The Bromley Boys

by David Roberts

He wouldn’t be switching to another team. No-one could replace Bromley. He was thinking of getting a Saturday job – he’d heard that Debenhams were looking for someone in their carpet department and he was going in for an interview after school.

  I was shocked. I’d often felt like stopping watching Bromley, especially during this disastrous run. But I knew I’d never be able to carry it out.

  I almost envied The Grubby.

  •••

  Walking through the turnstiles for the Erith and Belvedere game in the Floodlit Cup, I wondered what it was going to be like watching a game without The Grubby. It wasn’t like we said a lot to each other during games – but it was nice just being with someone who understood how much it all meant.

  I bought a couple of programmes and made my way to the bench behind the goal, ready to take up my lone vigil.

  Looking up, I saw a sight I wasn’t expecting to see.

  Sitting there, the sleeves on his green corduroy jacket rolled up, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on his thighs, was The Grubby. He was smoking furiously, cigarette clenched tightly between his teeth, and he had three cups of steaming hot tea beside him.

  He greeted me with a curt nod and handed one of the cups to me. We never spoke of his about-turn and I never mentioned it again.

  After four minutes, his resolve was put to the test when Erith opened the scoring. A speculative shot squirted out of McGuire’s hands and trickled over the goal line.

  The Grubby was expressionless. He also seemed unaffected when Eric Nottage equalised. It was as if he’d decided his only hope of coping with watching Bromley was to suppress all emotion.

  But when Phil Amato was brought crashing to the ground with only the goalie to beat and the linesman raised his flag, The Grubby leapt to his feet and punched the air. I was slightly more restrained, contenting myself with a celebratory whooping sound.

  Then it all went wrong.

  The referee, Mr GM Campbell (hometown not specified, but probably Erith or Belvedere) waved play on.

  Someone in the main stand offered the referee his glasses. The Grubby sat down, defeated. I was in shock.

  Then it got even worse as Eric Nottage limped off with what looked like a serious injury. This was quickly followed by Erith and Belvedere taking an undeserved 2–1 lead with a fluke goal. It was soon 3–1, when a mix-up in the Bromley defence led to a tap-in from a yard out.

  There was to be a bright spot amidst the gloom. With 20 minutes left, Ginger Warman took advantage of some appalling defending to bring it back to 3–2.

  But that was as close as it got. My anger towards the referee was matched only by The Grubby’s anger towards the referee.

  He had clearly cost us five points, which somehow seemed more serious than if it had happened in an Isthmian League game and only cost us one point.

  But while everyone who had been at the game would know the real story, the bare facts were that Bromley had now gone 16 games without a win.

  •••

  The next day, I finished school early. It was The Grubby’s idea. His dad was away and his mum was at work – so we could take the afternoon off, go round to his house and kick a ball about in the back garden.

  It was the first time I’d been to his place and I was surprised to find that he lived in one of the posher parts of Beckenham. I soon discovered where his voracious appetite for tea came from – the teapot was so large, it dominated the kitchen.

  His garden wasn’t a perfect garden for football. Not only was it quite narrow, but also small with a concrete path running through the penalty area. There were several flowerbeds, which would have to be avoided. The goal posts were two silver-birch trees, which were only about four feet apart and the crossbar was a rolled-up garden umbrella perched between the branches, from one tree to the other. The net was a compost heap behind the trees.

  There was a penalty spot painted on to the lawn precisely 12 yards from the goal.

  It is a cliché that many back-garden games of football end with the shattering of glass as the ball is miscued in the direction of a greenhouse, going through a pane and leaving broken glass all over someone’s prize lettuces.

  It shouldn’t, therefore, have come as any great surprise when this happened to me.

  What was meant to be a swerving, dipping volley into the top corner spun off my foot and straight through the glass. The Grubby and I both reacted in exactly the same way – we put our heads in our hands and looked pained. Then ran.

  I later heard that we were both banned from playing football in his back garden. Next time, we would have to go to the park.

  In our world of football, not much was going right.

  •••

  I had a huge football day ahead. It would start with Bromley at home to Dulwich Hamlet, who were having a terrible season. Not as bad as Bromley’s, but still terrible.

  Then, about five hours after that finished, I would witness the first ever Match of the Day in colour. This was tempered slightly by the fact we only had a black and white TV, so I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the full effect, but it was still exciting. It felt like the dawning of a new era.

  I had similar hopes for the Bromley match. Even though the last 16 games hadn’t really gone to plan, Dulwich would be the weakest team – on paper, at least – that we had faced in months.

  The only fresh absence was Ginger Warman, who had been sent off during the week while playing for his Post Office side. Otherwise, it was a strong line-up.

  I was pleasantly surprised Bromley had managed to put out a near full-strength team. The previous game against Erith had seen a succession of leg injuries, with Nottage, Green, Pettet, Lewis and Amato all requiring treatment. I put it down to dirty tactics from Erith and Belvedere, but Charlie King had a different theory. ‘It is the opinion of many top league managers and trainers,’ he thundered in his programme notes, ‘equally shared by many in the amateur field including the writer, that many ankle injuries sustained by players nowadays are the result of the “Dancing Pump” type of football boots generally worn, which offer no protection whatsoever to the ankles.’

  I didn’t know what ‘Dancing Pump’ meant, but took my boots out of my duffel bag. He was right – If they were ‘Dancing Pump’ boots, which they probably were, they offered no ankle protection.

  The Grubby was unusually relaxed, relishing the prospect of a win to break the barren spell. He sipped his tea slowly, relishing every mouthful and lit another cigarette with the glowing remnants of the previous one before flicking it to the ground.

  He had a lazy smile on his face. One that didn’t last for long. I have never seen a man fall apart so quickly and so completely as The Grubby that day.

  Bromley struggled from the start. All the improvement they had shown over the past month was suddenly gone as they reverted to utter uselessness.

  Dulwich were too fast, too skilful, too good. Only Alan Stonebridge seemed able to match them, as he carried the attack on his own. One blistering ‘Stonebridge Special’ was touched on to the post by the goalie.

  But it was nowhere near enough. At the other end, goals were going in with alarming frequency, each triggering a fresh smoking frenzy from The Grubby.

  Dulwich were scoring goals every ten minutes or so, starting just before half-time. Some were good, some lucky and a few were the results of poor defending.

  Their 5–0 win was their biggest away win in two years and our biggest home defeat in even longer. I hated the team for building up my hopes and then crushing them.

  I went to bed early, too depressed to even watch Match of the Day.

  •••

  The 17th defeat in 18 games was at Bexley, a ground that held memories so strange, I had to wonder if they were really some kind of trick of the mind.

  I had first visited their ground a few years back for a friendly against Bromley. The pitch was on a dramatic slope, which was even more pronounced than the one at Wycombe.

  Less than a year late
r, I went back for another friendly only to find the surface was now perfectly level. The only problem was that it was covered in sand, creating a giant grey sandpit.

  Someone had apparently had the bright idea of filling in all the sloping bits with sand to level out the playing surface. This meant that at one end, you would be playing in about three feet of sand, which worked well in dry weather, but could be disastrous when it rained. The other end just had a light coating.

  Today there was no trace of sand or slope, so I assumed someone had found a better solution to the slope problem.

  If there was such a thing as a Kent Floodlit Cup local derby, this was it. Bexley wasn’t quite near enough to go on my bike, but it was easy to get there by bus.

  Alan Stonebridge once again showed how valuable he was by stylishly steering the ball home after a defender’s miskick landed just short of the goalie. It was his sixth goal of the season – something that was put in perspective later that day by news of Pelé scoring the 1000th goal of his career. But at least it was enough to give the travelling faithful (me, Peter and Roy) hope of escaping with a draw.

  It was not to be. By way of retaliation, Bexley simply mounted another attack, scored another goal and then settled back into their pattern of seemingly toying with Bromley.

  It ended 2–1 to Bexley. Under the weird scoring system, they got 12 points for the result and we got one.

  •••

  On the way back, Peter told me to watch for big changes. The committee were going to hold a crisis meeting in a couple of days’ time and Alan Basham was going to have to explain the recent run of pathetic results. I was glad they were reacting. It just seemed to be a bit late.

  At least we still had Alan Stonebridge who had proved once again that he was the one (and only) reason to keep watching Bromley.

  ISTHMIAN LEAGUE HOW THEY STAND

  20TH NOVEMBER 1969

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Even though the headline was staring at me in black and white, my brain refused to accept it.

  Bromley without Alan Stonebridge would be like the Beatles without Paul or Coronation Street without Ena Sharples.

  Unthinkable.

  At least Alan Soper would be a decent replacement for McGuire. But Stonebridge was irreplaceable. I wondered if he could be persuaded to change his mind. I also felt a bit let down that he hadn’t mentioned anything to me in the car.

  For three seasons he had been my hero. He was the one player who always seemed to play well, no matter how badly the rest of the team played.

  My bedroom wall was covered with pictures of him scoring goals, frozen in mid-air heading the ball or just posing for the camera. These pictures were all signed.

  He and McGuire had decided to return to Carshalton Athletic who I had briefly considered switching to as well. But since that would mean a couple of hours travel time for home games, I decided against it.

  While I was trying to come to terms with the enormity of that news, there was more.

  There had been an emergency committee meeting and big changes were in the wind.

  Alan Basham, who had overseen a period of disastrous decline, had been rewarded by being given full control of team selection as well as fitness and training.

  He’d even been given an assistant.

  Inevitably, there were new sub-committees. A three-man panel headed by Charlie King, who was on just about every committee and sub-committee, would handle all matters regarding the team.

  According to ‘a spokesman’ (I suspected this was Mr King), this would cover things like what players were eligible, and arranging training times and meeting places.

  Oddly, the selection sub-committee would continue to meet, despite having no powers whatsoever.

  The other big decision made at the crisis meeting was to contact Graham ‘Gasmask’ Gaston to see if he was now free from his business commitments and was able to play regularly.

  He declined.

  His job, apparently, was more important than the future of Bromley FC.

  But all of this was only a momentary distraction from the incredible Alan Stonebridge bombshell. I found I was still shaking with shock as I tried to take in the full significance of the great man’s announcement.

  Phil Amato had been threatening to leave all season, but he was still at Bromley. This gave me hope that things weren’t quite as dark as they seemed.

  I had to go and lie down, and soon found myself staring at the pictures of Alan Stonebridge on the wall. Everywhere I looked, there seemed to be something to remind me of him.

  I thought of removing the pictures, but not yet. The pain was still too fresh.

  By now, my Bromley-induced misery was starting to seep into my everyday life. The full horror of what was happening had finally filtered through my veil of optimism.

  I still went into every game thinking Bromley were going to win. But it was becoming clear that unless something changed dramatically, the losing streak could stretch into the following year or the following season.

  And if Bromley weren’t as infallible as I had believed, what about my ability to fit into the new school?

  I was about to find out.

  Trials were about to be held for the school football team. Thanks to me giving everyone exaggerated descriptions of my Hayesford Park Reserves exploits, it was assumed I’d walk into the team. I had a feeling that I was getting way out of my depth.

  •••

  I had agonised over whether to continue my support for Bromley, but had recently read that Don Revie, the Leeds manager, had said that no player should be bigger than the club.

  I agreed. Although Bromley would always be my first love, if the worst came to the worst I had plenty of ‘other teams’ from around the globe.

  Raith Rovers were my Scottish team as we’d once been on a train that went past their Starks Park ground on the way from Kirkcaldy to Edinburgh. They were playing at the time, but I couldn’t make out their opponents. It was the only time I’d ever seen them in action, but it was enough for me to form an unbreakable bond. I also was a big Dynamo Moscow fan. This was because of Lev Yashin, their legendary goalie and the original ‘Black Cat’ whom I idolised. He inspired me to insist on getting a black goalie’s jumper for my 9th birthday and try to change my nickname to ‘The Black Cat’.

  In Australia, one name that stood out for me on the Summer Pools coupon was South Coast United. I knew nothing about them apart from their location, but considered myself a fan. I was also a loyal follower of Eintracht Frankfurt, because I felt sorry for them after they lost the European Cup final by a huge score when I was six.

  Then there was Young Boys of Berne, who had won the Swiss League ten times. I’d started supporting them many years before, when I was under the impression that they were a team of young boys playing in a men’s league. When I discovered, in Charles Buchan’s Football Monthly, that the team had got their name to avoid confusion with the other big Berne club, Old Boys of Berne, it was too late. My passion for them was already too well established.

  All in all, I had about seven foreign teams, all of whom used to play in a sort of Subbuteo Super Cup, which Bromley always won.

  •••

  The post Stonebridge-era was given the toughest possible start. Away to St Albans, who were a point clear at the top of the table and had gone 12 games without defeat.

  I felt a surge of hope when I saw the familiar figure of Mr KA Duff of West Moseley trot out, flanked by his smiling linesmen.

  St Albans’ Clarence Park ground was yet another sloping pitch. I often wondered how hard it could be to actually build a level playing surface.

  Bromley were playing downhill in the first half but it was Alan Soper, who I always preferred to McGuire, who was the busier keeper.

  He made a couple of impressive saves and this seemed to breathe confidence into the Bromley team and supporters.

  David Wise, who had replaced Alan Stonebridge started brightly, but he was no Alan Stonebridge.<
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  After ten minutes, Eric Nottage stunned everyone, probably including himself, by giving Bromley an unlikely lead. He nearly made it two a few minutes later and suddenly the travelling supporters found themselves absorbed in a close game. I could tell by Roy’s agitated state that he sensed an upset.

  Unbelievably, Bromley were outplaying the League leaders. Nottage, in particular, was playing brilliantly. But when you’re down, things don’t go your way.

  The St Albans equaliser came from John Butterfield, his third against Bromley for the season, in a scrappy goalmouth scramble, which should have seen Bromley awarded a free-kick. Instead, St Albans were awarded a dubious goal. Roy, Peter, Derek and I were aghast. The referee must have seen the pushing that was going on.

  Mr Duff made up for it on the hour mark by turning down one of the most obvious penalties I had ever seen. The St Albans left winger had broken clean through when Colin Brown dived at his feet, taking his legs from underneath him and bringing him tumbling to the ground. To everyone’s astonishment, Mr Duff waved play on.

  The reprieve was only temporary. Vic Lucas got the winner a few minutes from time. I think we all knew that Bromley would lose, even when the scores had been level.

  Close defeats can sometimes hurt more than big losses, because the hope is still alive until the end. But in this game, I felt that defeat was always going to happen.

  I just couldn’t imagine a Bromley team winning a game without Alan Stonebridge. I still couldn’t believe they’d let him go. It was just the latest in a long line of disasters and I felt I had to do something to stop the slide. John Lennon had just returned his MBE to Buckingham Palace in protest at something or other. I wanted to make a stand that was just as powerful.

  I decided that when I got home, I would write a letter to the editor of the Bromley and Kentish Times outlining my thoughts on what had gone wrong with Bromley’s season and what I thought the club should do about it.

  The editor would probably recognise my name – I had appeared in his paper twice already that season. For good measure, I would say that I knew Tony Flood, his sport reporter.