Taken from my book Fifty Not Out - see www.idlelord.com
This is my modest tribute to a wonderful bloke who we lost recently. Known to so many for not just his sporting prowess but also his unfailing wit and great company; we shall all miss you Jeff.
“The rules of soccer are very simple, basically it is this: if it moves, kick it. If it doesn’t move, kick it until it does.” Phil Woosnam, golfer.
Just about everybody who ever kicked a football I know has had a season or two with one of the longest established Sunday morning football teams in Bradford: Beldon Sports AFC. My debut was on a typically freezing Sunday morning on the appalling rock-infested, debris-strewn home pitch at Myra Shay. Looking over and beyond the city centre vista of Bradford, the wind almost knocked me over.
Being crap meant that football became a natural way to keep very fit, largely because most of us spent much of the game covering mile after mile chasing the opposition, struggling in vain to get close enough to haul them down by fair means or foul.
My first season with them was notable for two things: the coldest of cold winters and the introduction of a new kit, which was as rare as successive wins. The problem with the new kit was simply that whoever chose it had tried to accommodate an entire team on a one-size fits all basis and that meant from our centre forward - Giant - to weedy little me.
In addition our purchaser was swayed by the chance of a job lot and a global brand – Le Coq Sportif – enough to dismiss the fact that short sleeved shirts were fine in the south of France but not on a shitty, wind swept hill-top in Bradford.
Many times I tried to feign injury by ignoring may pal’s frantic knocks on my parents’ door on Sunday mornings, followed by a torrent of pebbles raining on my bedroom window.I even awoke one morning to find him pulling my sheets off the bed although how he got in the house was a mystery; it was the winter of discontent.
Once we got to the game though it was impossible to not have your spirits lifted by a fantastically diverse range of characters that formed the core of the Beldon team for many years. Most were early examples of a new form of Care in the Community, set free to make their own way when they really should have been sectioned.
Special mention must be made of the long serving and much missed manager, the late Joe, who was content to admit he had absolutely no tactical ambitions save to get to the pub without collapsing from frostbite most Sundays. He had worn the same ragged brown anorak for as long as Beldon had been in existence. A shy man of few words he was the focal point of Beldon and in no danger of being poached by FIFA’s technical department.
Joe’s right hand man for a long time was Giant, a colossus of a man who was a prolific goal scorer. For many years we played at the sloping and dog-shit covered Idle Rec. Often we played large parts of most games with ten men as, when Giant went off on a run, he would be almost irretrievable if we were playing down hill unless the gate was locked at the bottom.
If ever Giant was through on a one to one with the opposing goalkeeper he did not bother with any fancy dribbles around the terrified opponent; he merely ran over them, taking man and ball with him into the net.
In midfield we had the complementary duo in Little Angry and Silky. Angry was, in his opinion if nobody else’s, a ball-winner in the mould of those diminutive players over the years such as Nobby Stiles. Others might argue that Angry was a dirty, psychopathic, ticking time bomb who could rarely get through a game without provoking that Sunday morning ritual of the all-out brawl.
His fellow midfielder was Silky, half-blind, bow-legged and slower than me, but convinced he was as good as the legendary Dutch international Johan Cruyff. Weekly, he attempted 40 yard passes out of the municipal mud heaps we played on and generally succeeded only in stubbing his toe in the mud and sending the ball bobbling to the opposition.
However, Beldon’s spiritual leader was the ethereal Pansy Potter a highly-skilled but hard as nuts central defender with a lifelong compulsion for the occasional lapse into outrageous camp behaviour although camp was as far from a description of him you could ever think of. He was a serious footballer and, despite his age, breezed it most Sundays.
Pansy had played at a very good standard at non-league Thackley AFC and was exceptional on the ball, strong and also very skilful. What his advancing years conceded in pace was more than made up for by that often over-used phrase – a football brain – he was streets above the rest of us.
And even if he could not tackle, block or physically assault a rival forward he could always resort to mental disintegration and talk them into submission. If an opposing forward actually passed him, he would chase them as best he could, eventually gaining a submission via a running commentary on their ineptitude. I had never witnessed anything like it on a football field.
And if they did not wilt at this then they still had to face the ultimate test in goalkeeper Screwy. Of all the madcap characters I played Sunday football with I have never met anybody funnier or quicker of tongue than Screwy. He was actually a top class non-league footballer, again playing at Thackley but was allowed to play Sunday mornings on the condition he played in goals.
It was clear that Screwy just needed to be out and about as he probably bounced off walls and ceilings if he ever tried to sit in one place long enough. You barely had time to sit down in the changing room before some rapid-fire, acerbic and hugely funny barb would be winging its way towards you.
On the other hand Screwy could make a ball talk almost as eloquently as he could. When he ran training sessions they were marvellous for their variety, lunacy and for the lung busting stamina sessions as ball skills for us lot were wasted. Recognising we were crap, Screwy made sure we could at least run and run and run.
Joe always watched contentedly from the sidelines whilst counting down the minutes till the pub opened. It is almost forty years since I played for Beldon but unbelievably they are still going. I trust Joe is looking down with a whimsical grin from the heavens.
As for Pansy, I was lucky to know him for many years after those early frozen Sunday mornings. It is a loosely used term but gentleman would be one word I would describe him with. He had grace, wit and intelligence plus old-school manners. And to the end, as a cruel illness robbed his body of the supreme fitness it had once enjoyed he was still as sharp as ever.
You will be missed old boy - thank you for the great memories.
FOOTNOTE
Soon after publishing this I was contacted by Mark Winterbourne, son of Ray who most will have recognised as Giant. Ray was a very gentle giant and a bloody good footballer. Sadly, Ray also passed away recently, aged 81, after a battle with cancer. Ray, together with old Joe, provided so many of us with the opportunity to get out on a Sunday morning and have some great times.
Top bloke! Rest in peace Ray.
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