless Phil Amato had got over his stubbed-toe problems.

  Woking were a mid-table team – not as good as Enfield, and not as bad as Corinthian Casuals. A win today and Bromley would join them on eight points.

  The home team started well. A ridiculous back pass almost let Jim Watson in and Eric Nottage ruined a brilliant piece of play when he flicked the ball over the full-back’s head, ran around him and volleyed the ball directly into the corner flag.

  Woking’s answer was pure comedy. The winger, McCormack, ran down the left and, with the choice of five colleagues in the penalty area, completely miscued and fell over, injuring himself so badly he was carried off and replaced.

  The applause from the Bromley fans as he left the field was sympathetic. We were no strangers to witnessing self-inflicted injuries, having seen Ian McGuire’s efforts a few days earlier.

  Ironically, it was McGuire’s replacement who would be Bromley’s hero today. Alan Soper had the game of his life and somehow kept a clean sheet despite a barrage of shots, headers and ill-advised back passes on his goal. As a fellow goalie, I felt I had an expert’s understanding of just how well he was playing. His decision making was excellent – he seemed to know exactly when to catch the ball and when to tip it over the bar. And his distribution was, in my opinion, even better than McGuire’s.

  The game was decided 22 minutes from the end, during a forgettable 60 seconds for the Woking centre-half Edwards. First he was booked for a late tackle on Wawrzewski. Then, from the resulting free-kick he headed the ball straight to Jim Watson, who gratefully accepted the chance and it was 1–0 to Bromley. And that was the way it finished. We now had three wins in a row and were just seven points away from the current league leaders, Sutton United.

  Soper had been so good, I ran out of space in my record of his saves in the programme (most of which were ‘great’ though one was ‘amazing’) and had to continue on the opposite page, writing over the Cracker Southland Coaches Ltd advertisement.

  The 1953 Cup Final between Blackpool and Bolton Wanderers had been so dominated by Stanley Matthews that it had become known as ‘The Matthews Final’. This game, to me, would always be known as ‘The Soper Match’.

  •••

  I found John Self helping Peter out with the washing up at the tea hut. Thinking that a good way to ingratiate myself would be to collect the empty plates, cups and saucers from around the ground, I took a tin tray with ‘A Double Diamond works wonders’ on it and stacked it with all the used crockery I could find on the terraces and in the stands.

  By the time I got back, John Self had gone. I decided to talk to him on Tuesday during the Ilford game.

  I think I’d always known I’d be there. I was pretty sure Johnson’s wouldn’t even notice I’d gone. Especially if I left the ground early and got back before bedtime.

  My plan wasn’t particularly well thought-out. It was basically this:

  1. Leave Johnson’s after supper at 5.30.

  2. Get bus to ground,

  3. Watch game,

  4. Get bus back,

  5. Sneak in to dormitory,

  6. Go to bed.

  I had thought of stuffing a dummy made of pillows and wearing pyjamas into my bed, like I’d seen in a war film on TV, but decided it was an unnecessary complication which probably wouldn’t fool anyone.

  The first part of the plan went smoothly, in that I left Johnson’s after supper. This wasn’t that unusual – I often went for a kickabout on the village green, so no-one would have realised anything was amiss.

  As I was coming from Johnson’s I’d had the chance to change into something a bit more suitable. I didn’t have my anorak – that was at home – but neither did I have the straw hat or pink tie.

  I hadn’t told anyone what I was doing. I didn’t know any of the other boys well enough to trust them with my plans, so I just took off.

  By the time I got to the ground at 7.15pm, all I could think about was the match. The excitement I got from walking up the long path to the ground entrance and getting the first glimpse of the blazing floodlights was intensified by Bromley being on a winning streak.

  The game started brightly enough. With ‘Colonel Bogey’ still ringing in my ears, Pat Brown’s fourth-minute free-kick was completely missed by
the flapping Ilford goalie and Eric Nottage headed the ball into an unguarded net.

  In the Bromley goal, Alan Soper was once again on great form, with a series of great saves. He looked unbeatable.

  But just when Ilford appeared to have given up on ever finding a way past him, Postman Pat Brown showed them how with a spectacular own-goal.

  An innocuous cross from their right-winger Johnny Clark was headed with such power and precision past a startled Soper that it would have been one of the goals of the season, had it happened at the other end.

  With the scores level at half-time, I went in search of John Self and found him serving at the tea hut. The only way I could think of to talk to him was to join the queue, so I patiently waited my turn. Unfortunately, I lost my nerve at the last minute and ended up asking him for a cup of tea and an egg sandwich instead. I then trudged back to Seat B8, no nearer to getting my dream job. The fear of rejection had been too overwhelming, especially as it would have happened in front of a small queue of parched Bromley fans.

  It was to be that kind of night. Nothing turned out quite as well as I imagined it would.

  The second half was another example. When Eric Nottage soared above the defence to head home his sixth goal of the season, it was perfect timing. If I left immediately, I’d just have time to catch the 8.40 bus which would get me back at Johnson’s before lights out.

  I checked my pocket for bus fare. And realised, to my alarm, that I didn’t have enough. I’d spent too much buying a cup of tea and sandwich that I didn’t really want. I was going to have to hitch back.

  While the full horror of this was sinking in, Jeff Bridge decided to attempt a back pass which went straight to the Ilford inside-forward, who beat Soper from a tight angle to make it 2–2.

  The night was going from bad to worse. A feeling that was confirmed when Eric Nottage limped off with what looked like a serious injury just before the end.

  I left the ground demoralised. The draw, which a month ago would have been cause for celebration, was now a wasted opportunity.

  And I had around 20 minutes to get back to Sevenoaks before I would be missed.

  It was dark, so I decided to stick to the main roads where I would have a better chance of getting a lift. The fact that it was basically the same route as the 704 bus, which I had travelled on several hundred times, meant I wouldn’t get lost.

  But as it was the kind of night where everything was going wrong, I wasn’t too confident.

  I started walking, thumb held out. However, cars were few and far between and by the time I got to Farnborough, a couple of miles away, it had gone 10pm.

  By the time I got to Green Street Green, which wasn’t even half way, I was starting to feel tired and cold. My school blazer was no match for a freezing Autumn night and being overweight meant I was ill-prepared for the exertion of a long walk.

  As I got deeper into the countryside, there was less and less street lighting and more and more open fields.

  Just before getting to Pratt’s Bottom, I became aware of the owls hooting – a sound which took on a sinister air to an impressionable 14–year-old. I looked at the luminous dial on my watch – 12.25am. For once, I wished I was in bed at Johnson’s.

  I even thought of sleeping in the Badger’s Mount bus shelter and getting the first bus in the morning, but realised that would be too late. Someone would have noticed I wasn’t in my bed. Besides, it was far too cold to sleep.

  I went through my pockets, trying to find something to eat and found some Opal Fruits and a bag containing a few boiled sweets that were shaped like peanuts and tasted nothing like them. The plan to ration these didn’t work as I stuffed all of them into my mouth at the same time.

  I then carried on walking. All the places that whizzed by when you were on the bus seemed to be enormous distances apart when you were on foot and I was getting increasingly tired.

  But I was determined to get back before morning, even though traffic was virtually non-existent apart from a couple of long-distance lorries, both of which ignored my thumb.

  Finally, at 3.15am, just outside Riverhead and only a few miles from Sevenoaks, a car pulled up. I was on the brink of exhaustion, scared and hungry. The driver wound down his window and called my name. It was my dad. He’d been driving around for hours trying to find me. Apparently there were cars searching everywhere. The police were involved as were friends of my parents and several concerned teachers from school.

  I got into the car and promptly burst into tears.

  ISTHMIAN LEAGUE HOW THEY STAND

  25TH SEPTEMBER 1969

  CHAPTER SIX

  I was allowed to spend the next day in bed, where I caught up with my Agatha Christie reading. It had been a late night, explaining where I’d been and promising I wouldn’t do anything like it again.

  I meant it, too. I felt really guilty about what I’d done and had vowed to make a fresh start. From now on, I was going to throw myself into life at Sevenoaks. I planned to play rugby and croquet, study and be a perfect student.

  It had been made very clear to me that if I ever got into trouble again, I would be expelled. This was my last chance and I was determined to take it. My behaviour was going to be perfect from now on.

  I was even going to miss Bromley’s midweek matches and only go to their Saturday games.

  I threw myself into school life, vowing there’d be no more standing on the sidelines.

  I put my name down for the inter-house rugby competition, even though I’d never played a game in my life. I entered the Upper Fourth-form Monopoly tournament and got through to the second round. I studied harder than I’d ever studied before, spending over five hours one night writing an imaginary interview with Xerxes, King of Persia, on how he felt after his fleet had been destroyed by the Athenians.

  I even asked about taking up wrestling. This was a sport I had a keen interest in, not least because one of the greatest wrestlers of his generation lived a few doors down from me in Bromley. His name was ‘Judo’ Al Hayes and just about every time I went down to the park, I would pass his house and see him washing his Jaguar in the driveway. His toughness had made a huge impression on me. A few months ago, he had taken a terrible beating at the hands of Honey Boy Zimba, ‘the sweetest wrestler of them all’, in a televised bout from a provincial town hall.

  The commentators questioned whether he would ever be able to walk again after Zimba put him in a trademark Boston Crab and refused to let go, even though Hayes had submitted and was screaming in pain. The crowd were on their feet booing, but Zimba took no notice. There was madness in his eyes.

  The next day, I was expecting to see an ambulance outside his house – but instead, there he was, miraculously unmarked, cleaning his car. It was an incredible recovery.

  While I was still at primary school he had become British heavyweight champion after defeating his former trainer (and mentor) Sir Athol Oakley for the title. More recently, he had adopted the identity of ‘The White Angel’, a mysterious masked mauler who claimed to be from France. His nemesis was another man in a mask – Dr Death. The end came when The White Angel challenged Dr Death to an unmasking match at the Granada Cinema in Tooting. The loser would have their mask ripped off and their identity revealed to a world.

  Dr Death’s underhand tactics cost Hayes the fight and led to the end of The White Angel. He had since carved out a successful career under his own name.

  To say I worshipped ‘Judo’ Al Hayes would be an understatement. I had his autograph eight times, often walked past his house just so I could see him and firmly believed that if I took up wrestling, he would be able to give me tips.

  But even if I wasn’t able to wrestle, there were plenty more activities I would be happy to take up, including cricket, chess and cross-country running.

  I was going to put my name down for all of them. But just because I was considering doing all these things didn’t mean I wasn’t constantly thinking about football.

  In particular,
the FA Cup.

  •••

  It isn’t just supporters of the bigger league teams who dream of FA Cup glory.

  And with Bromley due to take the first steps towards Wembley on Saturday in the first qualifying round, I had worked out that with a mixture of a kind draw and a few upsets, we could go a long way. Maybe all the way.

  There were signs everywhere. The five-game unbeaten run, to start with. Another thing was the knowledge that Bromley had come desperately close to beating West Ham a couple of months ago, a team who had not only lifted the trophy in 1964, but also won the European Cup Winners’ Cup a year later.

  Then there was the fact that the FA Cup was littered with upsets – in one of the biggest footballing shocks of the decade, 4th Division Crewe Alexandra had held Spurs, who were the best team in the country, to a 2–2 draw and almost beaten them.

  The replay didn’t go quite so well as they lost 13–2.

  What really captured my imagination about this wasn’t just the astonishing amount of goals they managed to concede, but also discovering (according to my copy of The Topical Times Football Annual) that Crewe had left Euston from platform 13 after the game and arrived home on platform 2.

  The final factor in my current FA Cup optimism was the brilliance of Alan Soper and Alan Stonebridge, the in-form players in an in-form team.

  Soper was, in my mind, easily the best goalie in the Isthmian League. But it was Stonebridge I really idolised. Even though Eric Nottage was scoring more goals Stonebridge was the more glamorous figure. He was younger, and looked like a cross between John Lennon and Paul McCartney. He always scored the flashier goals – of his 23 the previous season, many had been thrilling. There were cavalier efforts from impossible angles, audacious penalties and even a couple of thunderbolts from breathtaking distances. Nottage was more of a centre- forward in the traditional mould – a solid converter of crosses, a finisher of moves. If Nottage was Bromley’s Bobby Charlton, Stonebridge was the local George Best.

  My growing optimism was tempered by one unavoidable statistic – Bromley hadn’t actually scored a goal in the FA Cup in four years.