You Did Say Have Another Sausage

by John Meadows

  Teachers’ Meeting: FA on the Agenda

  As I drove across town, I appreciated half an hour of solitude listening to the radio, and arrived at a much more modern school. I followed the signs directing me to the football meeting. As I walked in wearing a tie, briefcase in hand, I felt strangely important. Two weeks ago, I thought, I was making beds and cleaning round u-bends with a toilet brush. I was ready for my very first meeting, ever. I knocked, opened the door, and hesitantly put my head around. Some people were sitting at the central table, while others were helping themselves to coffee and biscuits. I entered the room and was welcomed with a couple of nods of hello, as a few others followed me in. At least I wasn’t the last to arrive.

  Then an authoritative sounding voice announced, “Excuse me, could everyone please sign this attendance sheet?”

  I did a quick count of the list and there seemed to be about sixteen primary schools from the borough and some neighbouring areas. I helped myself to a cup of coffee and a couple of chocolate biscuits, and took my place at the table. The only thing that seemed to cross my jet-lagged mind was, ‘Do I dunk my biscuit?’ I decided to follow the others. Yes, it was a dunking meeting. As I looked around the table, I felt that I was the youngest person in the room, and the ages seemed to range from late 20s up to almost retirement age. I was surprised to see that there were several ladies present at the meeting. Surprised in the sense that football was very much a male domain in 1970; unlike the present time, when women’s football can attract crowds of 80,000 at the Olympics.

  The chairman at the head of the long table, which was in fact school desks pushed together, brought the meeting to order. Next to him was a rotund, red-faced man who was wearing a dark blue blazer, which proudly displayed an embroidered badge on the chest pocket. A row of shiny gold buttons strained to hold everything together. He had several files and sheets of paper spread out in an orderly fashion, ready for business, pen poised. I presumed he was the association secretary. He exuded a demeanour of self-importance. One of the ladies spoke first.

  “Mr Chairman, can I say that I am here just to represent my school and pick up information. I won’t be involved in the tournament at all.” She went on to explain that at the present time there were actually no male teachers at her school, but some parents had kindly volunteered to help out.

  Two other ladies announced that they had decided to select and coach a team, even though they had no experience of football, adding, “How hard can it be?”

  This was met with laughter and gestures of approval from most around the table, but not from the blazer-wearing gentleman who bristled with indignation and frowned at them over the top of his glasses.

  The chairman, who seemed to be a reasonable and easy-going chap, guided us through the agenda. These involved minutes of the previous meeting and confirmation of the venue and date of the tournament.

  “Now we come to item 3 on the agenda,” he declared, “which concerns the late entry of a school.”

  The headmaster of that particular school was invited to address the meeting. He explained that the entry forms had missed the deadline due to an administrative error. He apologized profusely and requested that his school be included. The general consensus around the table seemed to be in agreement. The chairman was about to open this up for debate, but, before he could speak, the secretary interrupted proceedings and spoke for the first time.

  “Mr Chairman, I really must protest,” he stated curtly, as he flicked through one of his files. He separated the ring binders, took out a sheet of A4 paper, and held it aloft to emphasis the point he was about to make.

  “As is clearly stated in paragraph 4, article 6 of the terms and conditions of membership, [blah, blah, blah] ... There is no provision for accepting any late application from any club or institution.”

  Up to now I hadn’t said a single word, but I was fascinated by this statement. It was presented so officiously and theatrically that I didn’t think for one moment that he was being serious.

  “Yes, but I think we can make an exception, especially since the headmaster has come along personally to explain the situation to us,” said the chairman sympathetically.

  “Thank you,” was all the headmaster was able to say before the secretary continued with another quote from the rules.

  “I am afraid a personal appearance does not make any difference,” he declared, “as can be seen from paragraph 7; which I can read out to you, if you wish.”

  “No, we’ll take your word for it,” someone said in a stage whisper.

  This made the situation even more comical, and I still thought, in my innocence, that it was a ‘wind-up.’ At that point I thought I would go with the flow and lose my virginity in speaking at meetings.

  I half-stood up and started to collect my things together and said, “Mr Chairman, I’m sorry, I seem to have come to the wrong meeting.”

  “Have you?” he replied with surprise.

  “Yes, this committee is obviously organising the Mexico World Cup and I am supposed to be at a meeting for a football competition for seven year old children.”

  This was greeted with laughter from around the table, including from the chairman, but not from the blazer-wearing secretary. Still naively thinking it was little mickey-taking banter, I added, “It is, after all, a football tournament for young children. Surely we can be flexible enough to find a place for this school?”

  A chorus of “Hear, hear. Yes. Why not?” went around the table.

  After a slight pause, the secretary turned to the chairman and stated solemnly, “I am sorry, Mr. Chairman, but I feel that my position has been undermined and you have left me with no alternative but to resign forthwith.”

  With that, he scooped up his belongings with a flourish and flounced off towards the door. Even then I still expected him to turn around and laugh and tell us that he had been having a little joke. But no, off he went. There was a stunned silent pause with some shuffling of feet and clearing of throats. I really was amazed. All I could do was look around the table while making gestures of ‘was it something I said?’ Most people expressed equal surprise, and one lady pointed at me in mock horror and a raise of the eyebrows.

  “Well ladies and gentlemen I am sorry about that,” said the chairman, unperturbed. “Shall we continue?”

  The vote to accept the late application was unanimous, and we proceeded through the rest of the agenda. At the end of the meeting, we went to have a cup of coffee before leaving. The head of the school in question approached me and offered me a handshake.

  “Thank you for your support in the meeting,” he said gratefully.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I replied with a shrug, “but I must say that I didn’t expect such a reaction.”

  “Which school are you from?”

  “St Aidan’s in Clock Face.”

  “Oh yes, I know it. How long have you been there?”

  “Since this morning.”

  “A real baptism of fire in your new job,” he laughed, and then asked further, “So, how long have you been a teacher?”

  “Since this morning.”

  The following morning (Was it really still only Tuesday?), I was greeted by Mr. Ball as he supervised the children in the playground.

  “How did the meeting go?” he asked with a wry smile.

  “Interesting,” I replied.

  “Come to my office at break and you can give me the details.”

  I related the story to him over a cup of coffee, and, as he listened, he would smile knowingly, while occasionally nodding or shaking his head.

  Just before the end of break, he thanked me for attending the meeting and added, “When you have graduated from University in a few years’ time, if you decide to go into teaching, you will have learned a valuable lesson yesterday.” He paused for a second and continued, “The
re is nothing worse than a self-important teacher on a committee.”

  Elizabeth, Queen of the Ball

  The first lesson every day was Religious Education, and I steadily worked my way through the huge book of Bible stories. PE rounded off the day twice a week; which was usually a game of football for the boys and netball for the girls. There was an added incentive to do well at football, with the selection for the five-a-side tournament at stake.

  Trying to coach seven-year-olds at football is somewhat similar to a border collie at sheepdog trials. Spreading out into recognized positions and areas of the field was an alien concept to these kids, as the ball never seemed to emerge from a rolling mass of small humanity. I sometimes wondered if I wouldn’t be better introducing them to the Eton Wall game. Somehow, the ‘Clock Face Wall Game’ didn’t have the same ring to it.

  One morning when I went into my classroom, I noticed on my desk a folded piece of paper with my name written on it. As the children made their way to their desks, I read the note,

  ‘Mr Meadows, why do you only take the boys for football and girls are not allowed to play as well? Please leave your answer on top of the cupboard,’ signed ‘3 of the girls.’

  Now, I know that up to that point in my career I had received very little classroom training, and my teaching experience was limited to the few weeks at St Aidan’s. But I couldn’t remember anyone ever advising me that leaving notes on top of the cupboard was a recognised line of communication.

  “Who has written this note?” I asked. Three hands were raised timidly.

  “Come out here,” I said. I sat at my desk, to avoid towering over them.

  “Why do you want me to leave my answer on top of the cupboard?” I asked, pointing over to the 6ft 6inch blue wooden stock cupboard. This provoked laughter from the rest of the class, who were still wondering what was going on.

  All the girls could do was shrug in a sort of ‘don’t know’ manner.

  “Well,” I continued, “if I decided to play along with this, I could just about reach the top of the cupboard, stretching on my tip–toes.” The girls could see where this was leading.

  “So how, may I ask, would you get the message from up there?” This prompted more good-natured laughter from the class and further shrugs from the girls.

  Finally one of them replied very quietly, and with a smile, “We didn’t think about that.”

  “Well, to answer your question personally, let me say that it has never occurred to me that any girls would want to play football.”

  “Elizabeth is dead good at football,” said one of the girls nodding towards the tallest of the three.

  “I have no objections, but the final decision must be made by Mr. Ball. I will ask him today,” I reassured them and gestured for them to return to their desks.

  I approached the headmaster and told him of the request. He said that he had no problem with it. Remember, these were in the days before ΄elf ‘n’ safety and American-style litigation. It was an era of professional common sense.

  During the following day, I pretended that I hadn’t had a chance yet to ask the headmaster, but it was fun at the end of the last lesson to say to the class, “Don’t forget your games kit tomorrow, oh, and, by the way,” as I pointed to the three girls, “bring your football kit.”

  They skipped out of class, hugging each other. A couple of the boys shook their heads at me as they walked past my desk.

  “What’s the matter with you two?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Are you going to let girls play football with us?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “after one game they will probably want to go back to netball.” How wrong could I be?

  At the beginning of the games lesson, the kids all charged out of the changing room and on to the playing fields; exploding with youthful energy and raring to go. They had a few footballs and had a kick-about prior to team selection. The three girls had a football between them, and started to practise passing to each other. Then I got the first clue as to what was to come. Elizabeth flicked the ball up and played ‘keepy-uppy,’ using not only her feet, but thighs, shoulders and head before casually passing with a half-volley to her friend. After a couple of minutes I blew my ‘Acme Thunderer,’ which is, by the way, a whistle. It was the first time I had seen the word ‘Acme’ in the real world. It is the ubiquitous trade name in cartoons, such as dynamite used by Coyote trying to catch Road Runner... ‘Beep, Beep’.

  The children ran to the fence and lined up, awaiting selection. I always rotated the choice of captains, and this week it was the turn of the two lads who had shaken their heads in disgust at the suggestion of girls playing football with them. They went through the ritual of alternate choices as each player took turns to join their respective teams. Elizabeth was the last to be chosen.

  The two teams then took up their positions for kick-off, and I use the term ‘positions’ in its loosest sense. A quick blast of my whistle, and they were off. The ball acted as a magnet, as most players ran towards it, rather than waiting for a pass. The football would occasionally emerge from the melée, only to be booted randomly and then chased by the rampaging mob. Elizabeth followed the play from a distance, like a border collie, and then, after a few minutes, the ball came towards her. There seemed to be a slight delay between the ball emerging from a tangle of legs, and the actual owners of those legs realizing that the object of their attentions had departed. It reminded me of a scene from the film ‘The Adventures of Robin Hood,’ when Errol Flynn was fencing all the sheriff’s men single-handedly. They all closed in on him only for him to emerge from underneath the chaos to leave with Maid Marion, while the action continued without him.

  Elizabeth controlled the ball, and set off towards the opposition’s goal, with a chasing posse not too far behind. She ran rings around the few defenders who were not involved in the tangle of bodies. The goalkeeper made a valiant effort but, unfortunately, his spectacular dive was in completely the wrong direction. I think Elizabeth’s drop of the shoulders and shimmying of the hips had something to do with it. I should be saying that the ball was in the back of the net, but the school capitation didn’t stretch to football nets. Elizabeth simply continued running after the ball, and ran back to the centre circle and placed it on the centre spot. As the team lined up for kick-off, Elizabeth’s goal had given her confidence, and she started issuing a few positional instructions to her team mates. My ‘Acme Thunderer’ (I love that name) signalled the kick-off and Elizabeth called for the ball. She turned the opposition inside out and easily scored a second goal. It was like watching George Best turn out for the ‘United Glass’ Factory Team. The rest of the match was as one-sided as the first ten minutes had been, and Elizabeth assumed the role of captain and coach; encouraging her team to move around and pass the ball to each other. The only person they wanted to pass to was Elizabeth, who went on a dribbling run. They had about as much chance of catching her as Coyote did of catching Road Runner... Beep, Beep!

  The following morning the three girls came to see me and thanked me for letting them play football, but two of them asked if they could go back to the netball group.

  “No problem,” I replied. “What about you Elizabeth?”

  She grinned and answered, “What do you think, sir?”

  Later that week the class all lined up again for selection. Elizabeth was picked first, the initial disapproval from the boys having changed to admiration. By the way we didn’t win the five-a-side tournament, Elizabeth wasn’t eligible.

  Just to tie up that particular story; when I became a student at Leeds University later that year, I was sitting in the flat I shared with four others, and I picked up a copy of the ‘Daily Express’. As I flicked through the paper my attention was drawn to a headline, ‘St Helens Schoolgirl Selected for Town Team,’ with a photograph of Elizabeth in action. I jumped up in delight and ama
zement, and showed the page to my new flatmates.

  “That’s because I let her play at St Aidan’s,” I announced proudly. Their reaction was underwhelming to say the least. They were too busy putting padlocks on their kitchen cupboards and writing their names in felt-tipped pen on their eggs in the fridge. The school football committee in St Helens must have been enlightened enough to relax their rules. I couldn’t help thinking that it would have been impossible if the intractable blazer-wearing secretary hadn’t resigned in a huff.

  The Prodigal Son

  My regular routine at St Aidan’s became almost second nature after a few weeks, and we progressed steadily through the curriculum in all subjects. I tried to make each lesson as interesting as possible, for myself as much as for the children. I particularly enjoyed the religious education every morning, as I steadily worked through the giant book of bible stories. My story-telling became more animated as my confidence grew, and then we would finish off with discussions and questions. One morning I read the ‘parable of the Prodigal Son’. You know the story, where the eldest son returned to his family after a long period and reclaimed his inheritance at the expense of his younger brother. The rest of the family were so delighted to see him that they had a great celebratory feast.

  “Okay, let’s see who has been paying attention,” I announced in a school-teacherly fashion. The children knew by now that the golden rule is that you put your hand up and do not shout out. I had them so well-trained, I felt like the conductor of a symphony orchestra.