TALES FROM THE PIT POND (20)

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I was at a pretty low ebb following that tough season with Smith Dock, so much so, that I seriously contemplated not playing on a Saturday afternoon for the first time in my life. However, I was dragged out of my malaise by Mr Fixit himself, Alex Smailes, who, lured me back to one of my former clubs, West Allotment Celtic. Eight years had elapsed since I had last trod on the hallowed turf of the San Siro of the north, Backworth Park. Those eight years I had been gone had been good for West Allotment, seeing them win numerous trophies and re-establishing themselves as one of the leading grassroots clubs in Northumberland.

Former manger John Jackson, was still there, now operating as club secretary, a role that he was much better suited to. Amazingly all of the old men on the committee were also still there, the only absentee being former secretary and genuine nice guy Joe Rose. The role of the committee was now watered down, the real power lay in the hands of “Jacka” and “Smailsy” who formed quite a formidable pair, “Jacka” ran the club a little bit like Florentino Perez and was all powerful (maybe a little bit too powerful) whereas Mr Smailes had his finger in lots of pies and would do anything to keep the players happy.

When I first played for West Allotment as an innocent seventeen year old, it was the best time of my life, now the club had changed, it had lost that warmth, it was now deadly serious and I quickly realised I had made a mistake going back. A new manager called Les Jackson had been installed, boy, I didn’t envy him that job, he was under pressure from day one, especially from the ever demanding committee.

If I was going to have any chance of playing, then I was going to have cut back on my nightlife, I worked my tail off during those summer months and by the time of our first friendly against Whickham Sports (a club that was now plying it’s trade in the Northern Combination) I was in pretty good nick.

On the afternoon of the game, Mr Smailes produces a glorious set of Admiral strips, light blue shorts and socks with a white short sleeved aertex top. Beautiful.

The game itself would be the only time that me and my good friend Gary “Fuzza ” Little ever played in same West Allotment team. Me and Mr Little were sporting our hard earned Spanish suntans with “Fuzza” insisting we highlight our bronzed thighs by over indulging in liniment. We leave the dungeons (the name given to our changing rooms) and jog over to pitch, according to Mr Little something is missing, he slips his hand inside my shirt and pulls out my gold chain, “now we’re ready” he insists. Was he f****** insane, why not just put a pork chop around my neck and throw me in a Rottweiler pit. The game kicks off on a greasy surface, pleasing the Whickham Sports back four, who, are now singing the Gladys Knight hit “License to Kill” so, time to get my Ed Moses head on. Time fly’s by and we get to half time 0-0, we score early in the second half to take the lead, but my concentration is starting to waver, big mistake, I put my head down to move the ball on, only to greeted by Whickham’s centre half Micky Hughes right boot wrapping itself around my face. Hughsie has nearly took my head clean off my shoulders, so, thanks for the reality check. We press on and get a second, courtesy of Mr Little, the game ends 2-0, I shake hands with Hughsie after the game and he kindly returns my nose.

We return to the warmth of the dungeons, shower and start to get changed, Mr Little is busy dowsing himself in Aramis and is vividly describing his goal, its going to be long night. A good start, however, little did I know that game would the highlight of my season.