Sunday Football. The 'Olympiads' story - well, nightmare...

If you were good, when I was a kid, you played first for school. At 11 the best kids of about 9 or 10 schools would be picked to play for the District Team. That was the first level at which the scouts turned out. You could tell who they were by the matching ‘adidas’ tracksuit, the ¾ length padded ‘mangers’ coat – or the golf umbrella. They’d have a cell phone on the go these days. That was how it worked. Play for school, play for district and get spotted. The days of ‘dads’ in sheepskin coats smoking cigars as the rain hit you sideways – but it was real and there were no mugs.

Then there was Sunday ‘boys’ football.

I am not sure if the Sunday ‘thing’ arose because anyone who was good enough was playing on Saturday at 3pm. So, your ‘lad’ had to wait his turn till the next day. Or maybe it was an ‘after church’ thing. Either way, it was a cold, wet and unpleasant way in which to spend your Sunday afternoon. Remember, we are talking South East Essex, from September till March on sodden clay fields.

In my town, Rayleigh, if you were good you played for Rayleigh Boys. If you were really good you played for Southend Manor (Southend deserves several blogs to encapsulate the true majesty of an ‘end the Victoria line crap hole with two miles of grey mud beach and the longest ‘pleasure’ pier in the world’. Needless to say, Southend does not rate highly in the ‘places to visit’ in any British tourist guide).

One day, my neighbor’s Dad, leaned over the fence and asked if I wanted to play ‘Sunday football’. For a new team – Rayleigh ‘Olympiads’ – sounded great to me at the time. My mate David, from across the street (assuming he had escaped the ‘tractor beam’ pull of his mum’s voice screaming for him to ‘do the washing up’) also joined. So, a new dynasty was formed. We lost the first game 13-0, the second 14-0 and the third 15-0. This is absolutely true. The first game was played at ‘Snakes Lane’. We changed in a 20 foot ‘container’ and if you kicked the ball too high it hit the ‘high voltage’ electricity cables and came back at you. Dave and I were Hammers fans – the coach, Roger, was a Spurs fan, as was his son, also center forward. Already we were at a disadvantage.

Just a side note on my friend Dave.

Dave and I played out front a lot – football, tennis, cricket. We would play ‘hack football’ and kick each other up in the air – go scrumping for loganberries and greengages – play basketball on his drive (with the ring he made in metalwork that was 2 inches wider than the ball – so scoring was a big deal) – BUT, we mostly spent our time climbing over the Lorimer’s fence and under the Barnes’ fence to ‘get the ball. Note to UK based gardeners – never plant two trees approximately 20 feet apart. We argued a lot – had some great times, especially playing with his ZX81 Spectrum computer – but most importantly, for the all the ‘pseudo’ middle class families in our street, you were always welcome in his house and he, his sisters and his mum were the first over when disaster struck. Our claim to fame was a splendid goal for Fitzwimarc v Sweyne (and the ‘man-child’ Peter Clark) in which from the kick off we passed the ball one-two style from the spot and Dave stuck it in. It was a bit like a couple of gypsies scoring at a Polo match – everyone looked surprised and then ignored what just happened. I don’t know if Dave felt the same, but I kind of thought we were the odd couple. Roger would pick us up each evening for practice. I always felt like I was unwanted. I liked Dave because he was in the boat with me. It’s taken me 30 years to say that.

Rayleigh Olympiads finally scored in December. We lost 11-2 over in Basildon. A kid / donkey called ‘Tyrone’ stuck the first goal in – I remember it well as I was 2 inches away from scoring that goal. Dave played in midfield – I seem to remember and I played on the right wing. Happy days, spurred on by great parents like Roy Martin, who always killed us at table tennis despite the glass eye and once took a piece of 4x2 to a ‘bully’ in a dark alleyway to express his desire to be left alone. It worked. Roy was never picked on again.

Olympiads was held together by a very thin strand of quality. We played in lower divisions on fields fit only for cattle. It was travel soccer 80’s style. None of this 3 hours to Fort Wayne stuff – I could walk to at least three other teams’ fields. We seemed to spend most of our time playing at Ashingdon Rec, or wreak as I often thought. These were the days when the coach threw you the number 11 and you knew you were right wing, assuming you were still breathing after near asphyxiation on the ‘horses oils’ liniment we rubbed in. Orange quarters at halftime, refs with no idea what was going on and the cold. It was always so bloody cold.

My kids love to hear this story, about the ‘brown water’. I would come home on a Sunday, cold, wet and covered in mud. Boots, socks would come off before walking in. Then I would get in a bath and soak. Lovely. There was so much mud on me when the plug came out the water was brown. Then mum cooked a roastie dinner and I was in heaven. Thank God for parsnips, crispy potatoes and a slice of beef.