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...