The Bromley Boys

by David Roberts

  Eric Nottage was a lone figure up front, demonstrating that the gap left by Alan Stonebridge was a large one. I doubted it would ever be filled.

  The Wembley goal – their only goal and the goal that won the match for them – was offside. Glaringly, blatantly, obviously so. I was beseeching the referee to change his mind but he ignored me. The frustration filled me with a rage I hadn’t known since my sister got more cake than me at my 9th birthday party. I felt distraught. After all I’d done to get the pitch ready, I got to see my team lose to a goal that should never have been allowed.

  To make things worse, the ball was clearly handled during the movement leading up to it and Alan Soper was booked for the unique offence of getting kicked in the face.

  The feeling of injustice was overwhelming and overshadowed the obvious signs of a team in terminal decline that were there for all but me to see – slack marking, bickering, indecision and poor positioning.

  I yearned for more. And watching Bromley trudge off after yet another defeat in front of a handful of people led me to think that I should seriously consider doing something drastic.

  •••

  I took the decision on the following Monday.

  Demoralised by the Wembley loss, a feeling that was compounded by an 8–1 defeat suffered by Hayesford Park Reserves the next day, I was pushed beyond breaking point.

  So when Dave, the boy I had befriended at school, asked me to go and watch Arsenal against Burnley with him the following Saturday, I agreed.

  The thought of watching a successful team, packed with household names like Radford, Wilson and Graham was an exciting prospect.

  My new friend had a connection with the team. He had once almost been Bobby Gould’s babysitter when Dave lived in Hornchurch. Eager to outdo him, I told him about the time I got a lift home from Alan Stonebridge.

  When that failed to get a response, I quizzed him about his Bobby Gould story. It seemed that he’d read in Goal magazine about how Bobby and his wife were looking for a babysitter so they could start going out again after their son Jonathan had been born. Dave immediately wrote to the magazine, offering his services, even though he was only 12 and lived over 100 miles away.

  They didn’t take him up on it. Dave reckoned they must have found someone who lived nearer.

  And that was by no means his only brush with the Gunners’ star players. When Dave and several friends started their own team in Hornchurch, Dave decided that they needed an Arsenal player as coach. He found a George Armstrong in the Dagenham telephone directory and called. His mum answered. George came to the phone and said yes, he played for the Gunners.

  A few days later he was surprised to find about a dozen boys on his doorstep trying to persuade him to manage their team. The boys had taken the tube and then walked for several miles to get there. They left the Armstrong household still manager-less.

  Like me, Dave had regularly sent his club Christmas cards with his address helpfully printed in huge letters on the back in the hopes of getting one in return.

  Like me, he had failed to get a response.

  This was someone who must surely understand the nature of my Bromley obsession. He had done the same kind of things that I’d done. And was still doing them.

  The only condition I made about going to Arsenal was that he had to come and watch a Bromley game with me. I earmarked the Corinthian Casuals home game in early January.

  I wanted him to see Bromley win and that was as near to as dead cert as it got in the Isthmian League.

  He agreed. And we also decided that if it was OK with my mum, he would stay for dinner and possibly the night.

  •••

  I actually felt guilty about not watching Bromley’s next game, so was relieved when I heard that Saturday’s FA Amateur Cup game had been called off for the kind of thing that only ever happened to Bromley.

  Seven Oxford players had gone down with the flu. Charlie King wasn’t sympathetic and announced that unlike the Oxford management, Bromley had taken the anti-flu precaution of naming 14 players for the game, which meant a couple could be bedridden and the game would still have taken place. As it turned out, Jim Roberts was the only flu victim leaving 13 players raring to go.

  Mr King’s petulance had no effect. The game was postponed until the following Saturday.

  Knowing that I wouldn’t be missing a Bromley game and clear of conscience, I met Dave at Bromley South station and we took the train to Victoria before getting on the underground to Arsenal, the nearest station to Highbury Stadium.

  Everything about going to watch First Division football was on a bigger scale. Instead of a half-empty 47 bus, we were packed into a tube crammed with red and white scarves. When we emerged into the chilly North London night, the floodlights towered over the massive stadium, making Bromley’s look like something out of a Subbuteo set. Despite being early, we had to queue for 15 minutes to get into the famous North Bank, a vast expanse of concrete terracing where the home supporters stood. It was soon packed.

  As I turned round to survey the mass of bodies, a man towards the back raised his scarf and started to sing, his breath visible in the cold air. By the time he was a few words into the song, the whole North Bank seemed to have joined in. The noise was frightening yet electrifying too. Excitement was at fever pitch and the game hadn’t even started yet. I felt like the only one not singing, partly because I wasn’t sure of the words and partly because I would have felt self-conscious.

  Hello hello we are the Arsenal Boys

  Hello hello we are the Arsenal Boys

  And if you are a Tottenham fan

  Surrender or you die

  ‘Cos we all follow the Arsenal

  I knew that somewhere in the vast bank of people behind me were the skinheads and hooligans that I’d read about in the Sun and heard about at school. Dave and I were pressed against the fence, just behind the goal, which was reassuring. If there was any trouble, I would just climb over it and escape.

  By kick-off, the North Bank was full, in contrast to the Clock End, where small pockets of Burnley fans stood huddled together.

  The game was everything a Bromley game wasn’t – fast, skilful and full of action. I’d seen both teams on Match of the Day in recent weeks, but nothing could have prepared me for seeing them so close up. The players were all familiar – I even had Typhoo tea cards of Ian Ure and Terry Neill, which I had a habit of cutting from the side of the box before my mum had finished it and subsequently got into trouble.

  When Arsenal scored, the whole of the North Bank surged forward like a tidal wave. And when the whistle went for full-time, I could feel the relief of the thousands behind me as Arsenal held out a late fightback from Burnley to win 3–2.

  By the time we got back to Bromley, we were both still on a high and walked back to my house singing:

  Hello hello we are the Arsenal Boys

  Hello hello we are the Arsenal Boys

  And if you are a Tottenham fan

  Surrender or you die

  ’Cos we all follow the Arsenal

  •••

  The next day at school, Dave took me aside and showed me a drawing of what looked like white space-age football boots, with dozens of tiny star-shaped studs designed, he told me, to give the wearer added traction when turning.

  Eyes gleaming with excitement, he claimed that these boots would fit the foot like a sleek glove with nothing protruding above the leather. Their big selling point was the buckle that fastened onto the sole, thus allowing the ‘foot to football interface’ to remain uncluttered.

  The boot was shown from every conceivable angle – above, below, from the left, from the right, from the inside. There were arrows leading from each innovative feature to his longhand explanation. He’d obviously spent a lot of time drawing them. The detail was amazing.

  He explained that he’d designed the boots especially for John Radford, the Arsenal centre-forward. I had already realised this – there was a big caption above
the drawing saying ‘THE SENSATIONAL JOHN RADFORD FOOTBALL BOOT’. They were Dave’s answer to the George Best boots that were currently being advertised in all the football magazines. George’s boots were different simply for the sake of being different. They were purple, with a white stripe from top to toe, and had laces on the sides. They looked more like bowling shoes than football boots. I wanted a pair desperately.

  Dave’s idea was for John Radford to bring out and wear his own boots, which would be designed by himself. His only slight concern was that the white colour might make Radford seem less masculine, but eventually decided he was worrying over nothing. He didn’t want any money, just for people to appreciate John’s genius.

  Dave was determined that John would enjoy playing in these, so had made comfort, in the form of internal cushioning, a big part of the design. He certainly didn’t want a repeat of the ‘Denis Law fiasco’ where the Manchester United inside-left could be seen in the pages of Shoot! Magazine advertising Mitre boots. But he refused to play in them. Mitre finally agreed that he could play in Adidas boots, as long as he disguised them as Mitre boots.

  Dave was confident that John Radford would not only enjoy playing in his boots, but also score more goals as a direct result.

  He’d sent weekly work-in-progress designs to John at Highbury Stadium and had rushed to the front door every morning when he heard the mail drop, confidently expecting to hear from John or his representative.

  They hadn’t yet got back to him.

  I had to admit the boots looked good and I made him promise to make sure they were stocked in Eric Fright’s sports shop in Bromley High Street. My loyalty to this particular establishment was due to Eric Fright being the Bromley captain when they won the Amateur Cup in 1949.

  My own boots, which I wore every Sunday in a proper men’s league, had three white stripes down the sides to make them look like Adidas. But that was a deception. They weren’t Adidas at all. The big giveaway was the word ‘WINFIELD’ stamped on, thus identifying it to everyone as a cheap, Woolworths’ own brand of boot. They were also a size too big, but my mum had assured me that I’d grow into them.

  What I really craved was a pair of boots with a swivel base, cleverly designed to avoid injury when turning. I was convinced they would help me score more goals and I’d already approached my parents with the idea of getting some for Christmas and they had agreed. But recently, I’d had a growing desire for something else.

  A sheepskin coat.

  My Highbury trip had convinced me that I was really missing out by not having one. I would never forget looking behind me and seeing a sea of sheepskin. If I was going to really belong in the first division of football supporters, I had to get myself one.

  It didn’t even have to be real one. I’d seen a really good copy of one in the window of C&As in Bromley High Street and hinted to my dad that he might want to have a look at it.

  Dad told me that I had to decide whether I wanted the coat or the boots. It was up to me. It was a question of what I wanted more.

  •••

  After Dave had put away his drawing, he asked if I wanted to play Killball. I’d never heard of it – Sevenoaks certainly didn’t play it – but eager to join in, I agreed.

  Killball was played in the cloakroom, usually when it was too wet to play conventional football outside.

  A game was in progress as we arrived, so I was able to get a good look.

  The idea seemed to be for one player to dribble a crudely made paper-and-sellotape ball through a human corridor of vicious, giggling schoolboys, whose aim was to kick the dribbler anywhere they could – shins, ankles, thighs.

  Whatever it took to prevent him from reaching the other end and kicking the ball against the wall.

  It was a game designed to bring out the idiot in any boy. While the sensible thing to do would be to concede defeat before any real damage was done, most seemed prepared to get a goal regardless of bumps and bruises received.

  In order for you to join the corridor of kickers, you had to take your turn dribbling the ball. That’s what they told me, anyway. So I steeled myself and, with the ball at my feet, headed towards the wall.

  They seemed to be taking extra delight in kicking me. I don’t know if this was because I was a new boy or they just didn’t like me, but I was being kicked from all directions. I even went down a couple of times, my ankles weakened by the constant assault and unable to support my weight. The strange thing was that I was loving it. Every yard I managed to get the ball nearer the wall felt like a triumph. And when I finally scored it felt almost as good as my goal for Hayesford Park Reserves.

  The only difference being that then I didn’t have a mass of cuts and bruises covering my lower leg.

  I became addicted to Killball. It didn’t matter whether I was kicking or being kicked, I found it exciting and started hanging around the cloakroom during breaks, hoping there would be enough people for a game.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Most people, when given the choice, would rather watch a First Division team on a winning streak than an Isthmian League one that had lost 21 of their last 22 games.

  I could understand that. But despite the sheer excitement of my Arsenal adventure, I felt I should take the second chance I’d been given to see Bromley take on Oxford City in the FA Amateur Cup.

  Apparently, Oxford’s flu epidemic was now under control and the game would definitely go ahead. Because the game was being played a week late, the winners’ second-round opponents were already known.

  Wealdstone away. A tough, but not impossible, task.

  Bromley had prepared for today’s clash by increasing their midweek training regime to two sessions instead of one. Alan Basham felt this would help towards the end of the game, a time where Bromley traditionally collapsed.

  Les Brockman was the only new injury. He’d managed to break his jaw while playing in goal for his Sunday league team.

  Ginger Warman was ineligible, having already played for Horsham in the Amateur Cup before he rejoined Bromley. He was replaced by David Wise, who had been ineligible for the last game against Wembley in the London Senior Cup. A game that Ginger Warman had been allowed to play in.

  I joined The Grubby behind the goal. He had three cups of tea beside him and handed one to me. I took a sip and it tasted as though it had about eight sugars in it. Satisfied, I carried on drinking.

  There was worry etched all over The Grubby’s face. Oxford hadn’t lost to Bromley in nearly four years and had already done the double over us this season.

  More impressively, they’d almost caused a massive FA Cup upset a few weeks previously, by taking the lead against Fourth Division Swansea Town in the second round proper, before doing a Bromley and going on to lose 5–1.

  Still, any team capable of going that far in the FA Cup would have to be in with a real chance of lifting the FA Amateur Cup.

  •••

  I was getting desperate for a win. Any win would do, for either Bromley or Hayesford Park Reserves. Both teams seemed to be taking it in turns to outdo each other in levels of humiliation. Hayesford Park Reserves had recently finished the first half of the season with an 8–1 defeat to Albermarle, giving us a record of one draw and nine defeats in the last ten games. This was an identical record to Bromley’s.

  Charlie King was clearly not yet in the holiday mood. His programme notes reflected my frustration at all the recent injustices. He was still upset about Oxford pulling out last weekend because some of them had flu. He also referred back to that game a month or so ago, when Oxford won 1–0. It was, he said, ‘a game we should surely have won 2–1 if justice had been done, only miraculous goalkeeping by the Oxford keeper saved them’.

  His final salvo was aimed at the supporters, reminding them to ‘give our boys the vocal support so badly needed’.

  Sadly, the few hundred fans that turned up ignored Mr King’s pleas and stayed silent. Perhaps that was because they were unable to believe what they were witne
ssing.

  There was a sense of déjà vu about the first incident of the game that occurred after just a couple of minutes. The Bromley goalie was injured and had to be carried off. It had happened to Ian McGuire against Clapton and Walthamstow and now it was Alan Soper’s turn. He got a kick on the knee and Jeff Bridge was forced to take over as goalie.

  As if being totally rubbish wasn’t enough, we now had to play with our right-back in goal. Luckily, Soper soon returned, swathed in bandages, ready to face the onslaught.

  The visitors were slowly getting on top.

  But then, a mere six hours after their last goal, Bromley scored through a Bobby Lennox cross which the Oxford goalie fumbled and then contrived to drop into the net. An eerie silence fell over the ground as though no-one could quite believe what they had just seen.

  Slowly, the applause started. It kept building and building, until just about every one of the 263 (officially 400) spectators was standing and clapping.

  The second goal for Lennox was greeted with similar levels of enthusiasm and by the time Nottage had added a third to give us a 3–0 half-time lead, the ground felt as though it had slowly come alive again after a long period of hibernation.

  It took an hour for Oxford to finally find a way past Soper as Oram bundled the ball into the net. But before my head had had the chance to hit my hands, I saw the referee, Mr T.G.O.P. Bune of Camberley glance over at his linesman, Mr B.A.W. Brackpool of Oxted, who had his red flag raised. The goal was disallowed. The feeling of relief was enormous. Being a Bromley supporter, you really needed at least a three-goal cushion before you could start believing that a win was possible.

  The Grubby and I were taking it in turns to nervously circumnavigate the ground, cup of tea and saucer in hand, barely able to watch. The tension really was unbearable. Suddenly, this useless team of ours was poised for a glorious, unexpected win. Against our bogey team in a competition that really, really mattered.

  As I was walking past the Supporters’ Club hut, with time up on my watch and Bromley 3–0 ahead, the unthinkable happened. Oxford were given a penalty for what looked like a double offence – a Jeff Bridge foul and a Pat Brown handball.