The Bromley Boys

by David Roberts

  ‘How much are they paying you, mate?’ shouted an incredulous voice from the Main Stand, putting into words what everyone must have been thinking.

  Next, it was Eric Nottage’s turn to feel hard done by, when a brilliant header flashed past the Tooting and Mitcham goalie. The celebrations were cut short by Mr Clark’s decision to disallow the goal for no apparent reason.

  The official then continued with his vendetta against Bromley in general and Nottage in particular by disallowing another perfectly good goal, this time for offside when he clearly wasn’t.

  Things had got so bad that I actually felt incredible rage when Mr Clark disallowed yet another goal – this time from Bobby Lennox – even though the Bromley striker clearly punched the ball into the net. By this time I could no longer differentiate between right and wrong. If the referee disallowed a goal, I now automatically felt a great injustice had been done.

  The final scoreline was Bromley 2 Tooting and Mitcham 4, but if it was adjusted to take into account all the unfair decisions, it would have been Bromley 5 Tooting and Mitcham 2.

  I was so angry that I went home and wrote a letter to the president of the Isthmian League, complaining about the totally biased performance of the referee and gave detailed descriptions (with diagrams) of the Bromley goals he had disallowed, as well as the Tooting and Mitcham ones he had given.

  I finished by saying that, in my opinion, he should never be allowed to referee again. And if they didn’t believe me, they could ask anyone who was at the game.

  A week later, I got a reply. It thanked me for my letter and said that my comments had been noted.

  Reading between the lines, I took this to mean that Mr Clark had blown his whistle for the last time.

  I was glad the league had acted so decisively.

  •••

  The Hayesford Park Reserves season ended without a win. The last game was against Albermarle Reserves, who were outclassing us to such an extent they were up 6–0 after half-an hour.

  They seemed to have men to spare. Every time we got the ball, there were several markers. And every time they attacked, they seemed to outnumber us. It felt as though we were playing 12 men. I counted them. We were.

  After pointing this out discreetly to the referee (I didn’t want to be seen as someone who told tales), the extra player was sent to the sidelines.

  It didn’t make any difference. Albemarle Reserves were still much better than us, even with the same amount of players and they ran out 9–2 winners.

  We had finished the season anchored to the bottom of the table, with just one point to show for seven months of freezing weather, hard bumpy pitches, niggling injuries and wasted effort.

  Our record made painful reading. We’d played 18 games and lost 17 of them, drawing one. We’d scored 16 goals and conceded a dismal 128.

  As we were in the lowest division of the Orpington and Bromley District Sunday League, we couldn’t be relegated. We’d already reached rock bottom.

  Instead, we were invited to ‘apply for re-election’.

  If Bromley finished bottom, they would also avoid relegation for the same reason. They couldn’t go any lower.

  Together with Corinthian Casuals, we had completely lost touch with the other 18 teams in the Isthmian League.

  And I had finally discovered why this had happened.

  Shamateurism.

  ORPINGTON AND BROMLEY DISTRICT SUNDAY LEAGUE

  It was a word I’d heard many times, but never understood what it meant, until I plucked up the courage to ask Peter.

  He explained that Isthmian League rules meant you had to be strictly amateur, but most teams got around this by paying expenses or giving other perks.

  Among the very few strictly amateur teams left were Bromley and Corinthian Casuals.

  Most of the rest found ways of rewarding players for their efforts, especially the glamour teams who attracted much bigger crowds than Bromley. I’d even heard that Sutton’s manager earned £1,500 a year while Alan Basham earned nothing. I think I was meant to be outraged by this, but it seemed an accurate reflection of their respective abilities.

  No Bromley player or official was getting anything – not even their bus fares to the ground. At least several of them seemed to have better luck picking up £5 in the weekly Bromley Supporters’ Club ‘200’ club.

  The more I thought about the shamateurism issue, the more convinced I became that it explained our lowly league position.

  The FA had announced an inquiry. I couldn’t wait to hear the results of it, especially if it meant that everyone apart from us and Corinthian Casuals would get points deducted.

  If all went well, the Isthmian League table could have a completely different look by the time the season ended.

  This was the kind of straw I was now clutching at, as I prepared for Bromley’s last home game of the season.

  •••

  April 18, 1970 was one of the quietest match days I’d experienced at Hayes Lane. The visitors, Walthamstow Avenue, were fourth from bottom of the table but well clear of the danger zone. They didn’t seem to have brought any supporters with them and there were very few Bromley fans, even though it was the last chance to see Bromley play at home for several months.

  The terraces were completely empty and the main stand held less than a dozen spectators. A cold wind blew across the ground.

  The air of desolation was enhanced by a flat-sounding Charlie King, clearly less than rejuvenated after his recent cruise, announcing on the tannoy that although this had been the worst season in living memory, the support had been tremendous and next season was going to be a lot better.

  There was no real conviction behind his words.

  As I made my way towards the tea hut, Peter met me half way. The news he had sent a wave of excitement through me – so much so, that I had to get him to repeat it.

  I hadn’t been mistaken. Peter had asked me if I wanted to work in the Supporters’ Club hut today. This was what I had been working towards all season. A place in the inner sanctum of Bromley supporters.

  I slowly walked over to the hut, relishing every step. Like the tea hut, it wasn’t busy. A story that was the same all over the ground. The turnstile operators were just as underemployed and the programme sellers were stuck with large stacks of unsold programmes.

  As I unlatched the white gate to go into Supporters’ Club area, my heart was almost bursting with pride. And then it got even better. I was told that I might as well sit on the little bench in front of the hut until they got a bit busier.

  I felt like a king and the bench felt like a throne. Behind the goal at the far end, a lone figure with long ginger hair had taken his usual place. I hoped he’d seen me.

  I treasured every moment of the match, apart from the four Walthamstow Avenue goals which were scored right in front of me, during a second-half blitz that took the scoreline from a respectable 0–0 to an embarrassing 4–0.

  The view was incredible. I had never been so near to the action. At one stage, I was close enough to hear Phil Amato say ‘Leave it, Bridgey’ as Jeff Bridge had tried to take a quick throw directly in front of me.

  It got even better when Roy and Derek joined me and we sat together in the fading Spring sunshine, in the shadow of the floodlight pylon doing what we loved to do best. Watching Bromley.

  The fact that we were losing 4–0 didn’t seem to matter. It was as though all hope had already been beaten out of us and we had even accepted that we weren’t going to catch Corinthian Casuals.

  Just talking amongst ourselves and intermittently shouting encouragement to a wildly discouraged bunch of players made me realise that what made a football club wasn’t just the teams, it was also the fans. They were as much a part of the club as the players.

  We talked about finishing bottom of the league and discovered that we’d all dealt with it in different ways. Derek, the practical one, was already looking forward to next season, where Bromley would be able to start afresh. R
oy, the emotional one, had fallen into a deep depression, while Peter, the mysterious one, was typically giving nothing away about how he felt.

  As for me, I had been able to think of little else. Bromley Football Club was the most important thing in my life and the season’s succession of failures had taken its toll. Over the last few months, I had become morose and uncommunicative; something that had been put down to teenage hormones, but that wasn’t the real reason. It was really down to Bromley. All I wanted was to see a performance that would give me hope for the future, but once again, I’d seen the opposite.

  There was only one game to go after this – the nightmare fixture away to Enfield. Strangely, there was sufficient supporter interest for a coach to be completely booked out.

  After the game, while all the other Bromley fans trudged out of the ground for the last time that season, I was still sitting on the bench, reluctant to ever leave it.

  •••

  There were a lot of nervous football fans at school. The Arsenal contingent were as surprised as anyone else that their team had reached the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup Final, where they would face Anderlecht – my favourite Belgian team. The fate of the Palace fans was in the hands of Sunderland and Sheffield Wednesday. If either team won their final match of the season, Palace would go down to the Second Division.

  The sole Bromley supporter had less at stake, but a good performance at Enfield could possibly stop me being the only football fan in the entire school whose season would end in an unmitigated disaster.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Enfield pretty much won everything they wanted to win. They were the current Amateur Cup holders and Isthmian League champions, a title they were about to retain.

  They were so good that their right winger, Adams, had scored more goals during the season than the entire Bromley team put together.

  And he wasn’t even their leading scorer.

  That was John Connell, one of the most famous non-league players in the world. He seemed to be a regular fixture in the pages of The Amateur Footballer, which I dutifully bought every month from the Supporters’ Club hut even though it was really boring.

  I didn’t envy Alan Soper. I doubted he’d got much sleep the previous night worrying about Enfield’s star-studded attack. I know I hadn’t.

  It wasn’t just Enfield and Bromley supporters who were at Enfield Stadium that Monday night. There were fans with Sutton United scarves as well as a small Wycombe Wanderers contingent. I presumed they had all come to see just how many goals Enfield could rack up against one of the worst defences in English football.

  It felt a bit strange talking about our chances of a keeping the scoreline in single figures, but that was the best we could realistically hope for.

  Only three of the Bromley team had played when the teams had last met at the beginning of the season, while the Enfield line-up was almost identical to tonight’s.

  As soon as the referee took the field, I knew we were doomed. It was Mr KG Salmon, who I held personally responsible for our loss in the first league game of the season at Wycombe. He was now in charge of the last league game, too.

  The first ten minutes only enhanced the feeling of a season going full circle. It was like the opening fixture against West Ham all over again. I was checking my watch every few minutes, becoming increasingly hopeful of a result that would shock the football world.

  Enfield just couldn’t find a way through a superbly well-organised Bromley defence, with Alan Bonney in particular standing out.

  This sudden ability to play far better than usual was contagious – the Miles brothers were so effective that Enfield were reduced to taking shots from 30 yards out.

  Unfortunately, this was something they were very good at and John Connell hit the bar with one such effort after 20 minutes. This seemed to give the home side confidence and a few minutes later John Connell (obviously) gave them the lead.

  But, just like in the earlier meeting between the teams, the expected floodgates didn’t open. And just as in the earlier meeting, Bromley unexpectedly drew level. It was through Eric Nottage, a man who had been called an ‘old warhorse’ in just about everything I’d ever read about him throughout the season. He calmly beat Ian Wolstenholme in the Enfield goal and it was 1–1. Against Enfield. Away.

  I looked at my watch. The defence just had to hold out for an hour or so, for a result that would shake the very foundations of amateur football.

  From then on, it was one-way traffic.

  It was the first time in a long time that I’d seen the team in white dominate a game so extensively. The reason for this was that Bromley were playing in red, to avoid clashing with Enfield’s white shirts and blue shorts.

  It was hard to see how anyone could have possibly mistaken Bromley for Enfield, even if they’d been wearing identical kits.

  The game was agony to watch – wave after wave of attacks were being repelled by the great Alan Soper, whose form was every bit as impressive as it had been in ‘The Soper Match’ earlier in the season, when he had almost single-handedly kept Woking scoreless.

  Anticipation of a shock result was growing – not just amongst the Bromley fans, but also amongst the Wycombe and Sutton United fans, who I learnt were there to support Bromley. Both of their teams were still in with a chance of winning the title, as long as Enfield lost tonight.

  Then halfway through the second half, something happened that caused three sets of supporters to simultaneously groan in frustration and one set to celebrate wildly. Enfield took the lead. The goal was a good one – it had to be to beat Soper.

  Bromley didn’t crumble as I expected them to. They fought back and came close through Mick Lloyd, but Enfield held out for the narrowest of wins.

  As the final whistle blew on our worst ever season, the Bromley supporters spontaneously stood and burst into heartfelt applause, having experienced the rare feeling of pride in the team’s performance. If they’d played that well over the previous six months, things would have turned out differently.

  We all shook hands with each other, laughing in disbelief at how close Bromley had just come to beating the best amateur side in the country. As we made our way back to the coach for the last time that season, the atmosphere was like the end of term at school, where everyone was just relieved the torture was over – until it all started up again.

  I was in a happy daze, barely able to register the impressive nature of Bromley’s performance. The only slight doubt in my mind was that maybe Enfield hadn’t quite been at their best, considering this had been their eighth league game in 17 days.

  •••

  As I stared back at Enfield’s ground from the coach, I decided to forgo the card game so I could work out my annual end-of-season awards. I planned to get Dave to design them, as he was really good at drawing. I was then going to present the certificates to the players after the first of next season’s pre-season friendlies.

  The Best Player award was a tough one, because they’d all been pretty useless. I toyed with the controversial idea of not awarding it to anyone, but instead went with someone who, I felt, hadn’t had a bad game in the Bromley shirt. Alan Stonebridge. He was the club’s second top scorer for the season, despite leaving half way through it.

  Although I wouldn’t be able to present his certificate in person, I would send it to him care of Carshalton Athletic.

  Best Goal had to take into account several factors, as Brian Moore had once explained on ITV’s The Big Match. It wasn’t just the brilliance of the goal, but also the importance of the game, the conditions and the strength of the opposition. Once again, the path led straight to Alan Stonebridge. His penalty against Enfield at Hayes Lane was one I felt I would never forget. The pressure on Stonebridge must have been enormous and he took his chance coolly. I knew having a penalty as best goal would also be controversial, but I was comfortable with my decision.

  Not many teams would merit a Goalie of the Season award, but not many teams would hav
e had as many goalies over the course of a season as Bromley. This was another straightforward one. Despite letting in 30 goals he should have easily saved, Alan Soper was my pick. I only hoped he wouldn’t run away when I approached him to present him with his certificate.

  Winners of the less prestigious awards were:

  John Miles – Best Defender

  Roy Pettet – Best Passer

  Johnny Warman – Best Dribbler

  Phil Amato – Worst Player

  The latter was one award I wouldn’t be presenting. Amato was highly temperamental and might react badly. The Morrie head butt hadn’t been totally erased from my mind.

  As I put my pen back in the pocket of my sheepskin, I reflected on how good the season had been apart from what had happened on the pitch.

  It had started off with me watching games on my own, from high up in the stand. Since then, I’d made friends with some fellow supporters like The Grubby, Derek, Roy and Peter and become a real part of Bromley Football Club, by helping run the tea hut as well as playing regularly for their Sunday league team. And just when I’d thought it couldn’t get any better, it had. Being able to watch a game from the Supporters’ Club hut was something I would never have imagined was possible all those months before. But sitting on that truncated bench felt like one of the greatest achievements of my life. I felt as though I had finally been accepted.

  This was echoed in my feelings about life at school.

  The season had, again, started badly. But if becoming a boarder was the low point, being expelled from Sevenoaks was the high point and the start of my change in fortune. After a false start at Langley Park, when I tried to get in with the skinhead crowd, I had made some good friends, including Dave. Despite our differences over football and women, he and I genuinely seemed to enjoy other’s company and we spent a lot of time together outside school.