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.