Post by gazz on Dec 4, 2013 19:37:47 GMT
Millbrow Reserves (mid to late 90’s)
downunderhatter
So we get to M. This is the one I’ve been waiting for. This is the one that my kids have made a mental note to tell their, as yet unborn, children about on their fourth birthday. If grumpy old grandad mentions Millbrow Reserves, on no account say “Cool story Bro’” or anything of that ilk.
When I first started playing football, I had a decent right foot and a fair bit of pace. Perfect for a right-winger. Unfortunately, I lost all of my pace when I reached the grand old age of 8. Fortunately, it seemed to be replaced by aggression. Perfect for a right-back. Unfortunately, I grew tall and was pushed into the centre-back position that I’m still playing today.
Centre-backs don’t normally get to do anything productive in Sunday League. Just win headers and tonk the ball as far forward as they can. My fellow centre-back had been allowed to take a free-kick that season though. It went in about a foot off the ground and was still rising. If the net hadn’t stopped it I believe that it would still be travelling today. This lead to him sprinting up the field at any slight hint of a free-kick to say “I’m ‘avin’ this.” Our captain who was a central midfielder was also known to score from free-kicks. The captain always made the final decision but the little argument before was often embarrassing.
Leading 4-1 with about 5 minutes left, I slid in on their centre-forward on the edge of the box as he was about to shoot. The ball went about 10 yards up the pitch. I jumped up and got to it first and dribbled it to the half-way line where I met one of their players so instantly passed it. Our captain dribbled it to the edge of their box with me screaming down his ear for a pass back. I was in nose-bleed territory but didn’t care. He got clattered by a nasty challenge and there it was… a free-kick, just to left of centre, perfect for a right-footer. Up sprints the centre-back with “I’m ‘avin’ this.” I politely said, “Come on, let me have it, we’re winning, it doesn’t really matter?” The captain quite fancied it himself but looked like he couldn’t be arsed arguing. As the ref blew his whistle the captain stuck his chest into the centre-back with his arms out and said “Take it.” Shocked but pleasantly surprised I eyed up the shot. For some reason the keeper had lined up his wall and then stood behind it, leaving the whole of the right side of the goal wide open. I knew I’d hit it sweet as soon as it left my boot but just thought that I was leaning back a little too much and it would go sailing over. It clipped the underside of the bar instead, right on the postage stamp and bounced down about a yard behind the line, then back up into the roof of the net. I never really celebrate any goals, even my own and just turned back towards the centre of the pitch for the kick-off. Our keeper had run the length of the pitch to congratulate me with the question, “Where f*** did that come from?”
Manchester South FC
bringbacklenwhite
Lancashire and Cheshire League outfit - played opposite the Southern Cemetery Main Entrance (dead centre of Manchester, as the joke went).
It was the first "billiard table top" pitch I ever played on. No puddles, no cow pats, no bricks, no slopes, just pure unadulterated grass. It sort of spoilt our style of play a bit.
The most off putting reason though was the ladies hockey game that was usually going on behind my goalmouth. I would finish the game with a crick in my neck and very nearly conceded on a number of occasions when my eye wasn't on the ball (or even our pitch, I must confess).
The separate changing rooms were, sadly, at the opposite end of the grounds as well. Mis-spent youth one might argue.
Coaching should be about providing football for children, not children for football !
Mobberley Village FC
bigfudge
Playing for my local team, Nelstrop FC, on my 17th Birthday we travelled for an away game with Mobberley Village who for some bizarre reason competed in the now defunct Stockport and North Cheshire league, they were in Division 1 whereas we were in Division 3, they were mid-table in their league whereas we were top of our league with about 10 games gone in the season, we were definitely up for this game, it was in the cup and this was your classic cup match, the grass was non-existent in patches, the rain was absolutely lashing it down and we were expecting to get turned over, although we had matching shirts, the rest of our kits didn't match, I was at right back, I was wearing a run-of-the-mill pair of Black Nike shorts, the centre backs had a pair of Red Liverpool shorts and a pair of Blue United shorts and our left back was wearing bloomin' Cargo shorts, we really were a ragtag bunch, our goalkeeper just turned up in a black jumper every week!
The Mobberley kids were very posh and very obnoxious, they all had matching kits (rich boys!) and all of their dads dropped them off in really nice cars and they took one look at us and burst out laughing which of course made us want to beat them even more, as it stands the game was dreadful, the defence just killed it off, with about 50 minutes gone, I managed to sneak in undetected at the back post and the ball was floated in, I managed to barge my way into the box and if I remember correctly the ball flicked in off my shin and then I remember going to walk back to defence and our Scouse centre back jumped on top of me, and he is a big guy, and gave me a massive kiss, I moved to avoid him and he managed to get my eye and my God he really did kiss me hardy, I couldn't see for a few seconds after it, I was almost scared of going up for corners or free kicks, lest I become victim to his sexual advances again!
The game finished 1-0 and the Mobberley team refused to shake our hands and just sulked off so in true sporting fashion when our minibus left we all proceeded to stick our fingers up at our defeats opponents, as it stands in the next round we got thumped 6-2 by the team second bottom of the division, whom we had beaten 5-0 the week before but one of my greatest footballing days without doubt!
Magic Sponge
bringbacklenwhite
That ubiquitous panacea of all ills and ailments for the pre-1990's sportsman.
Always kept at the side of the pitch in a bucket (handle optional) full of tepid to freezing cold water. It could reduce a lump on the head, help replace a dislocated shoulder, hold together a plastic-stud ripped chest wounds up to 3 inches in length and cleanse any number of opened knees and gashed shins. A quick rinse off in the bucket and it was ready for the next patient. Any faking of injury was quickly dispelled by the appearance of the bucket and sponge and a threat of sticking it down the front of their shorts (particularly in winter).
The bucket could also double up as a hazard for the oppostion linesman if placed carefully behind him during a reverse run. The contents were also often emptied after the match into the communal bath (usually over the head of the goalscorer or person voted "dilly of the game").
The best Magic Sponge Man was a guy we had at college. He wore cargo pants before cargo pants were invented. Every pocket contained a different item or gadget which could be used on match day i.e. penknife, vic nasal spray, elastoplast, string, leg splints etc. He was nicknamed the "gadget man". As he ran onto the pitch the cry would go up "Go, Go gadget trousers".
Actually he was called Ivor, he did exist but it was a coat not trousers that had all the pockets. But that didn't fit the phrase that Sandy gave me for Secret Sleuthing.
hatter in Maccnificent
hatter in macc
The more personal biographical details were covered in that 'Off Topic' thread from a few weeks back, which came alarmingly close to resembling a dating-site! This post confines itself to Macc/Macca/Maccy's Sporting Life...so won't leave too deep a Carbon Footprint.
I always owed my regular football to being naturally left-footed, quick and able to cross a ball, so enjoyed formative and early grown-up years on the left wing, until my pace started to wane and I converted to become an out-and-out forward - with not much more than a modestly successful strike-rate. My boots were finally hung up when, after becoming a father, I turned out for 'School Dads' sides - seemingly always to find myself up against much younger monster-Dads, who, having been on the books of, but then released by, local Premiership clubs, took out their frustrated ambitions by kicking chunks out of, and generally battering, me!
There is an interesting episode to recount about playing once at Deepdale, but I shall leave that until a later CHAOS chapter. For now, suffice to say, the sportsman in me was always enthusiastic, but constantly under-achieving...
Until last night!
Yesterday evening saw the squash team of ageing reprobates that I have been skippering for a few years, in the lower reaches of the North West Counties League, defy all expectations to secure promotion and a divisional title. We are all players of a certain age, who had never won, or shown any prospect of gaining, sporting honours to speak of, and who had got to the stage of simply playing for fun and a decent weekly evening out. Yet, when the winning point was converted - by the Captain, just to embellish the 'Roy of the Rovers' aspect of all this a little more - we celebrated like kids, and the world, for just a few moments, felt like a wondrous place of heady joy.
In fact, I'm still feeling a bit that way almost 24 hours on.
So, Whoopee! Yee-hah! Hallelujah! (And that's "Hallelujah!" in an exuberant - but not-too-camp - Weather Girls type-of-way, as heard on "It's Raining Men". "Hallelujah" a la Leonard Cohen just wouldn't do at all...)
downunderhatter
So we get to M. This is the one I’ve been waiting for. This is the one that my kids have made a mental note to tell their, as yet unborn, children about on their fourth birthday. If grumpy old grandad mentions Millbrow Reserves, on no account say “Cool story Bro’” or anything of that ilk.
When I first started playing football, I had a decent right foot and a fair bit of pace. Perfect for a right-winger. Unfortunately, I lost all of my pace when I reached the grand old age of 8. Fortunately, it seemed to be replaced by aggression. Perfect for a right-back. Unfortunately, I grew tall and was pushed into the centre-back position that I’m still playing today.
Centre-backs don’t normally get to do anything productive in Sunday League. Just win headers and tonk the ball as far forward as they can. My fellow centre-back had been allowed to take a free-kick that season though. It went in about a foot off the ground and was still rising. If the net hadn’t stopped it I believe that it would still be travelling today. This lead to him sprinting up the field at any slight hint of a free-kick to say “I’m ‘avin’ this.” Our captain who was a central midfielder was also known to score from free-kicks. The captain always made the final decision but the little argument before was often embarrassing.
Leading 4-1 with about 5 minutes left, I slid in on their centre-forward on the edge of the box as he was about to shoot. The ball went about 10 yards up the pitch. I jumped up and got to it first and dribbled it to the half-way line where I met one of their players so instantly passed it. Our captain dribbled it to the edge of their box with me screaming down his ear for a pass back. I was in nose-bleed territory but didn’t care. He got clattered by a nasty challenge and there it was… a free-kick, just to left of centre, perfect for a right-footer. Up sprints the centre-back with “I’m ‘avin’ this.” I politely said, “Come on, let me have it, we’re winning, it doesn’t really matter?” The captain quite fancied it himself but looked like he couldn’t be arsed arguing. As the ref blew his whistle the captain stuck his chest into the centre-back with his arms out and said “Take it.” Shocked but pleasantly surprised I eyed up the shot. For some reason the keeper had lined up his wall and then stood behind it, leaving the whole of the right side of the goal wide open. I knew I’d hit it sweet as soon as it left my boot but just thought that I was leaning back a little too much and it would go sailing over. It clipped the underside of the bar instead, right on the postage stamp and bounced down about a yard behind the line, then back up into the roof of the net. I never really celebrate any goals, even my own and just turned back towards the centre of the pitch for the kick-off. Our keeper had run the length of the pitch to congratulate me with the question, “Where f*** did that come from?”
Manchester South FC
bringbacklenwhite
Lancashire and Cheshire League outfit - played opposite the Southern Cemetery Main Entrance (dead centre of Manchester, as the joke went).
It was the first "billiard table top" pitch I ever played on. No puddles, no cow pats, no bricks, no slopes, just pure unadulterated grass. It sort of spoilt our style of play a bit.
The most off putting reason though was the ladies hockey game that was usually going on behind my goalmouth. I would finish the game with a crick in my neck and very nearly conceded on a number of occasions when my eye wasn't on the ball (or even our pitch, I must confess).
The separate changing rooms were, sadly, at the opposite end of the grounds as well. Mis-spent youth one might argue.
Coaching should be about providing football for children, not children for football !
Mobberley Village FC
bigfudge
Playing for my local team, Nelstrop FC, on my 17th Birthday we travelled for an away game with Mobberley Village who for some bizarre reason competed in the now defunct Stockport and North Cheshire league, they were in Division 1 whereas we were in Division 3, they were mid-table in their league whereas we were top of our league with about 10 games gone in the season, we were definitely up for this game, it was in the cup and this was your classic cup match, the grass was non-existent in patches, the rain was absolutely lashing it down and we were expecting to get turned over, although we had matching shirts, the rest of our kits didn't match, I was at right back, I was wearing a run-of-the-mill pair of Black Nike shorts, the centre backs had a pair of Red Liverpool shorts and a pair of Blue United shorts and our left back was wearing bloomin' Cargo shorts, we really were a ragtag bunch, our goalkeeper just turned up in a black jumper every week!
The Mobberley kids were very posh and very obnoxious, they all had matching kits (rich boys!) and all of their dads dropped them off in really nice cars and they took one look at us and burst out laughing which of course made us want to beat them even more, as it stands the game was dreadful, the defence just killed it off, with about 50 minutes gone, I managed to sneak in undetected at the back post and the ball was floated in, I managed to barge my way into the box and if I remember correctly the ball flicked in off my shin and then I remember going to walk back to defence and our Scouse centre back jumped on top of me, and he is a big guy, and gave me a massive kiss, I moved to avoid him and he managed to get my eye and my God he really did kiss me hardy, I couldn't see for a few seconds after it, I was almost scared of going up for corners or free kicks, lest I become victim to his sexual advances again!
The game finished 1-0 and the Mobberley team refused to shake our hands and just sulked off so in true sporting fashion when our minibus left we all proceeded to stick our fingers up at our defeats opponents, as it stands in the next round we got thumped 6-2 by the team second bottom of the division, whom we had beaten 5-0 the week before but one of my greatest footballing days without doubt!
Magic Sponge
bringbacklenwhite
That ubiquitous panacea of all ills and ailments for the pre-1990's sportsman.
Always kept at the side of the pitch in a bucket (handle optional) full of tepid to freezing cold water. It could reduce a lump on the head, help replace a dislocated shoulder, hold together a plastic-stud ripped chest wounds up to 3 inches in length and cleanse any number of opened knees and gashed shins. A quick rinse off in the bucket and it was ready for the next patient. Any faking of injury was quickly dispelled by the appearance of the bucket and sponge and a threat of sticking it down the front of their shorts (particularly in winter).
The bucket could also double up as a hazard for the oppostion linesman if placed carefully behind him during a reverse run. The contents were also often emptied after the match into the communal bath (usually over the head of the goalscorer or person voted "dilly of the game").
The best Magic Sponge Man was a guy we had at college. He wore cargo pants before cargo pants were invented. Every pocket contained a different item or gadget which could be used on match day i.e. penknife, vic nasal spray, elastoplast, string, leg splints etc. He was nicknamed the "gadget man". As he ran onto the pitch the cry would go up "Go, Go gadget trousers".
Actually he was called Ivor, he did exist but it was a coat not trousers that had all the pockets. But that didn't fit the phrase that Sandy gave me for Secret Sleuthing.
hatter in Maccnificent
hatter in macc
The more personal biographical details were covered in that 'Off Topic' thread from a few weeks back, which came alarmingly close to resembling a dating-site! This post confines itself to Macc/Macca/Maccy's Sporting Life...so won't leave too deep a Carbon Footprint.
I always owed my regular football to being naturally left-footed, quick and able to cross a ball, so enjoyed formative and early grown-up years on the left wing, until my pace started to wane and I converted to become an out-and-out forward - with not much more than a modestly successful strike-rate. My boots were finally hung up when, after becoming a father, I turned out for 'School Dads' sides - seemingly always to find myself up against much younger monster-Dads, who, having been on the books of, but then released by, local Premiership clubs, took out their frustrated ambitions by kicking chunks out of, and generally battering, me!
There is an interesting episode to recount about playing once at Deepdale, but I shall leave that until a later CHAOS chapter. For now, suffice to say, the sportsman in me was always enthusiastic, but constantly under-achieving...
Until last night!
Yesterday evening saw the squash team of ageing reprobates that I have been skippering for a few years, in the lower reaches of the North West Counties League, defy all expectations to secure promotion and a divisional title. We are all players of a certain age, who had never won, or shown any prospect of gaining, sporting honours to speak of, and who had got to the stage of simply playing for fun and a decent weekly evening out. Yet, when the winning point was converted - by the Captain, just to embellish the 'Roy of the Rovers' aspect of all this a little more - we celebrated like kids, and the world, for just a few moments, felt like a wondrous place of heady joy.
In fact, I'm still feeling a bit that way almost 24 hours on.
So, Whoopee! Yee-hah! Hallelujah! (And that's "Hallelujah!" in an exuberant - but not-too-camp - Weather Girls type-of-way, as heard on "It's Raining Men". "Hallelujah" a la Leonard Cohen just wouldn't do at all...)