Ironic really as that is the name of the Scottish head groundsman at Upton Park.
Well, it made me chuckle. OK, let’s unravel a few more for the sheer hell of it.
What d’ya call a man with a seagull on his head? Cliff
What d’ya call a man with leaves on his head? Russell
What d’ya call a man who prays a lot? Neil
What d’ya call a man who can’t swim? Bob
What d’ya call a man on a beach? Sandy
What d’ya call a man with an invoice? Bill
What d’ya call a man who is good around the house? Andy
What d’ya call a man who supports Spurs? An ambulance. (sorry, couldn’t resist)
Ok, that should do it. Make up some yourself. Apparently western education has smashed the creativity out us and brainwashed everyone to thinking Doctors, Lawyers and Accountants are only at the top of the heap. Let me help you, here are three names and you can go for it. Knock yourself out.
Warren…
Tony…
Arthur…
Stick your best efforts in a comment and I’ll buy the winner a slushy. And I mean a real deal 32oz Speedway monster that has enough sugar to convert you to Type 1 Diabetes in 30 seconds.
OK, back to Doug. Oh, first take a look at this. It’s real deal TV time…haha!
OK, Doug again. He’s the head groundsman at Upton Park and gave us the story on why the pitch is so bloody magic. Basically, here is my version:
It’s like real and fake grass with a double dutch drainage vacuum system and night-time lighting to promote growth. I know, you can order something like that at the Starbucks drive through with 2 classic pumps. I mean, they can literally suck a puddle out of the pitch. I guess that solves what to do when Spurs play there and wet themselves. Fergie must have had a bucket the night the Irons stuck 4 past them in the Cup. There’s only so much liquid any machine can handle.
It’s like real and fake grass with a double dutch drainage vacuum system and night-time lighting to promote growth. I know, you can order something like that at the Starbucks drive through with 2 classic pumps. I mean, they can literally suck a puddle out of the pitch. I guess that solves what to do when Spurs play there and wet themselves. Fergie must have had a bucket the night the Irons stuck 4 past them in the Cup. There’s only so much liquid any machine can handle. So Dougie has a bunch of great stories about people wanting to spread ashes on Upton Park. Of course, you can’t do it as the chemicals used to embalm a body pre-cremation are like acid to the grass and kill it. So, you spread Uncle Harry’s ashes over the penalty box on Friday and everyone sees the Uncle Harry ‘dead’ patch Saturday afternoon. Pardon the pun.
I love West Ham. You know that – but behind the scenes they do stuff that everyone else hasn’t caught up with yet. The Hotel in the executive boxes. No where else in Britain and nearly all of Europe. The pitch. It is highly rated by the environment agency because it can take away water and push it back up to the surface, thus saving thousands of gallons. So, when you read concerns over the successful Olympic Stadium, just relax. It’ll be fine. West Ham are like one of my Nanny Self’s steamed puddings. No Mickey Mouse ‘stick it in the micro for 2 minutes’ trash. Give it time and it’ll come out right.
I wish I could share a few of Dougie’s stories, but I promised Ben I wouldn’t. Thicker than blood ‘n that. I will share this story. Alan ‘Alfie’ Boyce, my brother-in-law (who incidentally somehow is related to former West Ham player Ronnie ‘ticker’ Boyce and is a bloody good footballer and better than me, although I live with it because he once described me as ‘the most skillful player he knew’ – obviously has limited social contact) was booked once by a ref called Len Forge over at Eastwoodbury Lane. Len, the ref, also owned the land. He had a handful of average pitches and one floodlit pitch which was half decent. Anyway, we were playing a crap game in the late summer on a pitch with more in common to a highway central reservation in Guadalajara (i.e. 90% arid dirt with a few tufts of grass trying to prove Darwin’s theory of evolution had some credibility).
So, Alfie receives a pass and as the ball scoots over to him it takes a bobble which would be equivalent to Sir Richard Branson’s ‘Round the World’ Balloon taking a bump after hitting the summit if Everest while traveling in the Jet Stream at 150 mph. Alfie scuffs the pass and says (loudly) ‘Christ, this pitch is bad’. Len blows the whistle and pulls out the yellow card quicker that a fox nicking a chicken from the pen. Alfie asks why the yellow card. Len says ‘blasphemy – taking the Lord’s name in vain.’
I mean, come on. We all knew Len owned the pitches and, I guess he could have been a ‘God fearing man’. Next time saying something like ‘shit’ might have got the job done and saved the card. I mean, there are no commandments about saying shit, right? Killing, adultery, coveting etc all taboo. Profanity is OK as far as I am concerned.
Len has sadly passed now. They could have spread his ashes on the pitches, but they were already crap it wouldn’t have made any difference. So, what's the moral of the story? No idea. The education system has smashed any ability I have to think outside the box. It's only a miracle and the magic of Nanny's spotted dick that I didn't slip further down the evolutionary chain and end up supporting Millwall...
Do I comment about pitches, West Ham, or the education system? Here in Indiana, we get arctic winters and tropical summers. The summers are nowhere more tropical than in Freeman Park, located in my hometown of Richmond, Indiana.
ReplyDeletePicture a small park set in a gorge with thick trees all around and a small river nearby. The humidity on said pitch in the summer must have been akin to something in the Mato Grosso. That said, what a tremendous home advantage we enjoyed as players adapted to air we had to eat rather than breathe.
The pitch had lights, too, in an era with few lighted soccer fields. Of course at night the balmy air could be seen and the steam would rise up from the players and, occasionally, the pitch itself.
I recall a particular match against the Bloomington club that Todd Yeagley (current IU coach, son of Indiana coaching legend Jerry) was a part of the year before. Like Matthew, I just missed a brush with a player of some importance. Anyway, the visitors featured two players rumored to be part of the (then) Zaire national youth system. This was our second match with them and we had taken them 1 - 0 at their ground.
It was a typical Freeman Park afternoon with sweltering heat and the two sides battled with only one or two substitutes to call on. Something happened in the match. All of us on the pitch began to realize the tremendous show we were putting on for the fans. We really started to enjoy it. At the time, soccer wasn't being played at a high level in many places in Indiana. We seemed to take that match to a new place and afterward, there was nothing but smiles from all the players as we shook hands.
We lost 0 - 1, squaring the books, but also solidifying some new respect for our program. That memory of being part of something that helped build the sport in my hometown is one reason I'll never forget that rainforest of a pitch (complete with mosquitoes). That said, I don't think I'll have my ashes spread there. There were enough bare spots where the underground power line ran through the field. Cheers, Matthew!