Soccer and Life at Fitzwimarc - Part 1 'Tony Mescall'

I can still remember the day we sat in Mrs. Crawford’s classroom the day they told us which tutor / advisory group we would be in at Fitzwimarc. Fitz was the secondary school across the road. Eleven to sixteen year olds, well established and scary. I expected to have my head flushed down the loo at least once in my first year. Mrs. Crawford (wife of cub scout coach Ian Crawford) had whipped us into shape – and kept us three left handed kids sitting at the end in the corner, where we ‘wouldn’t take up space on the table’ with our kack handed writing style. I had enjoyed a few years of primary education. Key moments were, and in no particular order:

- playing soccer for the school (and being flattened a few times by Peter Clark)

- holding the school record for the longest kiss (Lindsey Anderson – 4 mins mouth shut)

- being taught PE by George Pace

- knocking out the best lizard impersonation with Gary

- spending a week running the school with Steven Hall while the rest of the grade went to Wales. (they all got sick while in the Wye Valley and spent the 5 hour trip driving home with a bunch of kids puking on the way home – thank God I couldn’t afford to go).

Bear with me; I may get to soccer in a mo.

So, as I was saying, we’re sitting waiting to hear our destiny for the next five years – who from our school would we get to be with? Oh, I should mention the other noteworthy incident was the day Mrs. Crawford decided to do dissection in science. We cut up pigs’ eyes in class. Stuart Cook grabbed the pig ‘flesh’ that surrounded the eye ball and flashed it to the girls – it was brilliant. They screamed – he got canned but what a laugh we all got. Little piggy blond eyebrows poking up at mortified primary school girls.

Mrs. Crawford read out the lists for each 8 classes at Fitz. To my amazement I would join 1D1 with my friends and daily soccer buddies Ian Martin and Steven Hall. It was a bloody miracle. Me, Ian and Steve. Thank you God, again.

To be honest with you the pressure of a ‘big school’ was a little too much at first. Knowing the school had at least 5 or 6 feeder primary schools meant I assumed my chances of playing for the school were zero. I even missed out on asking a girl out on a date and told me years later she would have said yes. Sarah went on to be a page 3 model. Maybe it was a lucky escape… So, I spent a torrid year languishing in the doldrums of insignificance and never even tried out or went to a practice. I did, in my first year, however, learn to hate drama class.  Mr. Nortcliff was a tall, angular smoker who scared the crap out of us. One day he nailed me for yawning while the class read (out loud) short stories written by students in our class. Now, I really mean nailed. At that time I was walking home for lunch but oh no, you’re staying in detention for lunch. No food, tears  and distraught. I hated him for it, but mostly because he never asked the important question – who’s story was I yawning at? Mine.

Soccer?

I made the team in the second year. We were coached by a new teacher, Tony Mescall. He was from South Wales and was on the way to becoming a legend. Tony had a turn of phrase that was new to us Essex boys. For example:

‘unload’ = pass

‘have a pop’ = shoot

‘have a dig’ = shoot    

He also taught us rugby. I played for a couple of years but it never stuck. As a fly half I often kicked for touch, if I was unlucky the ball would not go off and everyone would expect me to run forward playing them all onside. That was exactly the opposite of the effect I was looking for. I kicked it to get the ball as far away from me as possible. Better that than being crushed by 15 nutters from Futherwick Park. Tony’s other two classic phrases were ‘for me’ (he would start each sentence with this when about to impart wisdom. Once again, for example:

“For me, if you get the ball to Brightman you're gonna score”.

If I ever write a book about all of this it will come with a CD so you can listen to the beauty of Tony making this statement. I learned, as a drinking adult, that Tony also coined the phrase ‘I know I’ve had a few drinks, but..’ – this, I discovered was the same as the first. he was just drinking at the time and therefore bound to be more controversial. Tony once offered a few words of encouragement to Mark Greenaway as he stepped up to take a free kick. Mark told Tony to shut up. Mark scored and then at the final whistle was whisked off by Tony to the remote ‘tower’ locker rooms and had his head ripped off. Mark was never the same and no one ever told Tony to do anything again.

Gary Teasdale coached us basketball. Gary was also a legend. A Weir-sider with a 1970’s Kevin Keegan perm and a Ford RS2000. He listened to George Benson and was dating Miss. Luck – the fit female PE teacher. I could sing all the words to the entire Benson  ‘Greatest Hits’ album and remember the day at 16 when Gary called me Matt. I remember when Miss. Luck called me Matt as well… Gary’s classics were a deep rasping laugh almost like a Jordie Santa and ‘get changed’ followed by ‘change back’ if we made too much noise. We would put our shin pads on hoping it was soccer, Gary would walk in and say ‘what ya wearing those for’ and we would know. Cross country.

The third teacher and then Head of PE was Di Jones. Experienced and quiet. He smoked cigars in the PE office and kicked our butts in gym and circuit training. Mr. Jones had the most effective head fake I have ever seen in basketball. He would tilt his head up and open his eyes wide and you were done. The man could send Belgium the wrong way with that look. All three were legends and Fitz owes much of its sporting successes to them. We loved them all yet I feel uncomfortable even now writing their first names. To us they were simply ‘Sir’.

I guess I haven’t really covered much soccer so far. Retrospectively, well that it to say in the last 45 minutes, I see the topic of ‘Fitzwimarc’ becomes a ‘two parter’. Apologies, the second installment will be all soccer and I have such classic memories it will be worth it.

One last memory. Later in life I became the Head of PE at Sweyne. Sweyne were the sworn enemies of Fitz. If Rayleigh schools were Star Trek, Fitz were the Federation and Sweyne were the Klingons. That would, of course, make Park School the Romulans – no one liked them (sorry Dave!). Tony loved telling people he used to teach me. I remember driving with 50 kids or so on a double decker bus to a school fixture and telling my kids that Mr. Mescall would, on greeting them say ‘Hello Sweyne Park – funny enough, I used to teach Mr. Self’.

The bus pulled up and Tony jumped on –  he ignored me and said:

“Hello Sweyne Park, funny enough I used to teach Mr. Self.”

The kids loved it – I loved it. You have to love a man who is the reason you chose a profession. A man also who slept on the high jump crash mats on a Friday night, washed and ironed his clothes in the home economics rooms and frequently wore the first thing he could grab from lost and found.

Win or Lose - it makes no difference.

I know I promised a stellar account of life playing for Fitzwimarc School – however, I feel compelled to impart some wisdom on Indianapolis folks – seeing as the Colts are 6-6 at the moment. Please excuse my overly opinionated views here – feel free to comment if you disagree.

If you support a team in a sport like soccer (or football) and expect them to win all the time you are having a bubble. Manchester United beat Blackburn 7-1 (too much curry at Ewood Park) and then West Ham beat Man U 4-0 a few days later. Go figure. Everyone should support a team that they are prepared to see LOSE. It’s part of the learning experience and let’s face it; if we always got what we wanted life would be pretty dull. So, here are my rules (as of Dec 2010 because US Citizenship may change this one day).

You support a team because:

a)      You are from that town or area

b)      Your entire family supports that team

c)      (exceptional circumstances only) God or someone equivalent speaks to you in some mystical way to show you the way.

d)     Your dad plays for the team.

You do not support a team because:

a)      They win a lot

b)      The players are hot and sexy

c)      You like the color of their strip

d)     The boy / girl you fancy supports them

OK so far? Good, let’s push on. I need to add a ‘having moved a long way from where you grew up’ clause. If you live in another country, you (of course) do not change, but your kids have these options:

1)      They must support the original team you support for the reasons above.

2)      They may pick a local team to also follow.

3)      They may support either country in International fixtures unless your home and new country play each other, then…

4)      They support your country first.

In plain English and using my kids as an example, they are:

1)      West Ham United fans

2)      Allowed to follow either Columbus Crew or Chicago Fire

3)      English or American in International competition

4)      English if England is playing the USA.

5)      Indiana Pacers and Colts fans (just if you were curious).

Good. I hope that clarifies things – feel free to impose these regulations on your family. Now I will explain how to achieve the above. Brainwashing. Not using CIA techniques, but a constant and slow drip feed of singing songs, wearing colors, watching the team, starting fights with Spurs fans etc. I took the triplets to Upton Park when they were 4 years old. If any of my kids want to support Chelsea they are out of the will. It’s that simple. I remember seeing West Brom beat Spurs at

White Hart Lane

as part of a friend’s birthday trip. Foolishly I bought something in the Spurs shop. My Nan went ballistic – so I painted the item claret and blue. Sorted. Nanny Self may have been a frail lady but she ran the show quietly and cooked the best roast potatoes ever. Nanny Min’s gravy and Yorkshire pudding was better than Gordon Ramsey could knock out too.

This blog would be lacking if I did not spend some time on the matter of West Ham United. It’s a family thing, both at home and the club itself. I have said many times that if the Premier League played midweek only - West Ham would be champions. Arsene Wenger said if West Ham held onto the talent they developed they would win the Premier League. You cannot beat the atmosphere of 35,000 odd people crammed into a stadium in the winter at night – with a perfect rectangle of emerald glowing – the smell of pies and cigarettes in the air and a rolling roar every time the ball is played over the halfway line at pace. When West Ham score there is a millisecond of silence as everyone watches to make sure the ball hits the net – then they go mental. I have so many great memories of watching Billy Jennings, Jeff Pike, Alan Devonshire – with my dad at the front of the old West Stand or the chicken run in the East Stand right by the pitch – so close you could talk to the players – or spit at them. Then it was a short walk around the back of the ground, under the flats, down

Wakefield Street

and back to 120. You can still see ‘Ken Self’ carved in the brick outside the school on the corner of

Hartley Avenue

. Grandad Self would be smoking a pipe – watching the results come in. You could here the roar of the crowd from Grandad’s back garden. Then it was time for ‘Jim’ll Fix It’ followed by the “Generation Game’ and then the Saturday movie – which was nearly always ‘The Magnificent Seven’. Bloody marvelous days. It makes you every bit a West Ham United fan – win or lose – rain or shine. It was like having a girlfriend you could strangle at times – but those magic moments kept you in line and coming back for more. And I do, we all do. Magic…

Balls, knots and the Holy Ghost.

Once we move past the ‘mum endlessly fouling me’ stage via the numbing method of tiggling – we move into Cub Scout Soccer – or as I am told it really was – Bees around a honey pot soccer’

In good old Church of England England, one joins the cub scouts at the age of 8. Three years of fun is what you get until the shock of being bullied by older boys as you move up to full ‘scouts’. I lasted one week up there if I remember correctly. Cup Scouts was cracking – I have some great memories of being a ‘sixer’ in 2^nd Rayleigh Holy Trinity Pack, orienteering through the Essex countryside, competing in cub scout Olympics, playing ‘man hunt’, eating jam dobs around the camp fire and, of course, playing soccer.

I also have some memories I choose to push to the back of my mind: tying knots, wearing a scarf and woggle, walking across tree stumps over freezing rivers, being told to sit still as jaspers (wasps) circled the jam jar at camp, being cold and wet at camp, tying knots (did I mention that? oh yes, but it’s worth another stab) and the ultimate punishment for any lively 8 year old, once every 4 weeks, going to CHURCH. Hard benches, hour long dour sessions in which I was expected to be happy with my medieval status as a socially ‘church’ controlled turnip farmer. I never understood why they kept talking about Concord or what the Trinity was. Who the ‘Holy Ghost’ was remained a mystery too – I never saw anyone dress up like him at Halloween either. 

The bottom line was this. We were cubs so we could play soccer, every Saturday morning up on King Georges Fields. Stuff your travel soccer – this was a 9 minute walk from home. Early October mornings with slight mist and a chill in the air would greet you – I cleaned my boots so religiously the black color wore off the toe. The coach was Ian Crawford. He was a legend. We practiced basic skills and played a simple game. I hung out on the right wing and ran past people when they got the ball to me. We wore a mesh style orange and black trim shirt – like Wolves in the 70’s and the shirts were clean – like Persil clean. I cannot explain how exciting it was to pull on the shirt smelling of washing powder. You knew you had made it. Orange quarters at the half – parents happy and cheering and far too many boys around the ball. There was only one thing more exciting than pulling that shirt on – it was being handed that slip of paper at the end of each cub meeting. The slip meant you were in for the game. It was sublime. The only other time I can remember being that excited about a piece of paper was playing for Fitzwimarc. Tony Mescall would write the team up on a piece of lined paper. All in triangular capital letters. 11 players, a couple of subs and a couple of reserves (which meant you didn’t play unless someone in the playing squad failed to show. Seeing ‘SELF’ as the right winger on that team was magic. More on the Fitz team later.

Life is funny though – it really is a small world. 2^nd Rayleigh played in a small league with other cub scout teams. Our nemesis was 1^st Rayleigh – which as I was to find out was basically the ‘

Love Lane

’ lot (a rival primary school). That was where I first met Peter Clark – you’ll remember the ‘man-child’ I mentioned several blogs back. That battle continued into secondary school with Fitz v Sweyne. 20 years later I would play with Peter and enjoy life far more.

Cub scout soccer was the very utopia of childhood soccer.  No fouls, good clean fun, happy parents paying very little for a modest ‘end of season trophy’, orange quarters at the half and shaking hands at the end, slightly smaller goals than normal with crooked crossbars, fields that sloped and rolled, cigar smoke in the air and warm baths at the end. I don’t think we played through the winter as my memories are not of being cold. That was school and Sunday soccer. It was a time were we really didn’t worry about ‘making it’ and parents were not pushy. And, you cannot replicate that wonderful yet scary feeling of butterflies in your 8 year old stomach at 6:00am in the morning on a misty day – knowing kick off was only 120 minutes away. I am sad my kids will not experience that – maybe there will be different memories they will treasure – I very much hope so.

If it's round...kick it

I know I promised you a summary of life as a professional 'cub scout' soccer player. But, the ISI kids were kicking a stone on the way to lunch the other day and I need to talk about it - round things, well, roughly round or at least things able to travel some distance when kicked.

When I was a kid walking to school we kicked everything – stones (big or small), tin cans, bottle lids, tennis balls (with or without green hair aka ‘baldies’), lumps of ice, juice boxes, lumps of dirt that exploded on contact, dead birds, conkers (buck eyes), dried dog poop (the white stuff you’re safe with), small (I stress small) pieces of brick, dried bread and girls. It was all game. I like ice the best – the challenge was to not only kick it, but keep it on the sidewalk and not kick it so hard that it broke up. Of course, it rarely snowed when I was a kid. London may be at the same latitude as Calgary, but it’s pretty warm in the winter and snow was a luxury. I would wake up and could instantly tell if we had snow – there was a whiter than white glow above the claret ‘West Ham United’ curtains in my bedroom. I’d go out, with plastic bags inside shoes to keep my socks dry and walk on ‘virgin’ snow. Then it would melt…

You have to understand the importance of simply kicking. Richard Schmidt (Schema Theory) tells us that the more times you repeat the same action, regardless of the specific details the better. Simply put – a kid who can throw a ball well can probably throw a javelin well too, with some help. It’s all about the extent to which the parameters have been established for that motor program. Bottom line – soccer players should kick everything. I’d play endless games of ‘balloon’ soccer at Xmas – the living room doors were the goals. Juggle with rolled up socks, an orange, a ball of paper… it works, trust me. That’s one of the reasons Brazil are so good. Minivan soccer is not a match yet for ghetto kids dreaming of escapism while they volley a crushed tin can (ball) into the doorway (goal).

You really know you are onto something when you can kick a lump of ice with sufficient spin to keep it on the sidewalk despite it curling to and from the street. David Beckham knows all about that. That’s the other thing I look for when kids play – how they deal with a ball spinning in the air when they attempt to control it. You have to experiment with a ball and gain an understanding for how the ball will react when it hits the ground. It’s all experience. Let our kids play on dirt, grass, turf, concrete, mud, and wood with anything vaguely round and your country has a chance of producing something special.

So, kick it. Unless it has a good lawyer.

Fast Forward to 2010 - Olympiads to High School Soccer @ ISI

It was a mystery for several years why I never got the ball as a right winger. Then one day it dawned on me. The entire midfield at Olympiads were 'right footed'. Statistically, right footers stick the ball in the bottom left corner for penalties. I was simply in the wrong direction. Add this to that - right footed opposing midfielders tackle with their right foot, which may open up the space to pass left rather than right. A double whammy of right sidedness. Alternatively I may have been smelly as a kid. Or without knowing, some kind of social outcast.

There are so many fabulous chapters to share - from U9 2nd Rayleigh Cub Scout soccer on foggy Saturday mornings at King Georges Fields to Borough Rover's punch ups with Shoebury Town. Rayleigh Olympiads got it's turn in the limelight and could easily take up an entire book. Which teams will eventually get a mention? Here's the full list:
2nd Rayleigh cub scouts - Rayleigh Olympiads - Fitzwimarc - SEEVIC - Borough Road - Cleanaway - Thames Park - Hamlet Court - Borough Rovers - The Sovereign - Rayleigh Town - MIB - Superior Autoworks and now Internationale...

Let's fast forward to the last five months and an exceptional season with the high school team at ISI. Let me add this - sorry lads, I'll refrain from mentioning individuals. Let's talk big picture here.

ISI is a small but fiercely proud school. In years gone by you'll here 'ole ole' from the supporters even in the face of a 4-0 defeat. It's also international. That makes it special and soccer is the ideal vehicle to express that. Of course, more countries are members of FIFA than the UN. It's the total global love of the game we identify with. Diversity at ISI is a team with players from Spain, Argentina, USA, Canada, Syria, France, Brazil, Mexico, Nigeria, Ethiopia and, of course, England. There has been a 'nothing to lose' mentality that is held in check by a 'too small to win' negativity.

This season was different.

It starts with a small group of students who take it upon themselves to ask for a plan - before us coaches gave them one. Education is entertaining at times but you know success is really possible when students are self motivated. Add that mentality and student leadership with a second year of straightforward simple objectives, no egos, a desire to win back support and you are on the way. Oh, let's not forget the best field in Indiana, too.

But how do you measure success? Losing in the 'play in' game in Sectionals would be a tough method. Rarely outside of the USA does a team's success pivot on one single game. That's the media for you. They want it to be exciting because you'll watch and then they can sell advertising around the event and maybe you'll actually believe that a 'shake weight' can make you look like Jean Claude Van Damme. Win - loss record? ISI only lost a handful of games. Twice in extra time and one of those was the last kick of the game, and therefore, season. Another game was off the back of a three day camp and holiday weekend. I could mention muppet officials but I'll get a phone call of complaint from Kermit the Frog. Success could be the fact the team never conceded more than 2 goals in any game.

It's probably the complete turnaround in just under two years of a program that was based on a very shaky foundation. You need a 'team' mentality to be successful and a team in which picking outstanding players is really tough. However big a school is they can only put 11 players on the field. The difference is how those 11 get the job done. You also have to work out the best combination of all the players. And you need a little luck, too.

We poked fun at teams who demonstrated their lack of professionalism - static stretching - bullyesque coaching - pre-match line up drills with players shooting - players without the ball at their feet. While at college (then called 'Borough Road, a famous 'wing' teaching college in less than fancy West London) we were lectured by a man called Jonny Hunter. I didn't like him because he gave me a low grade on a 'biomechanics in PE' paper. I studied 'A' level' physics and thought I'd bagged it - nooooo, according to Jonny - too much detail. A lesson in society's low expectations of the physical education teacher. Anyway, England played one night - and lost. Jonny noticed that the subs warming up during the game did not have a ball at their feet. Jonny subsequently wrote the London Times. The next time England played at Wembley - guess what the subs had at their feet for the warm up. That is one key reason for success - maximising touches on the ball. If you are not comfortable with it at your feet you can't keep it. And you need it to score and make the other team work harder than you to try and get it. The ball, that is.

We had some players who were ready to run themselves into the ground - literally. We had some players mature, some egos soften and one or two gurus. We won a conference, beat one Indiana's biggest schools and only heard the Liberty Bell ring once. It is interesting to me that life often aligns events to enable something quite exceptional to occur. I know we, the program across the school, is at that point. Maybe even a moment in time where the legend is created. It all sounds very 'Lord of the Rings' but we'll be closer to revealing why later.

So - having enjoyed the most successful season in the history of the program what do we do next?

Better - that's what. And this time we make space for every other kid in the school to choose to be part of it.

So, after an 'ISI' round up, what's next? Well, in the style of 'The Event'', lets roll back the years and marvel at how the hell Rayleigh Trinity Church - 2nd Cub Scouts ended up as more about the beautiful game than tying knots....

Rayleigh Olympiads - Photo Evidence.

Rayleigh Olympiads - Div B Champions at Roots Hall (Southend United)

So here is the run down...

11 - Me. The good looking one - number 11 (like Ryan Giggs) and in the middle front row looking all serious. The only other time I got to play at Roots Hall I stuck my first shot over the old 'north bank' and down Prittlewell Chase. There used to be a fat bloke who stood in the north bank for Shrimper's home games. he would shout stuff in this gruff voice and everyone - I mean everyone could hear. Goalie Jim Stannard took some stick often for his fat arse - I can't repeat the rest here...
10 - Dave. My mate. Cheeky smile and number 10 - probably because he whacked me with a broom stick to get it.
3 - Ian. Short but fast and a sweet left peg. Ian's dad was Roy, the glass eyed bully smasher. Roy was a really great guy. Ian too.
7 - Gary. Manager's son. Shorts slightly too short and smiling because he never passed to me. I always thought he had wooden legs. Lovely family.
4 - Martin. We never got on. He liked my ex-girlfriend when I was 18. He gave her a TV to take to College. I moved on.
2 - Stuart. Bit of a nutter and joined the army. Nice chap but spat on me once and I never recovered from it.
5 - Ian. Also short and red haired. Go figure. Dad drove a Jag and we thought that was cool.
6 - Devlin. This kid was a classic. He soaked his toes in surgical fluid each week to harden them. I mean, we all could do with a 'Devlin' in a fight to back us up. He scared me but he never missed a tackle and made those he tackled cry, I mean ''serial killer turning the screw' cry.
Adam - the lad not looking at the camera. Very fast and not very good but like Devlin, probably great in a punch up at the local on a Friday. Assuming he remembered to turn up.
Roger - the manager. Spurs Fan and super nice guy. Might have favoured his son but let's face it, if I run a team one day Henry is starting right midfield even if Brooklyn Beckham turns up. I felt sorry for Roger once - he set a lovely birthday treat up for Gary and a chosen few - we went to White Hart Lane for Spurs v West Brom. A certain 'Ron Atkinson' in the heyday of WBA left 3-1 victors that afternoon. Hammers fans can live with losing - as long as Spurs do too.
The rest? Vague memories but decent chaps. I remember some names - interestingly, most the lads I do recall were simply in the two 'houses' (like Harry Potter) I was in at Fitzwimarc. It's all about the 'circle of trust' - see comment above regarding Martin. He was not in my house.

Anyway, they say something about a 'picture and a thousand words' etc. My therapist also says sharing is good for me.

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.

You're good son, but not that good...

The question that rolls around my mind when I watch kids play a game is this: 'who's got it...?'

Now, what I mean is which of those 22 boys or girls is the 'one'. Quality always stands out yet sometimes it is hard to see with an untrained eye. You may see a kid beat three players and slip it past the keeper - looks good? Maybe not if he didn't have the vision to see the unmarked player across the box for a simple ball side-footed in the corner. Sometimes you'll see a tall kid sweeping past everyone - that happens a lot from 11 to 15 years old or so as kids rapidly grow. Looks good again, but if it's your physical advantage that makes the difference, one day all the nippers will catch up - and be quicker, smarter and better with the ball than you. Joe Cole (Liverpool and England) is only 5' 9". A product of the West Ham United Academy, an England International and a very creative player. See right, click and read the 'club career' spot. More about Joe another day.

Now, there was this kid called 'Mo' at the 2009 West Ham National Camp in Atlanta. He was red hot - fast, powerful and was skillful. He was about 17 and could stick the ball in the old onion bag every time. From the stands he looked like he was the full package. Then the coaches ran a drill: three layers,  firstly a throw to a player for a one-on-one with the keeper - he then turns and defends a player sprinting from the halfway on the way to goal - then the pair turn and defend another 2 players coming from the halfway again. Mo gets the first ball and slams it past the keeper - he's off waving and celebrating at exactly 'zero' people behind the goal (could have been 10,000 at the Nou Camp - but it's not you muppet, Mo). The next player scores when Mo should have turned to defend him. Coaches shout 'MO....!' - Mo replies....'arrrgghh, sorry coach.' Anyway, next time Mo's up he does exactly the same thing. His name gets crossed of the list even though he scores a great goal. Mo's just screwed up the chance of proving he is good enough to be invited to train for a week and one of England's premier youth academies. Mo wasn't mentally sharp enough, just looked good.

Young players should never underestimate the importance of mental abilities in the game. I once asked Tony Carr MBE (see right again), the Director of the Youth Academy at West Ham, what he is looking for in a player. He simply said - a player who is effective. Not a simple answer to quantify - but a priceless one. Knowing what you are going to do next before the opponent has any idea what you or even he is going to do next seems to be a nice way of putting it. Real talent sees everything and can react and adjust before most of us have any idea what is going on. Daniel Ringer, an academy player at Norwich F.C. and student at my old school, Sweyne Park, would beat two school opponents with his first touch. He was already moving the ball before opponents knew what hit them.

I'll add this - you know quality when you play against them because nothing you do works. I remember playing in a cup game as 13 year old somewhere in East London (and yes, I am sure David Beckham was on the next pitch (field)...). We lost and I spent a frustrating afternoon never getting past the left back, who was seemingly nothing special but simply effective. The gaffer (boss / coach) told me later the left back played for West Ham. Ahhhhh..... I thought. That explains my dour performance and I walked off happy. Only later on did it hit me that he played at West Ham and I did not. That was the real problem and it sucked to get it at around 13 when I thought I was on the way to glory.

But what do you need to do to be a great player? The fascinating thing is this - kids in Europe, England do not play the game everyday for three months in an over-coached frenzy. Kids play 2 or three times a week in a coaching scenario, and may kick it around on the playground in-between. A lot of the formative experience is actually 'pick up' style. We played games like 'willies' (headers and volleys) or 'wembley' (one kid in one goal and everyone for themselves). I used to help the postman at 4:00am during my school holidays for three reasons: 1) he gave us the elastic bands the letters were wrapped in - 2) he was a nice chap despite being a Manchester United Fan (they were Div 2 then) - 3) he would give us a ball if he found it on his 'round'. Your first touch gets good when you walk the half mile to school making wall passes off garden fences. Some local clubs in Indianapolis have included 'open, pick up style opportunities' Bravo. The less mini-van the better. Anyway, that's my opinion...

Why did I think I was destined for glory? Well, my Great Uncle George watched me play once and told Dad he was going to write to John Lyall, then manager of West Ham and ask for me to have a 'trial'. George played goalkeeper for the Army. That was the 'seal of approval' as far as I was concerned. Of course, when you play for Rayleigh Olympiads in Division Z of the 'not so good' Sunday League, scoring 12 goals in three games isn't worth much. I also failed to appreciate that Mr. Lyall received about 200 letters a day with the exact same request. It's hard to be good at football in a country that believes it invented, owns and therefore should be the best at the sport. Everyone is good. I was good, but not that good.

Squeeze the bottle Ronnie...

My Dad had a mate called Ronnie. He liked the sauce and especially vino. When Ronnie was pouring he would hold the bottle upside down and give it a little shake as if to tempt the last few desperate drops out. Ronnie's mum would screech "squeeze the bottle, Ronnie" - which never fails to make me chuckle.

Why squeeze? How many times have we heard that from the dugout. Coaches screaming at their back 4 (defenders) to push up. It's all about space and what you leave the opposition to play in if you sit back. A slack defensive line failing to push up as play moves through midfield into the opponents half leaves a massive gap between your own midfield and defence. Result - opponents play into that space and have the room to receive, turn and run at you like nutters. Might as well lay down and offer to lick their boots as they stick it in the top corner.

Sounds simple. You'd be amazed at how many coaches here rely on the '4 kids standing aimlessly 5 yards outside the penalty area' - "no son, I told you to stay there - and wait for them to steamroller over you...."

You know a story's coming...

1994 - Essex U19 Cup Final at Grays Athletic. Not a pretty spot at the best of times. Grays is aptly named and only a stones throw from quintessential crap holes such as Tilbury, Dagenham and Thurrock. The game was SEEVIC v Coopers (I think) - a SEEVIC team that would go on to play Chesterfield College at Chesterfield FC in the U19 English Schools Cup Final. I mean, the two best school teams in the country and I'm sitting on the bench assisting head Coach Martin Tucker. Center forward? Neil Harris - Millwall FC etc. See the link to read about his career. A legend. Back to the game. Half time, and it's a tight 0-0 scoreline and the only joy so far was created by Harris, who stood on the bench in the dressing room in a pair of speedo undies singing (ghetto style) "yo, fellas, you wiv' me". Half time and one simple change - back four playing too deep in the first 45 - so they push up and squeeze the game. SEEVIC go on to win that game 3-0 and become Essex Champions for the third time in a row. That was fortunate really - we held the cup for the previous two years and the Head of PE at the time, Reg Simmons, had only bothered to get the cup engraved for the last two years that morning. But he hadn't bothered to wait for the result - simply went ahead and got the third win written on the cup - before the game kicked off. I mean, you're 'aving a bubble...

I would be leading you astray if I didn't now mention cockney rhyming slang. It's an east-end (of London) tradition, a long story and tricky to explain, but let's simplify by saying its a code that rhymes the second word in a two 'worder' with your key word having ignored the first word..
For example (and one I still use)  'butchers'   - butchers hook = look - in a sentence: "I'll go 'ave a butchers" So, bubble would be bubble bath = laugh. And playing a game with the county cup in my hands knowing our name was already on it was clearly a 'Tony'. You work it out.

Still we won. Thank you Neil Harris et al. The celebrations that followed that victory were mediorce in comparison with those after playing in Chesterfield. Many bottles were 'squeezed' that night. Fabulous. Shame the bill for damages to the hotel was so high. Oh well, boys will be boys.

Playing against David Beckham when I was a kid.

No, I didn't. But he must have been playing within 10 miles of me at some point.

So, how does one get the ball rolling? That's a tough question. I suspect the ride will include numerous somewhat entertaining anecdotes from many years of playing and coaching. I hope we'll pull in a wide range of football / soccer fanatics / gurus and create a thought provoking and useful conversation.

We shall now confirm that the beautiful game is to be referred to as 'soccer' from this point forward. I thank the collegiate cohort  in the mid 1800's for their laziness in requesting verbally when one joins in a game of 'association football' (kicking) and reducing it to 'assoc' and then soccer. No - the Americans don't call it that because of socks....

Let's start with a story. My mum always fouled me when we played in the back yard (garden - oh bother, this is pointless. You figure it out whichever side of the pond you are on). Not a 'Vinny Jones' style foul but even more deadly - tiggling. I thought I could evade any opponent after such an experience. No, this was not to be. He was called Peter Clark. Center back for Love Lane Primary School and Sweyne Secondary School. Peter is the nicest guy on the planet but when I was 11 he had hairy legs and was on the way to playing for Spurs. I can't remember ever scoring against him but he was very nice as he ripped the metal studs (cleats) of his adidas 'world cup' boots  (cleats, again) down the back of my ankle. I got to eventually play with Peter at Rayleigh Town. A much happier experience and less painful. His dad religiously cut the Rayleigh pitch (field) every week even though the ride on mower had a dodgy (bad) blades. We were the only team in the Essex Intermediate League with a skinhead (buzz cut) pitch.

Why do so many on this planet love the game? How comes more countries are members of FIFA than the United Nations? It is such a simple and beautiful sport. We'll discuss that later on. How does a country like the USA applying a media 'frenzy' to every viewing opportunity take the game from the middle class to 300 million people? Is David Beckham still a hero if that last minute free kick v Greece doesn't hit the 'old onion bag?'  What happens if the Russian linesman (AR) doesn't give a goal for England in 1966? Why did Sepp Blatter think the women's game would benefit from players wearing 'hotpants?' Were Arsenal the only team to perfect the flat back four and why the heck does that 2010 World Cup ball like the stratosphere?

OK. Let's start with a simple one. Indianapolis, IN. Having grown up with an east-end family only walking distance from Upton Park, who do people support here? The best team playing football in this 'neck of the woods' wear lycra, pads and write the plans on the inside of their sleeve. Opps, time for a TV timeout and a reminder about the virtues of lite beer. Don't get me started on lite beer. Google 'shandy' and you'll have it in two shakes of a donkey's tale...