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…