I can’t envisage many of today’s squad shopping for their one-pound fish in Queens Market. There are exceptions, of course. Mark Noble, I understand, is no stranger to Goodmayes furniture shop in the Barking Road, run by my wife’s cousin’s ex-husband (while I don’t know Mark personally, I feel a connection through my wife’s cousin’s ex-husband means he’s almost family). And, to be fair, many of the players do get involved in community work and visit local schools from time to time – but that’s not quite the same as finding yourself in a neighbourhood pub surrounded by four large dockers who wish to point out that your performance was a tad below par on Saturday and you need to pull your socks up. (OK, I know there are no dockers any more, but you get my point.)
The one place a supporter can communicate with the players directly is at the ground during a game. At least it is if you can get close enough to the idle layabouts to let them know what you really think as, yet again, they fail to track back and give the man they are supposed to be marking a clear run on goal. That’s one of the many things that worries me about going to the Olympic Stadium. I may have to buy a megaphone.
Communication is not always easy inside a football stadium. The Stadio San Paolo in Naples is one of those grounds where you and the players are separated by a running track – at least it was when Di and I went there shortly after Italia ’90 to watch Maradona and his mates take on Pisa. Our problem was not so much my difficulty in letting the cheating Argentine know exactly what I thought of him (I reconsidered that course of action when I realised precisely how much he was worshipped by the Neapolitan crowd that surrounded us); the trouble was explaining to those in the neighbouring seats what we were doing there in the first place.
As a spectator you go to a football match to watch others, not be watched yourself. But that was what was happening to us. It was most unnerving.
Visit somewhere like the Nou Camp in Barcelona and no one bats an eyelid that an out-of-towner such as yourself fancies taking in a game while they are there. But Naples isn’t Barcelona. They don’t get passers-by dropping in very often. And when they do, people are curious about why you’d want to watch their unfashionable football team.
The bloke sitting to my left clearly decided early in the piece that, as I obviously wasn’t from Naples, I must be there to support Pisa. Actually, he had a point. I love the small, sophisticated city of Pisa with its Leaning Tower and Piazza dei Miracoli – Di and I once had the best meal we’ve ever eaten there – and my original thought was to cheer for the away side. That went the same way as my planned critique of Maradona when I gauged the nature of the home crowd. Naples is to Italy what the East End is to the rest of London – and it turns out both sets of poor relations are equally intense when it comes to football.
The fella sitting next to Di was considerably more welcoming than the guy occupying the seat adjacent to me. He spoke no English and Di’s Italian didn’t quite run to explaining that, for us, being on holiday meant taking in as much of an area as is possible in the time available and, as supporters ourselves, a football match is just as much part of the cultural experience as marvelling at the breath-taking views over the Bay of Naples or visiting the astonishing ruins of Pompeii. So he got his ten-year-old son who’d just started learning English at school to interpret.
I’m not convinced we got our message across in its entirety. But we learned he was a baker. And he’d heard of Bobby Moore.
My man, who was considerably younger and looked a good deal meaner than Signor Bunn the Panettiere, clearly wasn’t convinced that my reasons for being there were thoroughly legitimate. In fact, I got the distinct impression he wanted to arrange for me to slip on a pair of cement shoes and take a nap with the fishes.
I tried to put his mind at rest by applauding Napoli at all the appropriate moments, and cheered like a local when Maradona put them ahead from the penalty spot shortly before the interval. He relaxed somewhat and half time was a good deal less tense than it might have been otherwise.
The tension returned in the second half when Pisa equalised just after the hour. Napoli were reigning champions – the previous year Maradona had practically single-handedly won them their first title in ages – but they had started the new season badly. They needed to beat lowly Pisa.
Napoli really went for it, creating chance after chance – missing them all. We were all standing on our seats. The support was fantastic. But my neighbour was not a happy man. Then the brilliant Brazilian Careca received the ball with his back to goal, shimmied, turned, and unleashed an unstoppable shot that had goal written all over it. The bar was still vibrating when we instinctively turned to one another, both equally astonished that the ball had hit the woodwork and not flown into the back of the net. We couldn’t speak a word of one another’s language, but the expression on his face needed no translation. It was the universal look of the supporter who knows the fates are maliciously conspiring against him. I felt his pain – and he knew that I understood. In that moment we communicated silently as if we were twin brothers with a telepathic link.
The stadium erupted when Careca grabbed the winner in the final minute. Me and my new best friend hugged each other as if we had known each other for years. Again the language barrier came between us and I may have misunderstood what he said, but I think I might have been made an honorary member of the Cosa Nostra as the final whistle sounded.
Alongside Maradona and Careca in the Napoli squad was a young man called Gianfranco Zola. Little did I know at the time that, some eighteen years later, he would become the manager at Upton Park.
Despite his Chelsea connections, I had high hopes of Zola at the beginning – and it was all smiles in his debut game in charge as we had our wicked way with Newcastle and turned them over 3–1. Everyone remembers their first game but not many remember their last. I don’t suppose my daughter Katie does either, but this was it. She was thirteen and decided football wasn’t for her. Knowing my daughter as I do, I can’t see her changing her mind now it’s made up.
The first couple of goals came from Zola’s fellow Italian David Di Michele and there were memories of Naples as the chant went up: ‘2–0 to the Mafia.’ I’m guessing the Bobby Moore Lower didn’t know I was a Man of Honour.
It was a different story eighteen months later when we put in one of the worst performances I have ever seen at Upton Park – and that really is saying something. It was a relegation battle against Wolves, and we were shockingly awful as we lost by the same score we had won Zola’s first game at the helm. All the flair and promise of the previous season had gone – we were a shambles with no heart, no pride and no idea how to combat a side which, like us, was struggling to maintain its Premier League status.
There was no shortage of communication between the crowd, the players and the manager that night – mainly on the lines of ‘You’re not fit to wear the shirt,’ and: ‘Sacked in the morning – you’re getting sacked in the morning.’ In the event, Zola hung on to his job until two days after the end of the season, and West Ham hung on to a place in the top flight … just. (It took the tactical genius of another Chelsea legend, Avram Grant, to get us relegated the following year.)
That night, Geoff and I got a lift back to Brighton with our friend and neighbour Mike, a true romantic who many years ago chose the Denmark Arms to propose marriage to the lovely Jacqui over a packet of salt ’n’ vinegar crisps. As anyone who has ever tried it can testify, getting away from Upton Park by car after a game is never easy – although it’s rather less anarchic than leaving the Stadio San Paolo, which is akin to stock car racing on the public highway. The mood in Mike’s car was grim on the journey home – made more so by the fact we’d had to cross the river at Blackfriars and then endure a slow crawl in the south London traffic because the Blackwall Tunnel was closed. (Tate & Lyle’s riverside plant near the southern end of the tunnel was demolished the following year, but I swear I can still detect a hint of the once all-pervasive stench of industrial sugar whenever I d
rive past.)
We listened to 5 Live on the car radio, half anticipating the news of Zola’s sacking. Had it come, it would have been the one bright spot in the entire evening.
There was a time when, ten minutes after a game, I could be sitting on my in-laws’ sofa sipping a steaming hot cup of tea and watching the results come in from other games. I still had to face the drive back to Brighton – but it was always so much easier when the traffic had cleared and I had the fortification of my mother-in-law’s Rosie Lee.
Grace made a mean bacon sandwich, too – always with a loaf that had to be cut by hand rather than the cardboard bread that makes up a sliced loaf. But that was reserved for before games; if everyone was hungry after a match we’d get fish and chips. I loved my mother-in-law dearly, and she had many sterling qualities. However, it’s fair to say a sense of humour wasn’t one of them. I once threw her into a complete spin by asking if she had some vinegar to liven up my chips only for her to discover, after searching high and low, that she had run out of the stuff. So the next time we visited we went armed with a dozen bottles which, with Sid’s help, we quietly secreted about the house in the most unlikely places we could think of; the bathroom cabinet, the sideboard, her wardrobe (which several years later we sold to comedian Joe Wilkinson via Gumtree – Brighton really is just a media village, sweetie). One by one she found them all over the following weeks – each discovery leaving her even more baffled than the one before. She never did get to the bottom of that particular mystery. But, on the plus side, she never ran out of vinegar again.
For someone like me, brought up miles away from Upton Park, there was something very special about being able to do something as ordinary as watching Football Focus and the two o’clock from Kempton Park on the telly before stepping outside the front door and joining the steady procession of supporters on their way to the game. It made me feel like a proper East Ender.
On the walk back to Beverley Road, if we’d been in the West Stand, we’d usually go past the Champions statue on the junction of Central Park Road and the Barking Road. I’d sometimes ask myself what Ray Wilson thought about finding himself in such an unlikely location. The man was a top-notch left back and first-rate undertaker, but he’s no cockney. Finding yourself looking up Green Street day after day when you hail from Huddersfield must be a strange experience – and all because Bobby Moore happened to be sitting on his shoulder at the time a lucky snapper took the iconic photograph on which the statue is based. Ah well, don’t worry, Ray – not much longer now and you’ll be off to Stratford with the rest of us. I wonder what you’ll make of that.
Not that East Ham is going to be short of statues after we’ve moved. So, while Ms Segelman has got her toolkit out, I’d like to suggest another one.
Just as many countries have their monument to the Unknown Soldier, I want to see something dedicated to West Ham’s Unsung Hero. I’m not talking about the likes of Moore, Hurst, Peters, Brooking and Bonds here; they’re all well sung. What I’m proposing is a statue that reveres the memory of someone who shouldn’t be forgotten, but probably will be in all the excitement of uprooting to the Olympic Stadium.
Deciding who gets that privilege is no easy matter, so I’ve come up with a shortlist – taking a player from each decade in which I have followed the Hammers. Leaving aside for the time being the small matter of how we’re going to finance this particular venture – these statues don’t come cheap, you know – we’ll need a ballot system which will enable you all to vote for your favourite. Perhaps you could drop the sculptor an email at her riverside gallery in St Katherine’s Dock.
Given my earlier paean of praise for Ronnie Boyce you may think I’d be nominating Ticker for the ’60s. In fact, I’m going for a man who I never actually saw in the flesh.
Dave Bickles, I believe, got a very raw deal from the club. He made his debut in the legendary 1963 victory at Anfield alongside Moore in the heart of the defence. The lean, lanky nineteen-year-old had been called up to replace the ever reliable Ken Brown. It was a big test – which he passed with flying colours. According to one newspaper report: ‘New boy Bickles slotted in as though he had been there for years’.
The brilliant theyflysohigh website features a cutting which gives Bickles seven out of ten for his performance in that historic win and carries two fantastic photos of the young centre back. In one, a smiling Moore has his arm round his shoulder and is giving him a few words of encouragement as they prepare to leave London. Another picture shows him tackling Ian St John.
Three years later it was a challenge on the same Ian St John that was to change Bickles’ life. In the collision he injured his shoulder and had to go off. The West Ham medical team diagnosed it as a dislocation; painful but not career-threatening. In fact, a piece of bone had broken off and Bickles should have had some major treatment. The pain must have been excruciating every time he came into contact with an opponent. To quite literally add insult to injury, the Upton Park management accused Bickles of not trying in games and after just twenty-eight appearances in claret and blue he was shipped out to Crystal Palace – where they identified the problem.
Further injuries meant Bickles never did fulfil the fantastic promise he had shown as a junior and he drifted out of football, eventually becoming a teacher in East Ham. The tragic story of Dave Bickles ended on 1 November 1999, when he finally succumbed to kidney cancer. I think a small statue tucked away in the Bobby Moore memorial garden wouldn’t go amiss now.
As the ’70s candidate I’m recommending Patsy Holland. In all he played almost 300 games for West Ham and in every single one of those he never gave less than maximum effort. Holland was one of those players who could never count on his place in the side and in the early days of his career he was in and out like Nigel Kennedy’s elbow as he competed for a berth on the right side of midfield. Apparently he lacked confidence in his own ability, although you wouldn’t have guessed it when he got his head down and ran at opposition defences. Check out the goal he scored against Hereford and you’ll see what I mean.
He could certainly perform on the big stage when required. In a storming second half performance he played a significant role in both goals in the 1975 Cup final – and scored the following year in the final of the Cup Winners’ Cup as we went down 4–2 to Anderlecht at the Heysel Stadium.
His first goal in claret and blue comes with an interesting aside. Like most supporters, I had watched Jimmy Greaves make his West Ham debut on Match of the Day because it was at Maine Road, Manchester. I wasn’t going to miss his home debut though so, along with 38,000-plus other people, I shuffled through the turnstiles (they seemed so much more spacious in those days) and crossed my fingers in the hope Greaves might help us turn over Bill Shankly’s Liverpool for once.
This was March 1970. Holland had made his own debut at the end of the previous season but was still struggling to establish himself as a first-team regular. After a couple of decent performances he was given a further chance against Liverpool – and nearly blew it by turning his ankle while having a playful kickabout with his mates in the local park on the council estate in Poplar where he had been brought up. Club physio Rob Jenkins – an unsung hero if ever there was one – patched him up after he hobbled into his clinic twenty-four hours before the game and agreed to keep the injury a secret from manager Ron Greenwood. The swelling went down and Holland duly scored the only goal of the game.
I’m not ashamed to admit I had to consult The Guardian’s cuttings library for precise details of that goal. It came on fourteen minutes after Holland nipped in between two blocks of red granite called Smith and Evans and turned in a pass from Geoff Hurst – with Greaves on hand just in case. What I do clearly recall, though, is how the North Bank got a serious case of the heebie-jeebies in the face of a second-half assault from the opposition. It wasn’t the last time I was to experience that phenomenon at Upton Park.
In typical Pat Holland fashion, his last significant act for West Ham at the beginn
ing of the following decade came at a high price for himself. In the promotion season of 1980/81 he scored a vital goal in a top-of-the-table battle at Notts County – who were to finally finish runners-up to us in the old second division. In forcing home Trevor Brooking’s pass at the far post, Holland injured his knee and although he limped through the rest of the first half he had to go off shortly after the interval. He never played for the first team again.
(Curiosity Corner: That was last weekend for several years that referees in England used red and yellow cards because it was felt the colour-coded system had actually contributed to the number of cautions and sendings-off. They weren’t brought back until the start of the 1987/88 season, following intense pressure from FIFA.)
I really liked Patsy Holland. More to the point, so did Billy Bonds, who played a key role in his development. And if he’s good enough for Bonzo, he’s good enough to be on this particular ballot paper.
For the ’80s my nomination is Tony Gale, who was just sixteen years old and still hadn’t signed professional forms when he stepped in to fill Bobby Moore’s shoes at Fulham after England’s World Cup-winning captain finally called it a day. That was in 1977. Seven years later Gale moved to Upton Park and immediately set about forming a high-class defensive partnership with Alvin Martin.
Gale was to play more than 350 times for the Hammers (although, thanks to our friend Mr Hackett, he only played twenty-two minutes of the semi-final at Villa Park). In 1985/86, when we finished third, he appeared in every single one of the fifty-one League and Cup games that made up our finest ever season.
But the reason I’m putting his name forward as an unsung hero has nothing to do with his performances as a player, stylish though most of them were. What sets him apart, for me, was the way he looked after a young lad called Robbi Reardon in a most unusual FA Cup tie.
Nearly Reach the Sky Page 22