Showing posts with label Sunday Football. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunday Football. Show all posts

Sunday, May 27, 2018

Any chance of a game? : a season at the ugly end of park football by Barney Ronay (Ebury Press 2005)



Warming up

You always know when it’s Friday. Friday has something about it right from the moment you wake up. It’s the same with every other day of the week. They all have their own distinct feel. Monday is just Monday morning all day. Tuesday is hard work all around. Important things happen on Wednesday; it’s a grown-up kind of day. Thursday feels like now we’re really starting to get somewhere. And Friday is special. There’s no other day quite like it.

“Cheers,” Dan says, taking his drink. “What’s this?” “Peanuts.”

“Salted. I said dry roasted.”

“Yeah, well I don’t like dry roasted. The dust at the bottom of the bag feels like it’s dissolving your mouth. What’s it meant to taste of anyway?”

“The dust,” Dan says, raising his glass, “is the whole point.” But the best thing about Friday is Friday night. That first drink of the evening, I don't just want to drink it. I want to eat it. I want to get inside the glass and swim in it. Not that it usually lasts very long. It’s like what someone once said about drinking. Getting drunk is great. Those first few minutes are as good as it gets. Being drunk, on the other hand, isn’t always quite as much fun.

“As soon as he leaves I’m going over there,” Dan says, eyeing the fruit machine.

“It’s too crowded. You’ll never make it.”

“The same bloke has been feeding the same machine all night. It’s ready to pay out.”

“Before you go, just tell me why you’re dressed like that.” “Dress-down Friday,” he shrugs.

“You look like Prince William.”

“New rules,” Dan says, looking over my shoulder at a group of about fifteen women who’ve just arrived at the far end of the bar. “No jean-cut slacks allowed. These are chino-cut.” We’re standing in a corner of the Itinerant Goat, a new pub with wooden floors and rows of champagne bottles behind the bar. Next to us a circle of fat-necked men in stripy shirts are laughing slightly too loudly. They look ready for a big night out, one that has started already at 6.30, with the light fading outside and the beery glow from the lamps near the ceiling only just starting to take over.

Looming at least a head taller than most of the crowd, a familiar figure has appeared by the door and started to work his way towards us. Simon has his long coat buttoned all the way up to his neck and a bag strapped across his shoulders. The only thing the Itinerant Goat really has going for it is that it’s the nearest pub to where we all work.

“Drink?” he shouts when he gets close enough. We hold up our empty glasses and he turns towards the scrum at the bar.

“That’s better,” he says when he’s finally made it across, and after he’s spent a few moments trying to get most of his pint glass actually inside his head.

“I spoke to Keith today,” he adds.

“That’s nice for you.”

“He said we’re at home to Parsons Green on Sunday. They’re good. Fifth in the table. And we’ve only got ten so far.” “Not again. What is wrong with people?”

“Keith told me he’s got this idea for a reality TV show. It’s like the reverse of Sunday football. You get Premiership footballers to spend a day doing a Sunday player’s weekday job, but only something really difficult. Roy Keane organising a conference in Frankfurt. Michael Owen teaching Japanese.”

“That’s his idea?”

“He said it’s genius.”

“Would you like to help fight against animal experiments?” A middle-aged woman with immaculate blonde hair has appeared out of the crowd. She shakes a tin at us. She seems to be actually expecting an answer.

“Er. All right then,” 1 say, fumbling for some change. “Thanking you so much.”

She turns to Simon and stares at him until he gives in and finds some coins. Only Dan doesn’t flinch and soon she’s moved on to the circle of crew cuts next to us.

“Always seems a bit weird. Collecting in a pub.”

“They know people are going to feel guilty,” Simon mutters.

“I think it’s a bit out of order,” Dan says. “You come in here to forget about everything. Not to get chased around by equal rights for dogs.”

“I meant normal people,” Simon says, but I’m not really listening as I spot another familiar face near the bar.

Laura has started to nudge her way through the crush of bodies towards our end of the room. It’s always weird seeing a familiar face in a crowd of strangers. She’s dressed smartly, her brown hair tied back with just a single strand falling across her face, and I keep watching, waiting for the moment she looks up and finally sees us. The thick-necked blokes part respectfully to let her through.

“You could have found a darker corner to hide in,” she says, squeezing my arm.

“Yeah. But then you might have found us hours ago.” “Don’t listen to him,” Dan says, kissing her cheek. “He's a very rude man. It’s my round.”

“White wine spritzer.”

“Ha ha. Make sure you say, ‘for the lady’.”

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Any Chance of a Game? by Barney Ronay (Ebury Press 2005)


We line up for kick-off and I look at the opposition for the first time. From a distance all teams look the same, a collection of figures yet to separate out into recognisable types. You make the calculations of weight, height and speed. You look for weak links and familiar giveaways. Just for a moment football feels a bit like fighting.

Today there are no obvious signs of weakness in the opposition, no pale camel-like figures fretting in the unaccustomed strip. You get a good idea from the boots (worn in?), the amount of faded white strapping on knees (sign of the seasoned player), and even from the nicknames. Beware of the bantering team. This lot look as though they've shared the same playground, clubhouse, family Christmases and shrinking gene pool for the last thirty years. Proper pub teams are rare these days. When you do meet one you know you're going to get a game.

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

Soccer Focus: reflections on a changing game by John Moynihan (Sportspages 1989)




Sans Blanchflower: a Rout in Barfleur

The population of the charming, gusty Normandy fishing hamlet of Barfleur, near Cherbourg, were convinced they had a famous Irish footballer in their midst. Every shop window round the pretty port blazed with posters declaring Danny Blanchflower would be playing for a less famous football team, Battersea Park de Londres, in a football tournament at the Stade Louis-Debrix.

Veteran, storm-gnarled fishermen hovered over their fourth glass of Calvados and inquired where 'Denny Blunchfleur' was to be found in Barfleur. 'No, sorry,' the English squad members sadly admitted — it had all been a tragic mistake.

The official club handout, sent from a Notting Hill basement with facts about this ubiquitous and decidedly bohemian Sunday club, had mentioned that Danny Blanchflower had turned out once for them in 1966 but had said nothing about him coming to Barfleur. 'He's an awfully busy man, you know. He loves his golf, too.'

The proud Normans wouldn't believe it. 'Monsieur Blunchfleur' was surely limbering up somewhere as Battersea's secret weapon. He was known to the actual squad members on beery duty as 'Danny Baking Powder'. He was certainly going to play for the English team who, according to the locals, would hammer their lads that very afternoon.

It was one of the many charming misunderstandings which tend to happen on these zealous little football tours across the Channel. This was Battersea's third French tour, and, like the previous ones, they didn't win a match; on this occasion they did not score a goal either.