The Bromley Boys

by David Roberts

  Morton rammed home the spot-kick.

  3–1 to Bromley.

  From the kick-off, Oxford got the ball back and with a simple exchange of passes, Ramsden scored.

  3–2 to Bromley.

  I hadn’t even walked a circuit of the ground and Oxford had scored twice. Bromley looked in tatters. Why hadn’t Mr Bune blown for full-time? This had to be at least the third minute of injury time.

  I felt a familiar burning hatred for Alan Basham. It was obvious to me that the extra training that week had been too much. The players looked exhausted. They were out on their feet. This wasn’t right. Bromley were meant to be fitter than ever, while Oxford were supposed to be getting over the flu.

  And now, Oxford were mounting another attack. Just three minutes ago, I’d been fantasising about a trip to Wembley, as my team had been 3–0 up. Now, a 3–3 draw seemed the most likely result.

  A cross came over from the right but it was plucked from the air by Alan Soper. Before he had time to kick the ball out, the referee finally blew his whistle. The Bromley players celebrated wildly, The Grubby was grinning from ear to ear and I was trying hard to stop myself from crying. It had reminded me why I loved football so much. Suddenly all the passion I’d been forced to suppress was threatening to pour out.

  When you support a team that consistently loses, a win means so much more than it does to a successful team whose supporters seemed to take it for granted. It’s almost as though you have to go through all the misery to truly appreciate the feeling of victory.

  Bromley’s worst ever run had come to an end. It wasn’t against a rubbish team like Corinthian Casuals, either. But one of the better amateur sides. The nightmare was finally over.

  We had Wealdstone in the next round of the Amateur Cup to look forward to – a team lower in the Isthmian League table than the team we’d just beaten, Oxford City.

  It was a shame such a small crowd had turned up to witness such a historic event, but I was sure there’d be a big increase in numbers for the Maidstone game on Boxing Day.

  Every season has a turning point. This looked like being ours. The early exits from the FA Cup, Kent Floodlit Cup and Kent Senior Cup, as well as having no chance of winning the league, had actually worked in our favour.

  Bromley were now free to concentrate on winning the Amateur Cup. For the fourth time in their history. On the three previous occasions, they had won 1–0 with the goal being scored by the player in the number eight shirt.

  So far this season, eight different players had worn it, the latest being Dave Wise. I saw this as a sign. A highly obscure one, but a sign nonetheless.

  •••

  I was really looking forward to Christmas Day. But I was looking forward to Boxing Day even more, because it was always one of my favourite days in the football calendar. Boxing Day was traditionally a time where local derbies took place, since long-distance travel was particularly difficult.

  Bromley were playing Maidstone at home. The fixture had added significance – the majority of the Maidstone team were former Bromley players.

  But that was tomorrow. Today was the day we all opened our presents. I still hadn’t got out of the habit of waking early on Christmas Day, even though I hadn’t put out a stocking in two years.

  I crept through to the lounge and had a peek under the tree. There were four packages with my name on them – one, I knew, would be a box of Maltesers from my sister. We always got each other a box of Maltesers.

  When the rest of the family appeared we all wished each other a merry Christmas and then got on with the business of opening presents.

  I immediately tore the carefully wrapped paper from what looked like my main present and felt a surge of joy when I saw what it was.

  It was a sheepskin coat. Not a real one, but the one I’d seen at C&A. They’d called it a ‘driving coat’ and it was made from a harsh synthetic material that felt a bit like foam rubber. It was a light beige colour, which, from a distant, looked like sheepskin. The lining was a white, fluffy wool substitute that smelled of chemicals and the collar was made from the same material. The pockets were deep, woolly and warm.

  I put it on and went to look in the mirror. It looked fantastic – a perfect fit.

  My next present was just as exciting. I had been under the impression that I’d be getting either a sheepskin or a pair of football boots with a swivel base. Incredibly, I had been given both.

  I tried the boots on, savouring the smell of leather coming from the box, enjoying the feel of brand new black laces which threaded easily into the eyes of the boots. I then went out into the garden and practised swivelling on the rotating studs, which were arranged in a circle on the front part of the sole. It felt amazing – whichever way I turned, the boots turned. I couldn’t wait for the next Hayesford Park Reserves game, even though it was still over a week away. We would be playing Cudham Reserves, a team so appalling that we considered we were in with a chance of beating them.

  I packed my boots away, put my sheepskin back on and went for a walk, eager to be seen in my new coat. I went past ‘Judo’ Al Hayes’s house, hoping he’d be out in the drive but he wasn’t. I could see the red, green and yellow lights of his Christmas tree through a gap in the curtain and hear the excited screaming of children. He was spending the day with his family. Not even ‘Judo’ Al Hayes washed his car on Christmas Day.

  Next, I went to the park, but it was closed. There was no-one around to admire my coat or to kick a ball around with in my new boots. I then went to the shops, but they too were closed. I got home just in time for Christmas dinner and sat at the table, unwilling to take my new coat off.

  What a great Christmas it had been. A sheepskin coat, some new boots, a Morecambe and Wise Christmas Special, loads of sweets, a brilliant Top of the Pops with the Beatles, Clodagh Rogers and Blue Mink, a whole bottle of Cydrax fizzy apple juice to myself, record tokens from both aunts, Twiglets and Carry on Christmas.

  And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, I unwrapped my final present – one I’d been saving up. It was the latest All Stars Football Book edited by Jimmy Armfield, the England left-back.

  I was soon lost in its pages, savouring every picture and carefully reading every story. I couldn’t believe how Armfield had managed to find time to fit in book editing alongside playing for Blackpool as well as his country. He’d done a really good job.

  The day finished in the traditional way with the third annual Super Christmas Floodlit Cup, a Subbuteo extravaganza utilising the floodlights I’d got three Christmases ago.

  As I only had three teams, participating clubs were selected because they played in either blue shirts with white shorts (Everton, Birmingham, etc.) or red shirts with white shorts (Manchester United, Charlton Athletic, etc.).

  The all-white strip, which had been modified with blue trim, was Bromley only. They always won. This time, by 9–0 over Portsmouth, who, in the real world, were struggling in the Second Division.

  After packing the teams away, I finally went to bed. Tomorrow was also looking like a big day, with the newly on-form Bromley taking on lowly Maidstone United.

  I’d be there to see it. In my sheepskin coat. I felt almost as excited at the prospect of Boxing Day as I had on the night before Christmas.

  •••

  I wanted everyone in the ground to admire my new sheepskin coat, so I wandered around slowly, stopping frequently and posing in the hope that someone would notice. Despite these efforts, Derek was the only person who mentioned it. He disappointingly complimented me on my new driving coat instead of my sheepskin.

  I bought my programme from Charlie King, who had recently added Programme Seller to his other duties as Ground Announcer and Chairman.

  I then bought three cups of tea from Peter in the tea hut. After exchanging ‘Merry Christmas’, he asked if I could join him after the game. Intrigued, I agreed.

  I then went to sit next to The Grubby and handed him his teas. We sat in silence, s
tudying our programmes.

  The team news was undramatic. Jeff Bridge was spending Christmas in France, staying at a hotel owned by a former Bromley teammate, Colin England. Bobby Lennox was going back up north. John Sullivan wasn’t publicly revealing his festive plans, but they didn’t include playing for Bromley. He had made himself unavailable.

  Not that he would’ve been picked.

  The crowd was a good one – certainly bigger than for the last couple of games combined. I wondered if it was the result of the great win against Oxford, the lure of Maidstone United or simply a case of people desperate to get out of the house.

  Both teams got an unusually good reception. It was odd seeing so many ex-Bromley players in the gold shirts and black shorts of Maidstone. It felt as though they’d wandered into the visitors’ changing room by mistake and put the wrong shirts on.

  Bromley looked full of enthusiasm and confidence, with one exception. A very grumpy looking Ginger Warman, who had the air of a child who hadn’t got what he’d wanted for Christmas. My thoughts immediately turned to his recent disciplinary record which wasn’t pretty. He’d only just finished a three-week suspension for being sent off in a Post Office match. The details of his offence had never been made public, which led to all sorts of speculation until Peter revealed that a bad foul was responsible.

  His behaviour in Bromley colours hadn’t been much better, with two bookings in the past month. I just hoped he’d last the full 90 minutes today, but wasn’t overly optimistic.

  The game quickly settled into a clash between two ultra-defensive sides both seemingly looking for a draw. Attacks were few and far between from either side until a flowing move, cruelly involving four ex-Bromley players, led to Maidstone taking the lead just after half-time.

  This seemed to incense Ginger Warman even more. He appeared to take it as a personal affront and launched himself into a series of bloodcurdling tackles.

  When his former team-mate Bobby Evans returned the compliment with a tough-but-fair challenge, Ginger didn’t take it well. He retaliated so violently that Evans had to go off for treatment.

  The Warman sending-off that followed the incident was inevitable, as it had been from the moment he took the field. Bromley were now a man and a goal down.

  But finally Alan Basham’s fitness training paid dividends. In the last minute, usually the time for opposition teams to score, Bromley got an equaliser. Pat Brown made up for the dismissal of his fellow postman by putting Eddie Green through to finish with a fierce drive.

  It had come too late for me to write about in my programme. I had already packed both of them away and was heading to the tea hut for my meeting with Peter.

  I jumped in the air with excitement at seeing such a great goal just when I’d given up any hope of Bromley avoiding defeat. It was turning into an unforgettable Christmas.

  And when Peter told me I’d got the tea-making job in the tea hut and that I’d even get paid, it felt like the best Christmas ever.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The holiday was spent mainly down at the park. I wasn’t the only one with new boots. There seemed to have been an outbreak of seasonal boot buying and just about every boy was sporting a new pair. The George Best-autographed Stylo boots were definitely the most popular, and there were also a few pairs of Puma Hat Tricks.

  There didn’t seem to be any discernible difference in the standard of football, although we were all convinced otherwise, putting every good shot or accurate pass down to the new boots.

  I was taking every opportunity to turn sharply, so I could swivel on the rotational studs. This meant I went on aimless meandering runs, filled with as many turns as humanly possible, even when there was no-one anywhere near me. I think I just loved the feeling of swivelling around.

  The only downside was that new boots can get quite uncomfortable, especially if you don’t ease them in. Which was why, one by one, boys were wandering home, complaining of sore feet and blisters.

  But however much pain they were in, I knew they would all be back tomorrow for more.

  •••

  The bad news that had filtered through from South London was that Corinthian Casuals had beaten their landlords, Tooting and Mitcham, and had trebled their total points for the season. Although it was technically an away game, I felt slightly better knowing that it had also been a home game, which made their winning slightly more understandable.

  I was glad to see Bromley were taking the threat seriously. The headline on the back page of the Bromley and Kentish Times read ‘BROMLEY PLAN TO END POOR RUN’.

  It was what I wanted to see. After 22 league games without a win, it was good to see the club were taking steps to turn things around.

  I eagerly read the article and, by the end, was feeling a little bewildered. The plan seemed alarmingly vague. From what I could make out, the big idea was to beat Corinthian Casuals and Walthamstow Avenue at home, as well as Maidstone and Dulwich away, thus avoiding finishing in the bottom two and having their worst-ever season.

  That was it. That was the much-trumpeted plan.

  Part one of this would be taking place at Hayes Lane the next day, with the home fixture against Corinthian Casuals. Dave would be coming with me and I was desperate for Bromley to do well in front of him.

  It was also important for them to play well because it was the last game before the massive Amateur Cup second-round tie at Wealdstone’s Station Road ground a week later.

  I felt sorry for Charlie King. He might well be going on a round the world cruise to places like Australia and Africa, but I was sure he’d rather be going to Wealdstone.

  I knew I would.

  •••

  I had severely over-committed myself. Not only had I arranged to start work at the tea hut but I’d also promised to take Dave along to the game, which was one of the most important of the season.

  It was the first of Bromley’s ‘must win’ games in their plan to avoid finishing last. My lack of organisation meant that Dave was forced to watch the entire match on his own, while I made tea for the thirsty supporters. This was a serious blow as I had intended to give him background on all the players and a running commentary, in the hopes of persuading him to come and watch all the games with me.

  Although Corinthian Casuals had won against Tooting, I was confident they wouldn’t be able to follow it with a win at Hayes Lane. My theory was that they only beat Tooting because they were able to watch them practise – and therefore get a look at their tactics – due to sharing a ground.

  Bromley would be a different matter, especially since we were now unbeaten for two matches.

  I got to the ground at 2.30pm and reported to the tea hut. Peter was already there and the giant water boiler in the corner was emitting a mixture of gurgling sounds and a shrill whistle. This, I was told, indicated that it was boiling.

  Part of my training was to measure out the tea leaves from a massive box and put them into a huge metallic teapot. I was impressed to learn that it could hold enough tea to fill over 50 cups.

  Although this wasn’t my first job I was still nervous. I’d been sacked from my last job at the chemist’s for being too demanding and before that the only work experience I had was a paper round for a year and various bob-a-job week tasks for the Boy Scouts – the highlight of which was washing ‘Judo’ Al Hayes’s car for a shilling.

  My job at the tea hut was less glamourous, but no less exciting. I was responsible for taking orders and pouring the tea. Peter then took the money, which was often accompanied by grumbling as the price had recently gone up to 6d.

  When the first customer appeared at the hatch, Peter showed me how it was done. ‘Yes, mate?’ he asked and the man who was standing there said ‘White with two, please’. This, I learnt, was tea speak for a cup of tea with milk and two sugars.

  The next customer wandered up. I was thrust into action, thankful that my first customer was known to me. It was The Grubby.

  ‘Yes mate?’ I asked
. He wanted three teas, all with milk and four sugars. Only after he had put in his order did it seem to register that I was the one serving him and therefore wouldn’t need my usual cup of tea. He changed his order to two teas with milk and four sugars.

  After a slightly confused Grubby had returned to his place behind the goal, I served a steady stream of customers without mishap.

  It felt great to be part of the inner circle at Bromley FC. Especially as the tea hut was a stepping stone to the big one – working in the Supporters’ Club hut on the other side of the ground. I wore my enamel badge on my sheepskin coat with even more pride than usual.

  Just before the game kicked off, I saw Dave enter the ground. He reluctantly walked over to the main stand and sat down, looking round. He finally saw my frantic waves and grudgingly waved back. I don’t think he was too pleased about having to watch on his own.

  Still, I’d get to see him afterwards, by which time I was convinced he would already be a loyal Bromley fan. I hadn’t warned him how useless the opposition were – I wanted him to get the impression that Bromley were really good – not that Casuals were really bad.

  I got back to work, stopping occasionally to take a sip of tea or have a bite to eat.

  I spent much of what I earned at the tea hut on Club Biscuits. It made a change paying for them, as until recently, I had been getting them free, in common with a significant percentage of boys at school.

  It had started when one of them had written to Jacobs, the manufacturer, after noticing that the photos on the wrapper showed more raisins than were actually in the biscuit. They wrote back apologetically and sent him a box packed with their products.

  Word soon spread and before long literally hundreds of boys were writing to Jacobs with similar complaints. Jacobs obligingly sent boxes by return of post until they cottoned on to the fact that just about the entire population of Beckenham was feeling hard done by when they looked at the wrapper of a Club biscuit. After that, people got nothing but a polite apology.