The police constable pulled the roller off the flattened figure on the pitch, and Detective Inspector McBiscuit reached down and removed a wallet from the breast pocket.
“Hmm,” he mused, and scratched his nose thoughtfully. When this didn’t work, he scratched the constable’s nose thoughtfully. “John Clapper,” he said. “Clapper? Clapper? That name rings a bell…..”
“Plays left midfield for Pats,” volunteered the constable. “Or, rather, he did…”
“Thank you, Constable,” remarked McBiscuit. “Are you any relation to the famous landscape artist of the nineteenth century, by the way? Never mind. Now, does anything strike you as remarkable about the body?”
“You mean, apart from the fact that he’s twelve feet long, eight feet wide, but only an eighth of an inch thick, sir?”
“Yes, Constable. Look – he was found beneath a roller. Does it not strike you as suspicious that there should be a roller here, in Richmond Park?”
“Good Lord, sir! You don’t mean….”
“Exactly, constable. I’m starting to smell a rat.”
“Yes, sir, they come up out of the Camac, sir..”
“No, no, you misunderstand me, you buffoon. I mean that I am starting to suspect that something may be afoot.”
“That big pink thing there,” pointed the constable. “I think that’s a foot. God, what a mess.”
“Foul play!” continued McBiscuit unperturbed. He removed a packet of walrus flavoured pretzels from the pocket of his trenchcoat and offered one to the constable. As the latter put out a hand, McBiscuit quickly withdrew the packet and sniggered. “I suspect foul play, constable.”
“At the Stadium of Light, sir?” replied the constable, feigning surprise. “No, I don’t believe it! It can’t be! There’s never been a hint of foul play in Inchicore! Never! Its impossible…”
“Enough of the sarcasm, Constable,” rebutted McBiscuit. “Tell forensics to get cracking. I see some footprints all around the body. We are looking for a murderer with very small circular feet.”
“They’re football studs, sir.”
“I knew that,” retorted the D.I. sharply. “A footballer, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Almost as implausible as the roller, what?”
McBiscuit removed the pipe from his mouth. Strangely enough, it was three feet long and made of galvanised steel. He idly wondered why he’d had it in his mouth in the first place. Suddenly, he got down on all fours and began examining something in the grass through a magnifying glass. After about five minutes, he beckoned the constable down beside him.
“What do you think this is?” he asked, handing him the magnifying glass.
“It’s a magnifying glass, sir,” replied the other.
“Thank you, constable,” replied McBiscuit, straightening up. “Just as I suspected. Now, tell me, who found the body?”
“The groundsman, sir. Quasimodo O’Reagan.”
“Quasimodo? Quasimodo? That name rings a bell. Bring him to me. I want to question him.”
As the constable disappeared, McBiscuit paced the touchline with a frown. Then he sent the frown away and paced the touchline with a grin. Finally he tried it with a frown and a grin at the same time.
At length, the constable approached with a wizened old man. “Quasimodo O’Reagan, sir,” he announced.
“No, I’m D.I.McBiscuit, constable. Try and remember that. Who’s this?”
“Er, the groundsman, sir. You wanted to see him.”
“I know that.” McBiscuit then turned to the old man in front of him and opened his notebook. “You are Quasimodo O’Reagan?”
“I know.”
“First name?”
“Quasimodo.”
“So far so good. Now Mr. O’Reagan, can you tell me where exactly you were on the night in question?”
“I can do better than that, officer,” responded the old man. “I wrote it all down for you.” And from a pocket, he produced a crumpled paper handkerchief, covered in writing. “I hadn’t got any proper paper, see,” he added, offering the object to the D.I.
McBiscuit took it and scanned it quickly. Then he held the offending article up. “I put it to you, Mr. O’Reagan, that this is a tissue of lies. It says here you were in the Post Office at the time of the crime. Everybody knows that employees of St. Patrick’s Athletic don’t know the way to the Post Office.”
The old man hung his head. Then he hung his shoulders and finally the third knuckle of his left hand. “It’s a fair cop, guv,” he said. “And I’d have gotten away with it if it wasn’t for those pesky kids.”
As he was led away in handcuffs, D.I. McBiscuit allowed a small smile to creep slowly across his lips………….
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
McCrummo, Ref!!
Recently, I was browsing through the “On this Day….” section of the newspaper when I came across the following mind-blowing piece of information:
“On this day in 1890, William McCrum, a linen manufacturer from Armagh, invented the penalty-kick.”
So amazed was I at this startling piece of information, I promptly spilled my bowl of Coco Pops into my lap. While mopping it up, I resolved to unearth the truth about this miraculous invention. Minutes of detailed research later, I came across a story that will have movie producers knocking on my door.
William McCrum was born in Armagh in 1860, the son of his parents. According to local folklore, he was present at the birth, as was his mother.
From an early age, it was clear that the young William [or “Dickhead” as his friends affectionately called him] was no ordinary youth. Instead of pulling the legs off daddy-long-legs, like normal boys, William would stick extra legs onto them and marvel at their increased velocity.
But it was his love of football, allied to his penchant for inventing, that brought about a revolution in the beautiful game. [In those days, of course, it was known as the “reasonably-good-looking” game.]
In 1884, the first breakthrough came when he invented the penalty spot, basically a lump of turf with a white circle painted on it. The prototype was a bit of a failure, as the circle measured approximately nine feet in diameter. However, when Alexander Graham Bell introduced him to the concept of “scale”, things really started moving. The penalty spot was unveiled to stunned crowds at the 1886 Scientific Exhibition in Paris, and McCrum’s moon was on the rise.
Despite the success of the penalty spot in Paris, McCrum was stung by criticism in certain quarters that his invention had no practical application in the real world. Enraged, he shut himself in his laboratory and only emerged three years later, tousle-haired and rather hungry. A watching world held its breath as he explained the concept of the “penalty kick” and its place within the laws of association football. When he had finished, thousands of cheering fans carried him shoulder-high through the streets of Dublin, before dumping him unceremoniously in the canal.
The first penalty kick ever awarded was in a game between Bohemians and Shelbourne at Dalymount Park in November 1889. The history books tell us that the Shels goalkeeper, Harry “Big Fat Bastard” O’Hara actually saved the kick from Paul Doolin. However, a furious row broke out subsequently with Bohemians protesting vehemently at the positioning of the penalty spot two yards from the corner-flag. An international tribune was set up to examine the issue and, in their report delivered three months later, they recommended that the penalty spot should lie “twelve yards from the centre of, and perpendicular to, the goal line” where, of course, it has remained ever since, except during the war years, when it was brought inside for security reasons. The tribunal also recommended that, whenever a penalty was awarded, the defending side should “protest vehemently at the decision” and that the referee should “listen intently to all cogent arguments put forward by the defending side and should be prepared to overturn his decision if so persuaded.”
Nowadays, of course, the penalty kick is accepted by football teams all over the world, with the exception of Burkino Faso, where defenders still prefer to apologise and pay a small fine.
As for William McCrum, a great inventor he may have been, but unfortunately he possessed all the business acumen of an amoeba. Had he patented or copyrighted the idea, he need never have manufactured linen again, and the “McCrum kick” or the “McCrummo” would have given sub-editors the world over much greater scope for headline writing. [“Few McCrums of comfort for Baggio”, “Southgate McCrumbles” etc etc] Just imagine the amount of royalties that could have been earned at, say, sixpence a penno, and you’ll get some idea of the amount of money McCrum passed up.
As it was, he died penniless in Athlone when a stoat attacked his nose. Thousands of people lined the streets of Dublin for his funeral and he was buried beneath the penalty spot at Glenmalure Park. He is now an integral part of the foundations of no. 43, Milltown Gardens. A fitting end to a great man.
“On this day in 1890, William McCrum, a linen manufacturer from Armagh, invented the penalty-kick.”
So amazed was I at this startling piece of information, I promptly spilled my bowl of Coco Pops into my lap. While mopping it up, I resolved to unearth the truth about this miraculous invention. Minutes of detailed research later, I came across a story that will have movie producers knocking on my door.
William McCrum was born in Armagh in 1860, the son of his parents. According to local folklore, he was present at the birth, as was his mother.
From an early age, it was clear that the young William [or “Dickhead” as his friends affectionately called him] was no ordinary youth. Instead of pulling the legs off daddy-long-legs, like normal boys, William would stick extra legs onto them and marvel at their increased velocity.
But it was his love of football, allied to his penchant for inventing, that brought about a revolution in the beautiful game. [In those days, of course, it was known as the “reasonably-good-looking” game.]
In 1884, the first breakthrough came when he invented the penalty spot, basically a lump of turf with a white circle painted on it. The prototype was a bit of a failure, as the circle measured approximately nine feet in diameter. However, when Alexander Graham Bell introduced him to the concept of “scale”, things really started moving. The penalty spot was unveiled to stunned crowds at the 1886 Scientific Exhibition in Paris, and McCrum’s moon was on the rise.
Despite the success of the penalty spot in Paris, McCrum was stung by criticism in certain quarters that his invention had no practical application in the real world. Enraged, he shut himself in his laboratory and only emerged three years later, tousle-haired and rather hungry. A watching world held its breath as he explained the concept of the “penalty kick” and its place within the laws of association football. When he had finished, thousands of cheering fans carried him shoulder-high through the streets of Dublin, before dumping him unceremoniously in the canal.
The first penalty kick ever awarded was in a game between Bohemians and Shelbourne at Dalymount Park in November 1889. The history books tell us that the Shels goalkeeper, Harry “Big Fat Bastard” O’Hara actually saved the kick from Paul Doolin. However, a furious row broke out subsequently with Bohemians protesting vehemently at the positioning of the penalty spot two yards from the corner-flag. An international tribune was set up to examine the issue and, in their report delivered three months later, they recommended that the penalty spot should lie “twelve yards from the centre of, and perpendicular to, the goal line” where, of course, it has remained ever since, except during the war years, when it was brought inside for security reasons. The tribunal also recommended that, whenever a penalty was awarded, the defending side should “protest vehemently at the decision” and that the referee should “listen intently to all cogent arguments put forward by the defending side and should be prepared to overturn his decision if so persuaded.”
Nowadays, of course, the penalty kick is accepted by football teams all over the world, with the exception of Burkino Faso, where defenders still prefer to apologise and pay a small fine.
As for William McCrum, a great inventor he may have been, but unfortunately he possessed all the business acumen of an amoeba. Had he patented or copyrighted the idea, he need never have manufactured linen again, and the “McCrum kick” or the “McCrummo” would have given sub-editors the world over much greater scope for headline writing. [“Few McCrums of comfort for Baggio”, “Southgate McCrumbles” etc etc] Just imagine the amount of royalties that could have been earned at, say, sixpence a penno, and you’ll get some idea of the amount of money McCrum passed up.
As it was, he died penniless in Athlone when a stoat attacked his nose. Thousands of people lined the streets of Dublin for his funeral and he was buried beneath the penalty spot at Glenmalure Park. He is now an integral part of the foundations of no. 43, Milltown Gardens. A fitting end to a great man.
Love in Section E
Richie Baker took the ball neatly on his instep, and cut in sharply from the right wing. Stephen Geoghegan glanced at his watch and timed his run to perfection, ghosting between the two defenders, as Richie flicked the ball through. The goalkeeper came out, but Geogo swivelled and shot low and hard into the back of the net.
As the net rippled, the crowd erupted with a roar. Geogo whipped off his shirt and, twirling it around his head, ran delightedly to his adoring fans in Section E. Standing there, one arm raised, armpit hairs glistening in the floodlights, he took the acclaim.
Pandemonium ensued. Arms punched the air in glee, klaxons blared, somebody lit a flare. In the midst of the tumult, Kevin felt a body tumbling over the seats behind him and into his back. He only just managed to save himself from a similar fate, which was a shame, as it might have created a really interesting domino effect.
He turned and helped the figure to its feet. It was a woman. Kevin recognised the lumps immediately. He had known a woman once, many years ago……
The woman brushed herself down and turned to face him. She had long, dark hair, which, as Kevin idly noticed, was coming out of her ears. Other than that, she was completely bald. Yet there was something familiar about that glass eye, that moustache….
“Kevin?” whispered the woman breathlessly. “Is it really you, Kevin?” And she stood there staring at him, not bothering to re-attach her artificial leg.
“Aoife?” whispered Kevin, not daring to believe.
“Paula,” she corrected him. They gazed into each other’s eyes. Then they gazed into each other’s ears. Finally they inspected each other’s nasal hairs. Geogo trotted back to the centre circle and the crowd resumed their seats. Kevin and Paula stood facing each other until an apple core hit him just below the eye.
“Siddown ya bollix!”
The pair sat down. He took her hand in his. Then her ankle. He could smell the familiar odour of smokey bacon on her breath, and the memories came flooding back.
“Whatever happened, Kevin?” she whispered, a pained expression on her face.
“Richie flicked the ball inside and Geogo……..”
She raised a gnarled finger and put it against his lips. It smelt of squirrels’ droppings.
“To us, Kevin?” she sighed, her breasts heaving like, well, like two breasts. “What happened to us?”
“Come out! Come out! What the Jaysus are staying on your line for?” bellowed a voice behind them, as the ball whistled menacingly across the Shelbourne goal.
“Dalymount Park, 1996. Cup Final Replay. Penalty to Pats. I couldn’t bear to look. When I opened my eyes you were gone.” Tears swam in his eyes, then got tired and began wading instead. “Where did you go to, my lovely?”
“Oh, Kev,” she cried. “I went down to the railings. And Goughy saved it. And from the corner….” Her voice trailed off, and she blew her nose forcefully.
“Keep it on the floor, Creepy!”
“I know darling,” smiled Kev, stroking her bald head with affection. “Geogo’s goal. The excitement, the delirium. It was too much. Like having a bath with Felicity Kendal.”
“After that, “ Paula continued, “everything was an anti-climax. You know how it was. Nothing could compare to that. The cross, Geogho sliding in, the ball hitting the back of the net, the Pats fans inconsolable…..”
“That’s the third time ref!”
Kevin picked his nose, rolled it in a ball and flicked it absent-mindedly towards the pitch. “Paula,” he said, awkwardly, examining his fingernails with sudden interest. “Do you think it possible….I mean…..can you envisage……us…..”
She stopped him by poking her programme into his eye. Her hand found his. It was at the end of his arm. She squeezed it gently, like she used to, many years before, until he yelled with pain. And, as Jim Crawford came thundering in to whip the Longford winger’s legs away from him, their tongues entwined.
As the net rippled, the crowd erupted with a roar. Geogo whipped off his shirt and, twirling it around his head, ran delightedly to his adoring fans in Section E. Standing there, one arm raised, armpit hairs glistening in the floodlights, he took the acclaim.
Pandemonium ensued. Arms punched the air in glee, klaxons blared, somebody lit a flare. In the midst of the tumult, Kevin felt a body tumbling over the seats behind him and into his back. He only just managed to save himself from a similar fate, which was a shame, as it might have created a really interesting domino effect.
He turned and helped the figure to its feet. It was a woman. Kevin recognised the lumps immediately. He had known a woman once, many years ago……
The woman brushed herself down and turned to face him. She had long, dark hair, which, as Kevin idly noticed, was coming out of her ears. Other than that, she was completely bald. Yet there was something familiar about that glass eye, that moustache….
“Kevin?” whispered the woman breathlessly. “Is it really you, Kevin?” And she stood there staring at him, not bothering to re-attach her artificial leg.
“Aoife?” whispered Kevin, not daring to believe.
“Paula,” she corrected him. They gazed into each other’s eyes. Then they gazed into each other’s ears. Finally they inspected each other’s nasal hairs. Geogo trotted back to the centre circle and the crowd resumed their seats. Kevin and Paula stood facing each other until an apple core hit him just below the eye.
“Siddown ya bollix!”
The pair sat down. He took her hand in his. Then her ankle. He could smell the familiar odour of smokey bacon on her breath, and the memories came flooding back.
“Whatever happened, Kevin?” she whispered, a pained expression on her face.
“Richie flicked the ball inside and Geogo……..”
She raised a gnarled finger and put it against his lips. It smelt of squirrels’ droppings.
“To us, Kevin?” she sighed, her breasts heaving like, well, like two breasts. “What happened to us?”
“Come out! Come out! What the Jaysus are staying on your line for?” bellowed a voice behind them, as the ball whistled menacingly across the Shelbourne goal.
“Dalymount Park, 1996. Cup Final Replay. Penalty to Pats. I couldn’t bear to look. When I opened my eyes you were gone.” Tears swam in his eyes, then got tired and began wading instead. “Where did you go to, my lovely?”
“Oh, Kev,” she cried. “I went down to the railings. And Goughy saved it. And from the corner….” Her voice trailed off, and she blew her nose forcefully.
“Keep it on the floor, Creepy!”
“I know darling,” smiled Kev, stroking her bald head with affection. “Geogo’s goal. The excitement, the delirium. It was too much. Like having a bath with Felicity Kendal.”
“After that, “ Paula continued, “everything was an anti-climax. You know how it was. Nothing could compare to that. The cross, Geogho sliding in, the ball hitting the back of the net, the Pats fans inconsolable…..”
“That’s the third time ref!”
Kevin picked his nose, rolled it in a ball and flicked it absent-mindedly towards the pitch. “Paula,” he said, awkwardly, examining his fingernails with sudden interest. “Do you think it possible….I mean…..can you envisage……us…..”
She stopped him by poking her programme into his eye. Her hand found his. It was at the end of his arm. She squeezed it gently, like she used to, many years before, until he yelled with pain. And, as Jim Crawford came thundering in to whip the Longford winger’s legs away from him, their tongues entwined.
How to walk with Dignity
No, this is not going to be an essay on how to march up and down your sitting room with a copy of “Mein Kampf” perched precariously on your head. Aspiring genteel young ladies need read no further. The walking I am referring to is the so-called “Walk of Shame”, the long, slow agonising trip back to the dressing-rooms after incurring the referee’s wrath. Whereas once this ignominy was reserved for the hard men of football, the change in the rules prohibiting body contact and repartee have meant that virtually every footballer will be red-carded at least once in his career. It is therefore a shame that so few footballers know how to react to the situation.
Do you remember Jim Gannon down in Cork? An off-the-ball incident and the ref goes running over, brandishing the red. Jim walks immediately – no histrionics, or arguments or exaggerated expressions of innocence. Some commentators have said that he must have done something, because he didn’t argue. Not so. There are still some professionals about who know that arguing with the illegitimate so-and-so is complete waste of breath. How many times have you seen a ref produce a red card, and then change his mind? No, nor me neither. Jim Gannon’s sending-off should be shown at coaching schools throughout the country as a prime example of how to walk with dignity.
Mick McCarthy, in his “Captain Fantastic” autobiography, recounts the time in France when he was sent off playing for Lyons. Apparently, the referee congratulated him afterwards for being the first player he had ever sent off who hadn’t argued!
Contrast that dignified way of “taking yer oil” [as the Derry fans say] with the usual prevarications. Remember the Derry full-back who could so easily have broken Wes’s leg with a dreadful lunge? Couldn’t believe it. Went for the ball. Travesty of justice. Certainly most reluctant to receive the oil that was handed to him.
Remember Kevin Moran’s lunge at Peter Reid in the FA Cup Final. My estimation of Moran went down a hundredfold after that. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the decision [and I was probably alone in Ireland in thinking that he deserved to go] Moran’s reaction to it was disgraceful. He lost it completely and had to be escorted off the field by team-mates.
Remember the Traitor’s brother getting sent off for Rockmount against us in the Cup? Not only did he spend a half an hour remonstrating with the ref, but actually gave us the two fingers while walking off. There must be something in the genes. All that he was saying was “Look, I can’t handle pressure.” It wasn’t even as if he was doing it for the benefit of his own fans.
The most obvious ploy in avoiding the red card is to go down injured yourself. The amazing thing about this is that referees still fall for it. Or maybe in waiting for the injured player to get up, he has time to reconsider. I know I’m not a very nice person, but I love seeing an opponent feigning injury to avoid getting sent off, then, when he gets gingerly to his feet, the ref produces the red. Love it!
Of course, if a manager is really quick, he can substitute the offending player before the ref has time to deal with him, particularly if he’s distracted by the welfare of the injured party. Doesn’t always work but one to file away in your managerial book of tricks.
I wonder how much would honesty work with a ref? Suppose you were a full back and had just put the opposing winger into the third row of the stand. Mr. Officious is galloping over, fumbling in his top pocket. Instead of saying, “I never touched him,” or “He should get an Oscar for that”, how about if you tried a totally new tack, something like, “Ref, I totally agree that was a terrible tackle, and I know I fully deserve to be sent off, but is there any chance that you could show some leniency? I promise there will be no further repetition of my hot-headedness.” You never know – this could totally confuse a referee weaned on confrontation, and you might just get away with it. Then again, perhaps not.
Of course, there is walking off and there is walking off. The speed at which you exit the field of play is always in direct contrast to your team’s fortunes off it. For example, if your team is doing well, you walk off slowly. If you are doing badly, run off. Remember Eric Lavine last year. Sent off for making a rude gesture to the linesman, Longford were drawing with us at the time. Lavine then took fifteen minutes to walk off, choosing to interpret the rule literally that says the offending party should go straight to the dressing-room, even though he was beside the touchline at the time. What would have been really interesting was if the ref had have sent him off again. That would really have sent the league’s administrators scuttling for their rule books.
Of course, I am a complete hypocrite. Anytime I ever crocked an opponent and saw the ref running over, I would gesticulate furiously at my dazed victim and loudly castigate him for unsportsmanlike behaviour. But, as my Dad used to say, “Don’t do as I do, do as I say.”
Exit, Stage Left.
With Dignity.
Do you remember Jim Gannon down in Cork? An off-the-ball incident and the ref goes running over, brandishing the red. Jim walks immediately – no histrionics, or arguments or exaggerated expressions of innocence. Some commentators have said that he must have done something, because he didn’t argue. Not so. There are still some professionals about who know that arguing with the illegitimate so-and-so is complete waste of breath. How many times have you seen a ref produce a red card, and then change his mind? No, nor me neither. Jim Gannon’s sending-off should be shown at coaching schools throughout the country as a prime example of how to walk with dignity.
Mick McCarthy, in his “Captain Fantastic” autobiography, recounts the time in France when he was sent off playing for Lyons. Apparently, the referee congratulated him afterwards for being the first player he had ever sent off who hadn’t argued!
Contrast that dignified way of “taking yer oil” [as the Derry fans say] with the usual prevarications. Remember the Derry full-back who could so easily have broken Wes’s leg with a dreadful lunge? Couldn’t believe it. Went for the ball. Travesty of justice. Certainly most reluctant to receive the oil that was handed to him.
Remember Kevin Moran’s lunge at Peter Reid in the FA Cup Final. My estimation of Moran went down a hundredfold after that. Whatever the rights and wrongs of the decision [and I was probably alone in Ireland in thinking that he deserved to go] Moran’s reaction to it was disgraceful. He lost it completely and had to be escorted off the field by team-mates.
Remember the Traitor’s brother getting sent off for Rockmount against us in the Cup? Not only did he spend a half an hour remonstrating with the ref, but actually gave us the two fingers while walking off. There must be something in the genes. All that he was saying was “Look, I can’t handle pressure.” It wasn’t even as if he was doing it for the benefit of his own fans.
The most obvious ploy in avoiding the red card is to go down injured yourself. The amazing thing about this is that referees still fall for it. Or maybe in waiting for the injured player to get up, he has time to reconsider. I know I’m not a very nice person, but I love seeing an opponent feigning injury to avoid getting sent off, then, when he gets gingerly to his feet, the ref produces the red. Love it!
Of course, if a manager is really quick, he can substitute the offending player before the ref has time to deal with him, particularly if he’s distracted by the welfare of the injured party. Doesn’t always work but one to file away in your managerial book of tricks.
I wonder how much would honesty work with a ref? Suppose you were a full back and had just put the opposing winger into the third row of the stand. Mr. Officious is galloping over, fumbling in his top pocket. Instead of saying, “I never touched him,” or “He should get an Oscar for that”, how about if you tried a totally new tack, something like, “Ref, I totally agree that was a terrible tackle, and I know I fully deserve to be sent off, but is there any chance that you could show some leniency? I promise there will be no further repetition of my hot-headedness.” You never know – this could totally confuse a referee weaned on confrontation, and you might just get away with it. Then again, perhaps not.
Of course, there is walking off and there is walking off. The speed at which you exit the field of play is always in direct contrast to your team’s fortunes off it. For example, if your team is doing well, you walk off slowly. If you are doing badly, run off. Remember Eric Lavine last year. Sent off for making a rude gesture to the linesman, Longford were drawing with us at the time. Lavine then took fifteen minutes to walk off, choosing to interpret the rule literally that says the offending party should go straight to the dressing-room, even though he was beside the touchline at the time. What would have been really interesting was if the ref had have sent him off again. That would really have sent the league’s administrators scuttling for their rule books.
Of course, I am a complete hypocrite. Anytime I ever crocked an opponent and saw the ref running over, I would gesticulate furiously at my dazed victim and loudly castigate him for unsportsmanlike behaviour. But, as my Dad used to say, “Don’t do as I do, do as I say.”
Exit, Stage Left.
With Dignity.
Grandad
Grandad! Grandad! Where are you?”
The young girl’s shrill voice seemed to cut a swathe through the gloomy atmosphere of the garden. Ted Carroll raked some more crispy brown leaves onto the pile and straightened up slowly. God, he hated gardening. He was only doing it because the author wanted to re-enforce the idea of old age through the autumnal metaphor. Bastard! A few seconds later, the girl’s flushed face appeared through the strands of the weeping willow.
“Grandad! There you are! I have a question for you. Mr. Doherty said to ask you. Who was Wes?”
“Wes?” The old man took off his cap and scratched his balding head thoughtfully.
“Yes, Wes. Teacher said you’d know. He was a footballer years ago, I think.”
“Ah, Wes.” Ted Carroll smiled to himself warmly. He laid the rake carefully against the weeping willow and sat down gingerly on a sad old tree trunk. Beckoning the young girl to him, he lifted her with an effort onto his spindly leg.
“Wes,” he repeated. “Yes, madam, I remember Wes. In a nutshell, he was quite simply the best footballer I ever saw. And not only in a nutshell. Anywhere! He could turn on a five Euro piece. There wasn’t a defender could stand up to him, when the mood was on him. Sheer class. Do you know what they used to call him? Wes. Yes, Wes by name and Wes by nature.”
“Who did he play for, Grandad?”
“Well, my poppet, I first saw him playing for Shelbourne back in the noughties. When he first appeared, we all thought, who’s this ten year old kid? He looked like he’d be more at home in the school playground. But when he got the ball, he was poetry in motion. People said, ah, he’s too small, defenders’ll kill him. But they had to get near him to kill him, heh, heh, heh.
Anyway, after a couple of years, he got transferred to a team in England called Blackpool….”
“Why would he want to go to England?”
“Ah, my sweet,” Ted laughed. “I know its hard to believe, but once upon a time, if a young footballer in Ireland wanted to get on, he used to have to go to England. England had a big league in those days. They paid their footballers silly money. Thousands and thousands of Euro a week, just to kick a ball about. And truth be told, most of them were not much better than the players who stayed behind.”
“What happened?”
“What was bound to happen. Too much money going out of the game. The whole set-up in England went kaboum. Clubs went bankrupt, owing millions.”
“And Wes?”
“Wes was with Manchester at the time. You wouldn’t believe how big they were. They were the Limerick City of their day. Had their own television channel and everything. Then it all went pear-shaped. Wes came back to Ireland. Signed for Athlone Town. Athlone had qualified for the Champions League and they were looking to Wes to strengthen their squad. This was a long time before Irish teams started winning the Champions League, of course. In fact, no Irish team had got past the qualifying round, when Wes signed for Athlone.."
“Ah, go away…”
“No, I’m serious, we never used to do very well in Europe. In fact, it was Wes who started it. Him and Ronaldo. Ronaldo was a Brazilian coming towards the end of his career when he signed for Athlone. Together the two of them forged a partnership that has gone down in history. Wes’d bamboozle the defenders, leave three or four of them sitting on their backsides, then knock it sideways to Ronaldo and bang! Ronaldo’d stick it away. Funny looking feller, buck teeth and a dodgy haircut, but lethal in front of goal. Sheer poetry to watch. That first season, Athlone got to the semi-finals of the Champions League, and I reckon they’d have won it if Wes hadn’t been injured for the away leg against Sliema. Of course they won it the following year, then Sligo won it the year after that, then Athlone again.”
“Did Wes play for Ireland, Grandad?”
“Did he wha’? He was only the best player ever to wear the green jersey. It was a shame though that for much of his career, he was playing with carthorses. Oh, we’d qualified for a few World Cups, and I think we got to the quarter finals once, but we hardly set the world alight. Then we appointed a manager by the name of Noel O’Connor. He’d brought Limerick City to the UEFA Cup Final, where they only lost on penalties to Barry Town. The man was inspirational. The best manager Ireland ever had. The only trouble was it all came too late for Wes. You know that Ireland won the World Cup for the first time in 2018? Well, the competition before that in 2014, proved to be Wes’s swansong. Ireland were red-hot favourites to lift the trophy after winning the European Championships two years previous. Great team we had then, Wes, of course, captain, O’Shea, Ryan, Goulding. Anyway, 2014. Ireland cruised through to the last sixteen. We then played Germany…”
“Germany??”
“They were a good team back then. Then we beat Iraq and then in the semis we were up against the Faroe Islands. And two days before the semis, didn’t Wes and Noel O’Connor have an almighty row. I think it was about biscuits. Wes liked Rich Teas while Noel preferred digestives. Anyway, Wes told Noel what he thought of him, and the upshot was, Wes was sent home. That’s what started the Civil War. Once upon a time, there were only two jurisdictions on this island. Ah, things were a lot simpler then.”
“Who was right, Grandad?”
“Why, Wes, of course. Anyone knows you can eat Rich Teas till the cows come home, whereas digestives get too filling after five or six. Everybody knows that. Except for them bastards down in the Republic of Limerick of course. Of course, without Wes, the Irish team went to pieces. Faroes won 2-0, went on to beat the Florida Republic in the Final. By the time 2018 came around, Wes was just a fat hape, drugged up to the eyeballs and living on past glories. O’Connor destroyed him. The greatest Irishman never to win a World Cup winner’s medal, was Wes. Oh, but you should have seen him in his heyday, waltzing through the opposition midfield like they didn’t exist, a body swerve here, a drop of the shoulder there…”
“Oh, Grandad, you’ve wet yourself, “ exclaimed the young girl gleefully, hopping off the old man’s leg in excitement.
Ted looked down mournfully at the dark patch on his trousers and then glanced up bitterly at the author.
“Happen you’re right, love,” he sighed. “But you should have seen him in his prime…”
The young girl’s shrill voice seemed to cut a swathe through the gloomy atmosphere of the garden. Ted Carroll raked some more crispy brown leaves onto the pile and straightened up slowly. God, he hated gardening. He was only doing it because the author wanted to re-enforce the idea of old age through the autumnal metaphor. Bastard! A few seconds later, the girl’s flushed face appeared through the strands of the weeping willow.
“Grandad! There you are! I have a question for you. Mr. Doherty said to ask you. Who was Wes?”
“Wes?” The old man took off his cap and scratched his balding head thoughtfully.
“Yes, Wes. Teacher said you’d know. He was a footballer years ago, I think.”
“Ah, Wes.” Ted Carroll smiled to himself warmly. He laid the rake carefully against the weeping willow and sat down gingerly on a sad old tree trunk. Beckoning the young girl to him, he lifted her with an effort onto his spindly leg.
“Wes,” he repeated. “Yes, madam, I remember Wes. In a nutshell, he was quite simply the best footballer I ever saw. And not only in a nutshell. Anywhere! He could turn on a five Euro piece. There wasn’t a defender could stand up to him, when the mood was on him. Sheer class. Do you know what they used to call him? Wes. Yes, Wes by name and Wes by nature.”
“Who did he play for, Grandad?”
“Well, my poppet, I first saw him playing for Shelbourne back in the noughties. When he first appeared, we all thought, who’s this ten year old kid? He looked like he’d be more at home in the school playground. But when he got the ball, he was poetry in motion. People said, ah, he’s too small, defenders’ll kill him. But they had to get near him to kill him, heh, heh, heh.
Anyway, after a couple of years, he got transferred to a team in England called Blackpool….”
“Why would he want to go to England?”
“Ah, my sweet,” Ted laughed. “I know its hard to believe, but once upon a time, if a young footballer in Ireland wanted to get on, he used to have to go to England. England had a big league in those days. They paid their footballers silly money. Thousands and thousands of Euro a week, just to kick a ball about. And truth be told, most of them were not much better than the players who stayed behind.”
“What happened?”
“What was bound to happen. Too much money going out of the game. The whole set-up in England went kaboum. Clubs went bankrupt, owing millions.”
“And Wes?”
“Wes was with Manchester at the time. You wouldn’t believe how big they were. They were the Limerick City of their day. Had their own television channel and everything. Then it all went pear-shaped. Wes came back to Ireland. Signed for Athlone Town. Athlone had qualified for the Champions League and they were looking to Wes to strengthen their squad. This was a long time before Irish teams started winning the Champions League, of course. In fact, no Irish team had got past the qualifying round, when Wes signed for Athlone.."
“Ah, go away…”
“No, I’m serious, we never used to do very well in Europe. In fact, it was Wes who started it. Him and Ronaldo. Ronaldo was a Brazilian coming towards the end of his career when he signed for Athlone. Together the two of them forged a partnership that has gone down in history. Wes’d bamboozle the defenders, leave three or four of them sitting on their backsides, then knock it sideways to Ronaldo and bang! Ronaldo’d stick it away. Funny looking feller, buck teeth and a dodgy haircut, but lethal in front of goal. Sheer poetry to watch. That first season, Athlone got to the semi-finals of the Champions League, and I reckon they’d have won it if Wes hadn’t been injured for the away leg against Sliema. Of course they won it the following year, then Sligo won it the year after that, then Athlone again.”
“Did Wes play for Ireland, Grandad?”
“Did he wha’? He was only the best player ever to wear the green jersey. It was a shame though that for much of his career, he was playing with carthorses. Oh, we’d qualified for a few World Cups, and I think we got to the quarter finals once, but we hardly set the world alight. Then we appointed a manager by the name of Noel O’Connor. He’d brought Limerick City to the UEFA Cup Final, where they only lost on penalties to Barry Town. The man was inspirational. The best manager Ireland ever had. The only trouble was it all came too late for Wes. You know that Ireland won the World Cup for the first time in 2018? Well, the competition before that in 2014, proved to be Wes’s swansong. Ireland were red-hot favourites to lift the trophy after winning the European Championships two years previous. Great team we had then, Wes, of course, captain, O’Shea, Ryan, Goulding. Anyway, 2014. Ireland cruised through to the last sixteen. We then played Germany…”
“Germany??”
“They were a good team back then. Then we beat Iraq and then in the semis we were up against the Faroe Islands. And two days before the semis, didn’t Wes and Noel O’Connor have an almighty row. I think it was about biscuits. Wes liked Rich Teas while Noel preferred digestives. Anyway, Wes told Noel what he thought of him, and the upshot was, Wes was sent home. That’s what started the Civil War. Once upon a time, there were only two jurisdictions on this island. Ah, things were a lot simpler then.”
“Who was right, Grandad?”
“Why, Wes, of course. Anyone knows you can eat Rich Teas till the cows come home, whereas digestives get too filling after five or six. Everybody knows that. Except for them bastards down in the Republic of Limerick of course. Of course, without Wes, the Irish team went to pieces. Faroes won 2-0, went on to beat the Florida Republic in the Final. By the time 2018 came around, Wes was just a fat hape, drugged up to the eyeballs and living on past glories. O’Connor destroyed him. The greatest Irishman never to win a World Cup winner’s medal, was Wes. Oh, but you should have seen him in his heyday, waltzing through the opposition midfield like they didn’t exist, a body swerve here, a drop of the shoulder there…”
“Oh, Grandad, you’ve wet yourself, “ exclaimed the young girl gleefully, hopping off the old man’s leg in excitement.
Ted looked down mournfully at the dark patch on his trousers and then glanced up bitterly at the author.
“Happen you’re right, love,” he sighed. “But you should have seen him in his prime…”
Fourth Officials
I realise that I am not alone. Thousands of people out there have a terrible affliction, for which the only known cure is time. Yes, I am cursed with a teenage son.
Two years ago, he was gregarious, talkative, happy, smiling, willing to help and friendly. Now he is surly and uncommunicative, reverting to a Neanderthal series of scowls and grunts and lazy as shit. His non-school life revolves around telly and the play-station and he will only lift a finger in the house if promised money. Naturally, being a wonderful parent, I often wonder how he will fare in later life, what profession he will go in to. Unfortunately, most of them require a certain amount of work [sad, but true]. However, at Tolka the other week, my eyes were suddenly opened to one job, where the amount of work is at an absolute minimum – the fourth official.
As usual, the match at Tolka was fast and entertaining, but I kept one eye firmly on the official in question [sadly, I didn’t catch his name] to see just exactly what his job entails. I even managed to jot down his significant contributions to the night’s entertainment: -
Pre-match – Walked onto the field carrying a bag of footballs in each hand.
Removes tracksuit bottoms in home team dugout.
Game commences – Acknowledges signal from referee Hugh Byrne. Folds arms and leans against side of dugout.
18th Minute – Folds hands behind back. Continues leaning against dugout.
26th Minute – Reverts to folding arms. Obviously a lot more comfortable.
29th Minute – Scratches arse. [I think this is what he did – I just caught the end of the movement out of the corner of my eye]
40th Minute – Puts tracksuit bottoms back on.
45th Minute – Is told by Hugh Byrne that there is to be one minute of injury time [Funny, I always thought it was the fourth official who determined the amount of injury time] Adjusts board. Holds up board with a “1” on it for approximately seven seconds.
Half Time – Walks off the pitch carrying one back of balls.
Probably by now, you’d think the fourth official had been taking things easy. However, he was in for an arduous second-half, with barely time to draw breath between incidents.
Second half – Returns after half time, carrying one bag of balls. Obviously anticipates a hectic second half, as he does not bother removing his tracksuit bottoms. Acknowledges signal from Hugh Byrne at the start of the second half. Folds arms and leans against dugout.
52nd Minute – Player booked. Reaches behind him for notepad and pen. Writes something down. Replaces notepad and pen.
55th Minute – Ball kicked out of ground. Removes ball from bag. Kicks it ten yards to nearest player. Rearranges ball in bag. Checks the next ball for correct inflation.
60th Minute – Player booked. As 52nd minute, except he’s obviously uncertain who has been booked. Asks away team manager.
62nd Minute – Squeezes pimple on his forehead.
69th Minute – Goal! Reaches for pen and pad. Writes something down. Replaces notebook and pen.
74th Minute – Substitution. Walks to halfway line with the player. Holds up board. Takes down board. Holds up board again with a different number on it. Returns to dugout.
80th Minute – Ball kicked out of ground. As 55th Minute.
84th Minute – Player booked. As 52nd minute.
88th Minute – Substitution. As 74th Minute.
90th Minute – Responds to Hugh Byrne holding up four fingers, by holding up four fingers of his own and nodding vigorously. Fiddles with board. Holds up board with a “4” on it for approximately five seconds.
91st Minute – Substitution. As 74th Minute.
93rd Minute – Ball kicked out of ground. As 55th minute, except that seeing it’s so close to the end of the game, he doesn’t bother checking the next ball for inflationary accuracy. Wipes sweat from brow.
Full time – Walks off carrying two bags of balls.
And that, dear friends, is the sum total of the night’s work. In fairness, though, I must point out that a] it was entirely possible that I might have missed some significant arm-folding somewhere down the line, as I was concentrating on the game, and b] I am obviously not privy to all the hard work that the fourth official does out of the public eye [checking the battery in his electronic board, putting the footballs into the bags etc etc] I am also unaware as to how much a fourth official gets paid for his nights work, though even if he only achieves the statutory minimum wage, its money for old rope. I mean, even my young lad would soon get the hang of it, apart, perhaps, from the bit about changing his tracksuit bottoms.
Two years ago, he was gregarious, talkative, happy, smiling, willing to help and friendly. Now he is surly and uncommunicative, reverting to a Neanderthal series of scowls and grunts and lazy as shit. His non-school life revolves around telly and the play-station and he will only lift a finger in the house if promised money. Naturally, being a wonderful parent, I often wonder how he will fare in later life, what profession he will go in to. Unfortunately, most of them require a certain amount of work [sad, but true]. However, at Tolka the other week, my eyes were suddenly opened to one job, where the amount of work is at an absolute minimum – the fourth official.
As usual, the match at Tolka was fast and entertaining, but I kept one eye firmly on the official in question [sadly, I didn’t catch his name] to see just exactly what his job entails. I even managed to jot down his significant contributions to the night’s entertainment: -
Pre-match – Walked onto the field carrying a bag of footballs in each hand.
Removes tracksuit bottoms in home team dugout.
Game commences – Acknowledges signal from referee Hugh Byrne. Folds arms and leans against side of dugout.
18th Minute – Folds hands behind back. Continues leaning against dugout.
26th Minute – Reverts to folding arms. Obviously a lot more comfortable.
29th Minute – Scratches arse. [I think this is what he did – I just caught the end of the movement out of the corner of my eye]
40th Minute – Puts tracksuit bottoms back on.
45th Minute – Is told by Hugh Byrne that there is to be one minute of injury time [Funny, I always thought it was the fourth official who determined the amount of injury time] Adjusts board. Holds up board with a “1” on it for approximately seven seconds.
Half Time – Walks off the pitch carrying one back of balls.
Probably by now, you’d think the fourth official had been taking things easy. However, he was in for an arduous second-half, with barely time to draw breath between incidents.
Second half – Returns after half time, carrying one bag of balls. Obviously anticipates a hectic second half, as he does not bother removing his tracksuit bottoms. Acknowledges signal from Hugh Byrne at the start of the second half. Folds arms and leans against dugout.
52nd Minute – Player booked. Reaches behind him for notepad and pen. Writes something down. Replaces notepad and pen.
55th Minute – Ball kicked out of ground. Removes ball from bag. Kicks it ten yards to nearest player. Rearranges ball in bag. Checks the next ball for correct inflation.
60th Minute – Player booked. As 52nd minute, except he’s obviously uncertain who has been booked. Asks away team manager.
62nd Minute – Squeezes pimple on his forehead.
69th Minute – Goal! Reaches for pen and pad. Writes something down. Replaces notebook and pen.
74th Minute – Substitution. Walks to halfway line with the player. Holds up board. Takes down board. Holds up board again with a different number on it. Returns to dugout.
80th Minute – Ball kicked out of ground. As 55th Minute.
84th Minute – Player booked. As 52nd minute.
88th Minute – Substitution. As 74th Minute.
90th Minute – Responds to Hugh Byrne holding up four fingers, by holding up four fingers of his own and nodding vigorously. Fiddles with board. Holds up board with a “4” on it for approximately five seconds.
91st Minute – Substitution. As 74th Minute.
93rd Minute – Ball kicked out of ground. As 55th minute, except that seeing it’s so close to the end of the game, he doesn’t bother checking the next ball for inflationary accuracy. Wipes sweat from brow.
Full time – Walks off carrying two bags of balls.
And that, dear friends, is the sum total of the night’s work. In fairness, though, I must point out that a] it was entirely possible that I might have missed some significant arm-folding somewhere down the line, as I was concentrating on the game, and b] I am obviously not privy to all the hard work that the fourth official does out of the public eye [checking the battery in his electronic board, putting the footballs into the bags etc etc] I am also unaware as to how much a fourth official gets paid for his nights work, though even if he only achieves the statutory minimum wage, its money for old rope. I mean, even my young lad would soon get the hang of it, apart, perhaps, from the bit about changing his tracksuit bottoms.
Four Saves
I’ve always been an admirer of goalies. Having played a few games in the loneliest position on the park, my inadequacy between the posts has only served to show me what great skill there is in net-minding. Judging one’s run and leap to perfection to take the ball off an opposing forward’s head is an art form in itself, every bit as beautiful as a Titian masterpiece or a Byron verse.
My footballing memories stretch back as far as the late sixties, too late to have seen such luminaries as Swift, Yashin and Trautmann, more’s the pity. However, in the intervening thirty odd years, I have picked out four goalkeeping saves that will live with me until senility sets in. These are not necessarily the best saves I have witnessed, but the most memorable. Two of them are English, two of them Irish, two of them are world famous, two of them aren’t, two I saw on telly, two in the flesh. Each was a thing of beauty.
The first is probably the most famous save in the world – the Banks save. Everybody over the age of forty remembers it, and it is still widely spoken of. At the World Cup in Mexico in 1970, England and Brazil met in a group match. It was a game that sparked the imagination of the world. England were world champions, Brazil were the favourites. England had angered the locals by their refusal to eat Mexican food and their lack of openness, whereas Brazil were the world’s favourite team, probably the greatest team the world has ever seen. And whereas both teams were widely expected to progress through to the quarter finals, the psychology of victory was held to be paramount, as both teams were widely tipped to meet again in the final.
The haziness of the television pictures somehow heightened the drama. Tostao, Gerson, Rivelinho, Pele, Jairzinho – what a forward line. Yet England held firm and with Bobby Moore playing out of his skin, the Brazilians were getting more and more frustrated. And then Jairzinho slipped Terry Cooper and got to the by-line. With Gordon Banks at his near post, he clipped the ball towards an unmarked Pele towards the back of the goal. As the ball came over, Banks turned frantically, but as Pele’s head directed it towards the inside of the far post, Banks still had a long way to go. The ball bounced just before the line, but to everyone’s amazement, Banks’ hand caught it on the up and ballooned it over the bar.
Nobody in the stadium, nor at home, nor Pele even, could believe it. It was one right out of the top drawer. Rumour has it that Pele even shouted “Goal!” as the ball left his head. The beauty of the save though was that if Banks had merely dived to his right, he would have missed the ball. In that split-second, he had the intelligence to dive across and backwards, thus giving himself that extra fraction of a second to reach the ball. Brazil eventually won the match 1-0, but the column inches afterwards were all about the Banks save.
Three years later and an all-conquering Leeds United were playing Sunderland in the English FA Cup Final at Wembley. Leeds, the aristocrats of English football, not particularly loved due to their cynicism, but definitely feared. Sunderland were a second division outfit at the time [first division in today’s money] and were widely tipped to be the sacrificial lambs on the Revie altar.
Football, however, is a beautiful game. Sunderland scored midway through the first half after a ball broke loose in the Leeds penalty area following a corner, and then pulled everybody back behind the ball. Leeds spent the rest of the game camped in the opposition half, but for all the wiles of Giles, Bremner, Gray, Lorimer, Clarke et al, the Sunderland goal remained unbroached, as their players threw every part of their anatomy in front of the shots that rained in.
During one such bombardment, the Sunderland keeper, Jim Montgomery, was forced to dive full stretch to keep out a rasping drive from the left hand corner of his penalty area. It was a good save, but those of us cheering for the underdogs, could only look on in horror as the ball fell invitingly for Peter Lorimer, Leeds inside forward and reputedly the holder of the hardest shot in football. Lorimer was on the six yard line, unmarked and he gleefully side-footed the ball into the empty net. Except it didn’t get that far. It struck the crossbar and bounced out. Lorimer, totally confused, appealed. Like most of the television audience, I couldn’t make out what had happened. We had to wait for a break in play and for the slow motion action-replay. Even then it took two or three repeats for us to realise that Lorimer hadn’t missed. Montgomery had saved it!
The ball had fallen instantly to Lorimer from Monty’s full-length save. Lorimer hit it first time towards the empty net. Somehow, Montgomery had completed his dive, turned and dived backwards towards his goal, before the ball went in. The ball struck the top of his outstretched hand and ricocheted up to hit the bar and bounce away to safety. As a young teenager, I was awestruck, and as a middle-aged fart, I still am. Of course, there was a certain element of luck involved – Monty just dived back towards his goal and the ball struck him, rather than vice versa. But the tremendous, almost miraculous agility made the luck. The story goes that after the game, when Bob Stokoe, the triumphant Sunderland manager, was asked about the save, he replied, “Ah, yes, but you should’ve seen the save ‘e made at ‘Ull.”
Move on now twelve years to May 1985 and a barren and windswept Terryland Park. Those who know me are aware that I’m always banging on about this game, which I regard as the greatest match I have ever seen. It was the final game of the season, a rearranged fixture, Galway at home to Shels. Shels needed a win to survive in this, the first season that relegation was introduced. If they drew or lost, Sligo would be safe. The game was to be played on a midweek afternoon, just three days after Galway had lost the Cup Final to Shamrock Rovers.
The crowd barely reached three figures, half of which were Shels, forty-nine fiftieths were Galway and there was one representative from Sligo. The latter must have been ecstatic as Galway plundered two goals in the first half, and we were totally dejected.
However in the second half, we got an early goal back, which gave us a bit of hope, but we couldn’t get the second. Not that Galway were out of it, for we were constantly in danger of conceding a disastrous third.
I think Galway got a corner and the ball was half headed clear. There was a Galway midfielder lurking unmarked [typical Shels] just outside the penalty area, in a fairly central position. As the Reds’ defenders scrambled to close him down, he hit it the ball with venom towards the top left hand corner of the goal. John Motson would have called it a screamer. I was down at the other end, by the Galway goal, and the shot was right in my line of vision. To borrow another of Motty’s clichés, the ball had goal written all over it. Then suddenly a figure arced upwards and to his right. Freddie Davis, then dark-haired and lean, sprang out of nowhere and tipped the ball over the angle of post and bar. He must have been unsighted when the ball was struck, and it was hit with such power, but still he got a hand to it at full stretch.
Galvanised by that save, Shels pressed forward and got the equaliser ten minutes from time, and then, unbelievably snatched a winner at the death. First out of the ground was the Sligo official – I didn’t envy him his drive home. But for Freddie, I dare say his trip northward would have been a lot more enjoyable.
My final wonder save happened this year. Tolka Park, Shels again, this time facing Bohemians in a critically important end of season battle. Bohs had led the league from the off, but Shels had slowly but surely pegged them back. With three games to go, Shels were only four points behind. If they could beat Bohs at home, the advantage would swing their way for the first time that season. Could Bohs pick themselves up after such a critical defeat?
Understandably, the game was hardly a classic. Nerves got the better of both sides and the play was scrappy, which was entirely predictable, as the game was being shown live on TV. Midway through the second half, Shels got the best chance of the night. It was a move somewhat similar to the great Banks save thirty three years earlier. Richie Jairzinho Baker crossed the ball from the right wing. Ashley Banks Bayes in the Bohemians’ goal had to turn away from his near post and dash back to the centre of his goal. Ollie Pele Cahill, not quite as unmarked as he had been in 1970, was on the edge of the six yard box in a fairly central position. He jumped and, like all good forwards, nodded the ball downwards into the empty net with Bayes still scrambling to get back. At least, that’s what I saw in my mind’s eye as Ollie headed it downwards.
Unfortunately, Bayes somehow got down to it and knocked the ball off the line with his arm. The Shels fans couldn’t believe it. We were in a crouching position, arms ready for the leap. But it never came. The speed with which Bayes got down to the header was incredible – it had to have been a reflex action. He didn’t have so far to dive as Banks, but he had much less time.
As history shows, Bohs scored the only goal right at the end of the match and clinched the championship. But I am convinced that if Ollie’s header had crossed the line, we’d have been champions. Ironically, that was Ashley Bayes last competitive game for Bohs, and boy, did he go out in style!
Those four saves stand out in my memory. There have been plenty of others which have drawn gasps of admiration from me, but it takes a lot to render me speechless, as those four did. And, hopefully, there will be more in the future.
My footballing memories stretch back as far as the late sixties, too late to have seen such luminaries as Swift, Yashin and Trautmann, more’s the pity. However, in the intervening thirty odd years, I have picked out four goalkeeping saves that will live with me until senility sets in. These are not necessarily the best saves I have witnessed, but the most memorable. Two of them are English, two of them Irish, two of them are world famous, two of them aren’t, two I saw on telly, two in the flesh. Each was a thing of beauty.
The first is probably the most famous save in the world – the Banks save. Everybody over the age of forty remembers it, and it is still widely spoken of. At the World Cup in Mexico in 1970, England and Brazil met in a group match. It was a game that sparked the imagination of the world. England were world champions, Brazil were the favourites. England had angered the locals by their refusal to eat Mexican food and their lack of openness, whereas Brazil were the world’s favourite team, probably the greatest team the world has ever seen. And whereas both teams were widely expected to progress through to the quarter finals, the psychology of victory was held to be paramount, as both teams were widely tipped to meet again in the final.
The haziness of the television pictures somehow heightened the drama. Tostao, Gerson, Rivelinho, Pele, Jairzinho – what a forward line. Yet England held firm and with Bobby Moore playing out of his skin, the Brazilians were getting more and more frustrated. And then Jairzinho slipped Terry Cooper and got to the by-line. With Gordon Banks at his near post, he clipped the ball towards an unmarked Pele towards the back of the goal. As the ball came over, Banks turned frantically, but as Pele’s head directed it towards the inside of the far post, Banks still had a long way to go. The ball bounced just before the line, but to everyone’s amazement, Banks’ hand caught it on the up and ballooned it over the bar.
Nobody in the stadium, nor at home, nor Pele even, could believe it. It was one right out of the top drawer. Rumour has it that Pele even shouted “Goal!” as the ball left his head. The beauty of the save though was that if Banks had merely dived to his right, he would have missed the ball. In that split-second, he had the intelligence to dive across and backwards, thus giving himself that extra fraction of a second to reach the ball. Brazil eventually won the match 1-0, but the column inches afterwards were all about the Banks save.
Three years later and an all-conquering Leeds United were playing Sunderland in the English FA Cup Final at Wembley. Leeds, the aristocrats of English football, not particularly loved due to their cynicism, but definitely feared. Sunderland were a second division outfit at the time [first division in today’s money] and were widely tipped to be the sacrificial lambs on the Revie altar.
Football, however, is a beautiful game. Sunderland scored midway through the first half after a ball broke loose in the Leeds penalty area following a corner, and then pulled everybody back behind the ball. Leeds spent the rest of the game camped in the opposition half, but for all the wiles of Giles, Bremner, Gray, Lorimer, Clarke et al, the Sunderland goal remained unbroached, as their players threw every part of their anatomy in front of the shots that rained in.
During one such bombardment, the Sunderland keeper, Jim Montgomery, was forced to dive full stretch to keep out a rasping drive from the left hand corner of his penalty area. It was a good save, but those of us cheering for the underdogs, could only look on in horror as the ball fell invitingly for Peter Lorimer, Leeds inside forward and reputedly the holder of the hardest shot in football. Lorimer was on the six yard line, unmarked and he gleefully side-footed the ball into the empty net. Except it didn’t get that far. It struck the crossbar and bounced out. Lorimer, totally confused, appealed. Like most of the television audience, I couldn’t make out what had happened. We had to wait for a break in play and for the slow motion action-replay. Even then it took two or three repeats for us to realise that Lorimer hadn’t missed. Montgomery had saved it!
The ball had fallen instantly to Lorimer from Monty’s full-length save. Lorimer hit it first time towards the empty net. Somehow, Montgomery had completed his dive, turned and dived backwards towards his goal, before the ball went in. The ball struck the top of his outstretched hand and ricocheted up to hit the bar and bounce away to safety. As a young teenager, I was awestruck, and as a middle-aged fart, I still am. Of course, there was a certain element of luck involved – Monty just dived back towards his goal and the ball struck him, rather than vice versa. But the tremendous, almost miraculous agility made the luck. The story goes that after the game, when Bob Stokoe, the triumphant Sunderland manager, was asked about the save, he replied, “Ah, yes, but you should’ve seen the save ‘e made at ‘Ull.”
Move on now twelve years to May 1985 and a barren and windswept Terryland Park. Those who know me are aware that I’m always banging on about this game, which I regard as the greatest match I have ever seen. It was the final game of the season, a rearranged fixture, Galway at home to Shels. Shels needed a win to survive in this, the first season that relegation was introduced. If they drew or lost, Sligo would be safe. The game was to be played on a midweek afternoon, just three days after Galway had lost the Cup Final to Shamrock Rovers.
The crowd barely reached three figures, half of which were Shels, forty-nine fiftieths were Galway and there was one representative from Sligo. The latter must have been ecstatic as Galway plundered two goals in the first half, and we were totally dejected.
However in the second half, we got an early goal back, which gave us a bit of hope, but we couldn’t get the second. Not that Galway were out of it, for we were constantly in danger of conceding a disastrous third.
I think Galway got a corner and the ball was half headed clear. There was a Galway midfielder lurking unmarked [typical Shels] just outside the penalty area, in a fairly central position. As the Reds’ defenders scrambled to close him down, he hit it the ball with venom towards the top left hand corner of the goal. John Motson would have called it a screamer. I was down at the other end, by the Galway goal, and the shot was right in my line of vision. To borrow another of Motty’s clichés, the ball had goal written all over it. Then suddenly a figure arced upwards and to his right. Freddie Davis, then dark-haired and lean, sprang out of nowhere and tipped the ball over the angle of post and bar. He must have been unsighted when the ball was struck, and it was hit with such power, but still he got a hand to it at full stretch.
Galvanised by that save, Shels pressed forward and got the equaliser ten minutes from time, and then, unbelievably snatched a winner at the death. First out of the ground was the Sligo official – I didn’t envy him his drive home. But for Freddie, I dare say his trip northward would have been a lot more enjoyable.
My final wonder save happened this year. Tolka Park, Shels again, this time facing Bohemians in a critically important end of season battle. Bohs had led the league from the off, but Shels had slowly but surely pegged them back. With three games to go, Shels were only four points behind. If they could beat Bohs at home, the advantage would swing their way for the first time that season. Could Bohs pick themselves up after such a critical defeat?
Understandably, the game was hardly a classic. Nerves got the better of both sides and the play was scrappy, which was entirely predictable, as the game was being shown live on TV. Midway through the second half, Shels got the best chance of the night. It was a move somewhat similar to the great Banks save thirty three years earlier. Richie Jairzinho Baker crossed the ball from the right wing. Ashley Banks Bayes in the Bohemians’ goal had to turn away from his near post and dash back to the centre of his goal. Ollie Pele Cahill, not quite as unmarked as he had been in 1970, was on the edge of the six yard box in a fairly central position. He jumped and, like all good forwards, nodded the ball downwards into the empty net with Bayes still scrambling to get back. At least, that’s what I saw in my mind’s eye as Ollie headed it downwards.
Unfortunately, Bayes somehow got down to it and knocked the ball off the line with his arm. The Shels fans couldn’t believe it. We were in a crouching position, arms ready for the leap. But it never came. The speed with which Bayes got down to the header was incredible – it had to have been a reflex action. He didn’t have so far to dive as Banks, but he had much less time.
As history shows, Bohs scored the only goal right at the end of the match and clinched the championship. But I am convinced that if Ollie’s header had crossed the line, we’d have been champions. Ironically, that was Ashley Bayes last competitive game for Bohs, and boy, did he go out in style!
Those four saves stand out in my memory. There have been plenty of others which have drawn gasps of admiration from me, but it takes a lot to render me speechless, as those four did. And, hopefully, there will be more in the future.
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