The Bromley Boys

by David Roberts

  I leapt to my feet to give Bromley a well-deserved standing ovation, my heart beating rapidly with excitement. A season ago, this kind of thing was reserved for a good win, but times had changed. Signs of improvement were now enough to prompt seemingly undeserved displays of approval.

  I felt that my knowledge of football gave me an insight into the significance of Bromley’s performance that others wouldn’t have seen. Most of the spectators filing out seemed to have taken the game at face value and looked dejected. But I knew that our team were on the way back, despite the fact that I had just witnessed yet another 3–1 defeat.

  Bromley’s third in a row by that scoreline.

  •••

  As soon as I got home that night I dug up the photos of Morrie and put them in the inside pocket of my blazer, so I wouldn’t forget them on Monday morning. I was hoping they would be my ticket to acceptance with the scariest boys in the whole school.

  The start of the new week came around and at morning break I tentatively approached one of the skinheads and said, ‘Wanna see what Morrie used to look like?’

  He looked at me and took the photo, which caused him great amusement. He passed it around and soon they were all laughing. We were all laughing.

  This was what I had dreamed about. I left them with the photo still enjoying what they were seeing.

  A few minutes later, as I was waiting to go into chemistry class, I heard a commotion.

  Coming towards me at great speed was a red-faced Morrie, breathing heavily, eyes blazing with fury. He stopped in front of me and, without saying anything, drew his head back and then propelled it forward with great force, landing his forehead smack on the bridge of my nose. He then walked off.

  I was stunned.

  The pain was intense. My eyes started to water. Everyone who was milling around was pretending to look the other way. I was sure my nose had been broken.

  I somehow stopped myself collapsing to the ground by holding onto the coat rack. Keeping the tears from my eyes was just as hard.

  I didn’t realise until much later how lucky I’d been. There was no blood and nothing had been broken. But I knew that from then on I would be known as the boy who had been headbutted by Morrie.

  I walked into the chemistry class, my head held as high as possible under the circumstances and tried to act as though nothing had happened.

  ISTHMIAN LEAGUE HOW THEY STAND

  25TH OCTOBER 1969

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Morrie incident had had a serious effect on my campaign to be accepted at Langley Park School.

  Everyone knew about it.

  And soon people were asking me for details. I wisely declined to show anyone else the photo, but was happy to give the impression that it hadn’t really hurt and, besides, I was no stranger to that kind of thing.

  I decided to lower my sights. Trying to get in with the truly hard boys had been a mistake. It would be much smarter to make friends with the less scary ones. The kind of boys who wouldn’t headbutt me.

  Dave, who sat next to me in English, seemed promising. I liked the fact that while he was meant to be writing about Animal Farm, he was gouging the words ‘Eddie Kelly is King’ into his desk with the sharp point of a compass.

  This impressed me because it meant he took his football seriously and that he didn’t necessarily follow the crowd – Eddie Kelly was a fringe Arsenal player – not one of their big stars. Not only did he look more like a labourer than a footballer, but he wasn’t even a regular selection. He was in and out of the team.

  If I had been an Arsenal supporter, he was exactly the kind of player I would have adopted as my favourite.

  I wondered if I might be able to persuade Dave to come along and watch Bromley sometime. It would need to be the right game – preferably against one of our fellow strugglers that Bromley had a chance of winning. A quick glance at the forthcoming fixtures showed no matches with any real potential for Bromley to break the losing sequence. I decided it would be better to wait.

  •••

  The Hayes Lane ground was virtually deserted for the fixture against Gravesend and Northfleet the following Tuesday. I sat behind the goal, staring at the brown leaves caught up in the net – a feature of many non-league grounds in Autumn, as, unlike the big Football League grounds, a lot of them were surrounded by trees.

  It seemed that local interest in a meaningless Kent Floodlit Cup fixture was low, especially as it followed a humiliating run of 11 losses. I felt saddened looking over at the sparsely populated terraces, and found it hard to imagine there was a time when the ground was packed with 10,798 (a figure that was embedded in my memory) people – a ground record.

  Yet that’s what happened on a late September day in 1949 as Bromley had taken on Nigeria in a friendly. It was a game I’d read about and even talked about with one or two of the older supporters who had been there that day.

  I wished I could have seen it.

  The visitors, who played in bare feet, apparently possessed skills never witnessed before, or since, at Hayes Lane.

  There was ‘Big Kicker’ Chukura, whose nickname was self-explanatory. Salamo ‘The White Ant’, who had earned his title through his capacity for hard work. And the solid, reliable ‘Experienced’ Ottun, a calm head at the heart of the defence.

  The Nigerians lit up Hayes Lane with a display of football virtuosity and gave a rare treat to a crowd more used to seeing the likes of Tooting and Mitcham or Leyton.

  ‘Thunderbolt’ Balogun sealed the victory for the visitors after they had come back from being 1–0 down at half-time to win 3–1.

  Both teams received a standing ovation after the final whistle and the game was still being talked about today, a little over 20 years later.

  I had promised myself that if ever the Tardis on Dr Who became a reality – and the moon landing showed that anything was possible – the first thing I would do would be to travel back in time to watch Bromley v Nigeria on September 24th 1949.

  But right now I was watching Bromley v Gravesend and Northfleet on October 28th 1969 and it was doubtful this game would be talked about in 1989.

  If it was, however, the biggest talking point would be that Postman Pat Brown had been sent home before the game had even started – he had got to the ground late only to find that a replacement, Colin Brown, had already got changed.

  Despite the loss of one Brown for another, Bromley started with a surreal ten-minute burst, which featured some of the best football I’d seen all season. They just seemed to click from the kick-off, with Eric Nottage at his best and Alan Stonebridge his usual brilliant self.

  The two of them combined in the 10th minute for Nottage to thump home a superb Stonebridge cross and each could have had a hat-trick before the visitors equalised just before half-time.

  Bromley then fell to pieces as Gravesend scored four second-half goals for their second 5–1 victory over Bromley in the space of three weeks.

  The home team looked exhausted as they trudged off afterwards. Their fitness regime didn’t seem to be working and they had another match just 48 hours later against Clapton, one of the better teams in the Isthmian League.

  •••

  Clapton’s main claim to fame was the name of their ground, which must have made them a difficult opponent to take seriously.

  It was called The Spotted Dog ground. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, they had a typically useless Isthmian league nickname of ‘The Clap’. But despite these handicaps, they were in the top half of the table.

  Somehow, the fixture had attracted enough interest from Bromley supporters to merit running a coach and the journey was just long enough for me to lose all my matches, including some I’d borrowed from Derek, at gin rummy, our usual card game

  As always, I looked for an omen, but the only one I could come up with was bad news for Bromley. If they lost today, it would be their 13th defeat in a row.

  The nearest thing to a good sign came with the news that Postman
Pat had been spotted arriving at Hayes Lane and boarding the team coach. It was pleasing to hear he’d got somewhere on time.

  Roy Pettet and Eddie Green were back from injury. This was very exciting news – both were key players and I convinced myself that their absence had been at least partially responsible for the pathetic recent performances. Of my optimum Bromley line-up, only Jeff Bridge was missing today.

  For 85 minutes, a good result seemed possible. In all that time, Bromley had only conceded one goal and had come close to scoring several times, including hitting the post once.

  Then Clapton made use of Bromley’s substitution rule, by bringing on Pamplin who predictably set up the goal that sealed the match.

  I wondered if every game from now on would be settled by a tactical substitute coming on and finishing Bromley off.

  I also wondered why our substitutions seemed to be so ineffective, considering we invented the rule.

  •••

  The greatest day of my young life started routinely enough – up at 8am, Marmite and butter on Weetabix for breakfast, on my bike by 8.15am arriving at school in plenty of time for the register at 9am. The rest of the schoolday passed without incident.

  As soon as the bell went to end the day’s lessons I dashed home in record time, so I could dump the bike and start hitching to Grays, for the Kent Floodlit Cup game.

  It took around three hours to get there in a total of six different cars, but not once did I question the rationality of what I was doing.

  To me, anything was worth going through to watch Bromley. Even though they had now lost 13 in a row, conceding 44 goals in the process and scoring just 8, I always felt we were about to turn the corner.

  So if it meant I had to hitchhike to the wilds of Essex for a Kent Floodlit Cup game, then that was what I was prepared to do.

  Predictably, the effort wasn’t worth it as the 0–0 draw made a mockery of a points system that was meant to encourage attacking play. But at least it put an end to the losing streak and, technically, formed a one-match unbeaten run.

  The game was every bit as dreary as the score suggested and five points and a booking for Phil Amato was all Bromley took out of the fixture.

  The Lillywhites also managed to spoil Grays’ 100% record, but such was the unimportance of the competition, the handful of home supporters didn’t seem to care. Most of them had drifted off long before the end.

  After the final whistle, I saw Tony Flood, the Bromley and Kentish Times football reporter, hovering by the players’ entrance. I asked him if there was any chance of a lift home since I’d hitched there.

  He apologetically explained that his car was full, but he’d ask around and see if anyone could find room for me.

  He then asked if we could have a chat as he’d like to do a story on me for the paper.

  Me?

  A story?

  I was suddenly full of self-importance, but gracefully acquiesced to his request.

  He was impressed by my devotion to the team and asked me a few questions, such as how many matches I’d been to, how long I’d supported Bromley and where I went to school. I took an inordinate of time answering, carefully considering each response.

  He jotted my answers down in his notebook and told me to get the paper on Friday as I would be in it. He couldn’t promise anything, but thought it might make the back page.

  I felt as though the whole season had been worthwhile. I was going to be in the paper for the second time in a few months – this time in an article that would probably be read by some of the Bromley players.

  Mr Flood then told me to wait by the car-park entrance and he’d see what he could do about getting me a lift home.

  I stood there for ages, watching car after car drive past until the car park was almost deserted. Finally a green Triumph Herald stopped and the driver wound his window down.

  ‘Are you the lad looking for a lift back to Bromley?’

  ‘Yes’

  ‘Jump in then.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  I was stunned.

  It felt as though I was in a dream. Barely able to believe what was happening, I opened the door and sat down in the passenger seat of Alan Stonebridge’s car.

  My breathing had become shallow. He even asked me if I was alright and I assured him I was.

  I then offered my congratulations on a great game tonight and started firing questions at him.

  My questions were based on Shoot Magazine’s weekly profiles of footballers, in which they would be asked their favourite meal, what car they drove, their favourite ground, most difficult opponent, most memorable match, best goal ever scored. That kind of thing.

  I didn’t ask about his car, as I was sitting in it. But I did ask all the rest. We even discussed some of his goals and it seemed to me that I could remember more of them than he could.

  He was really nice and not stuck up like some famous people can be. I’d once tried to get an autograph from Geoff Boycott, the England cricketer, at a charity match and he’d just ignored me. Alan Stonebridge was nothing like that.

  Alan even asked me about school and told me it was important to work hard and get qualifications. He was a teacher, so he probably felt he had to say that.

  The journey passed all too quickly and he kindly dropped me off right outside my house.

  ‘Thanks, Alan,’ I said, a little too loudly just in case anyone was watching and recognised him. ‘See you on Saturday.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The next week passed in a bit of haze.

  In my mind, I was still in Alan Stonebridge’s car, reliving every second. I did have one or two regrets. Some of the questions I’d asked him were a bit embarrassing. I wished I could take back the one where I asked him if he had a girlfriend.

  Also, if I had the chance to do it all again I probably wouldn’t stare at him so much. I knew he’d caught me a few times just gazing at his profile when he was concentrating on the road.

  But all in all, I felt we’d got on pretty well. I had pretty much decided to invite him to my 15th birthday party in March, hoping that he might bring a few more players along.

  The article had appeared on the back page of the Bromley and Kentish Times, as promised. It was headed ‘FOUR HOUR TRIP WAS WORTH WHILE’ and praised the fact I wasn’t a young troublemaker. However, I had been misquoted. Mr Flood had said that I hadn’t missed a game all season, when I had clearly told him I had missed the away games at Leytonstone and Ilford.

  He had also downplayed my lift home by saying it had been from ‘a Bromley official’. I couldn’t believe it. I wanted the whole of Bromley to know I’d been driven home by Alan Stonebridge.

  It seemed I would have to spread the word myself.

  When I went to the Supporters’ Club hut before the Oxford game on the following Saturday, I casually mentioned that I’d got a lift back from Grays with Alan Stonebridge, expecting an outpouring of envy and questioning over what he was like.

  Instead, they seemed pleased that I‘d managed to get a lift and started talking about our chances in today’s game.

  Only a few weeks ago, Oxford had beaten us 7–0 in a game that was every bit as one-sided as the scoreline suggested. But on that day Bromley were without several key players. Today we were at full strength.

  The good news from the Oxford team was that Woodley, who had scored four times the last time the teams had met, was missing. The bad news was that Morton, who had got a hat -trick in the same game, was in today’s line-up.

  I saw The Grubby, hunched over a cup of tea as usual, and went to join him behind the goal. I deliberately hadn’t mentioned the Stonebridge lift during the week, preferring to find a more dramatic moment to reveal all; perhaps just after the great man scored a goal. That would be when my achievement should have maximum impact.

  The game kicked off in cold, swirling wind that made life difficult for both
players and spectators. The Grubby and I sat shivering, drinking endless cups of tea to stay warm.

  Bromley made the much better start and Ginger Warman deserved at least two goals in the opening ten minutes. On one occasion, the goalie made a brilliant save and on the other Ginger fell over with the goal at his mercy.

  It was all Bromley. So it was a huge shock when Oxford undeservedly took the lead with a diving header from Oram, who until that moment had done nothing.

  Bromley seemed to somehow know then that it wasn’t going to be their day. Perhaps losing had become a habit because everything they tried failed.

  A rare Ginger Warman header (you don’t win much in the air when you’re 5’3") produced a miraculous save from the Oxford goalie. The same man then thwarted Alan Stonebridge, thus depriving me of a premium name dropping opportunity.

  It was getting more and more frustrating. Shots were going just wide or producing great saves.

  The Grubby was suffering. Really suffering. The final whistle failed to put him out of his misery.

  ‘That’s it. No more,’ was all he had to say as he gathered up his half-empty pack of Embassy and lighter before storming off.

  •••

  I found The Grubby in the canteen at school on the following Monday, sitting alone and scowling.

  Something was missing.

  I slowly realised it was his Bromley Supporters’ Club enamel badge.

  He was serious. He’d had enough.

  In an outpouring of emotion he told me that the loss to Oxford had been the final straw.

  ‘I just couldn’t take any more,’ he said, before going on to explain how he had gone home after the game and played his drums until the early hours of the morning, trying to release some of his anger and frustration.

  During this frenzy, he had come to the conclusion that Bromley would never win another game and that the pain of watching them twice a week was one he no longer wanted to suffer. He had gathered all his programmes together and thrown them into the dustbin. His badge had suffered the same fate.