An Afternoon of Nostalgia
I miss Jimmy Greaves, Danny Blanchflower, Terry Dyson, and Maurice Norman.
You could spot him a mile off and wonder about him. His hair parted in a crazy line; freckled features spread across his flattened nose. A boy, growing like a wildflower, with shorts that touched his knees, socks wrinkled round his ankles as he ran, yelling for the ball, convinced as he was that he would score a goal by thumping it hard with his right foot into the corner of an imaginary net, exactly the way he’d seen his hero do it on the field of play.
That kid was me.
With my son, sitting in the new, magnificent, White Hart Lane stadium we watched Tottenham Hotspur beat Southampton United, 4–1. It was the first game of a long season, with the World Cup starting in November. The Premier League will be suspended while teams from all around the world will play the greatest soccer tournament for the privilege of holding the World Cup Trophy.
I played soccer for my school, and on the local park green in Tobermory. When I was in the orphanage, Mr. Bunson was a Tottenham fan. He would listen to the radio on a Saturday afternoon, and then check his pools coupon at 5:00 p.m., religiously. He dreamed of scoring big with his selection. Certainly, a better chance than today’s Mega Million dream.
I was no slouch, man I could run. The coach of the team said I was quicker than shit off a shovel. You’re a regular Cliff Jones, he said. I scored two goals in the opening game for my school.
I was drifting through the midfield looking for a space, imagining myself to be John White, nicknamed the ghost, to thread a perfect ball to George Bryant who returned the pass for me to score easily.
The second was a solo effort, I mean, it was like the ball was glued to my feet, and I ran with it, slipped past the goalkeeper, who, to be fair, wore glasses, and tucked the ball in the corner of the net.
After the game I walked home with my pals.
Colin Chapman, the left winger, gave me his curly-wurly bar, a caramel bar covered in Cadbury chocolate, and I wondered if the great Jimmy Greaves ever got a curly wurly bar off his teammates? When I was twelve, I went to my first game at White Hart Lane. The Spurs, as they are called, played in navy and white, and we were playing Manchester United.
It was a daunting fixture, Man U were quite brilliant, having players like George Best, Dennis Law, Bobby Charlton, and the irrepressible, Nobby Stiles, were top of the table. Spurs were third behind Newcastle United.
For the first fifteen minutes we had to stick it out and face the onslaught of the Red’s ‘Trinity’ coming at us. But then the magical Jimmy Greaves popped up on the six-yard line to side foot the ball into the net, for a 1–0 lead. Man U goalkeeper, Alex Stepney was disgusted with himself, having fumbled the ball in front of Jimmy, (bad idea.)
‘Stick it to them, Jimmy,’ I yelled out in excited exultation.
At the start of the second half, we were again under pressure. George Best, the wee Irishman, was starting to make our fullbacks look like part timers. Back in those days we lads ran onto the pitch at the end of the game. At the final whistle I flew and ran up to Jimmy and tugged at his shirt. ‘Nice one, Jimmy.”
Jimmy Greaves patted me on the head.
The game today is a far cry from those days. Heated pitches, soccer shoes that look like ballet shoes, and since the days of Beckham, soccer players have become media stars. There are no serious soccer players left. They died out. Players like Norman Hunter of Leeds nicknamed ‘bite yer legs Hunter’ and Dave Mackay, a Scotsman built like a brick shithouse, and of course, Nobby Stiles.
Joe Jordon didn’t want mixing with, ferocious with his missing front teeth when the game was about taking knocks, playing in boots that were made of leather, and weighed twice as much when caked with mud. Today’s players have no idea about mud, how much the leather ball weighed, and the courage it took to head it on days when cows stayed in the barn.
Rarely did anyone see Bill Nicholson who, as manager, took Tottenham to the cup double. He was a shy man, hard, for sure, but didn’t need limelight, men like Matt Busby, Alex Fergusson, and Jock Stein didn’t need the intrusion of reporters. They did a job, got paid well, and didn’t need all the nonsense today’s game has.
So, there I am, with my son, more than sixty years on watching Spurs dominate a Southampton side. The game still has its names, today, Harry Kane, Heung-Min Son, and goalkeeper Hugo Lloris. Stars they are, but could they play in mud, where the game is meant to be played, and not on a perfect surface, where the ball runs true, doesn’t stop in a quagmire, or weigh four pounds toward the end of the game. Soccer is a winter sport.
Still, I cheered, hugged my son, had a beer and a pie, and travelled home on the London tube.
It was a great day.
Com’on you Spurs!
Jimmy Greaves, front row, second from right.
