Tottenham Lose At Anfield But It’s Not Too Late To Treat Your Mum.

Tottenham may have lost at Anfield but it’s not too late to remember your mother and treat her on Mothers’ Day. Jan Vertonghen’s two goals count for nothing as Tottenham allow Liverpool to come back from 2 – 1 down with two goals, courtesy of two defensive mistakes late in the second half, to win 3 – 2 at Anfield.

Osterley House

This is another personal story that I hope will ring bells and bring back memories for anyone who used to spend every spare minute playing football with their mates in the street or the park. In my teenage years from approximately 1971-75 I used to play every Sunday morning in a local park with some good friends from school. We all loved football and were mostly quite good at it but not quite good enough to have a chance of making it as professionals. We all hovered around the edges of the school team squad but most of us didn’t get more than the odd game with the first team. In those days teachers placed more emphasis on size and strength than skill. Most of the first team consisted of guys that were bigger and tougher than us. I swear Lionel Messi would have got nowhere in that environment. The first team were cliquey and not welcoming when any of us were given a trial with the team, I think because they feared losing their place if we did well. I remember one game when I was selected to play for them after scoring 5 goals per game in each of 3 consecutive reserve games. I came into the team full of confidence and I think my team mates only passed to me once, even when it was the obvious ball. I ran myself into the ground and eventually got so frustrated. I thought “Right, I’ll show the lot of you.” Late in the second half I dropped back out of position and tackled one of their midfielders in our own half.  I set off on a mazy run (I can see it in my mind’s eye now) and beat 4 players on the way into their box. I thought that if I did it all myself, they couldn’t deny my right to be in the team. I rode some tough tackles and then it all fell apart. I ignored the run of our star striker and as their goalie came rushing out, my lungs bursting, I ran out of strength enough to take the sting out of my shot. I rolled it into the goalie’s arms and fell to the floor, copping the look of disgust from goalden balls. It would have been the winning goal. Of course, I was returned to the also-rans and the next week one of my mates would suffer a similar experience.

Playing with stiffs had its compensations. We often had to referee ourselves. One incident put all the Bale /Suarez diving controversies into context. In one game, every time I went down the wing and pushed the ball passed the defender the guy just up ended me, kicking me in the shins. After this had happened about 4 times on the trot, I’d had enough. I left theball behind me in mid run and gave him an almighty kick in the shins sending him up in the air instead. I just looked own at him and said, “There, see how you bloody like it” collected the ball as it rolled up behind us, cut in to the middle and scored, whilst all hell broke out behind me.

The other advantage was the stiffs played on the pitches at the local girls grammar school. It meant we had to interrupt their hockey games to get the ball when it went off for a throw in and gave us the chance to pull.  There were always a lot more throw-ins on that side than the railway line side…

We didn’t let not getting in the first team put us off. We loved the game so we played for fun. Because Isleworth was the last state grammar school in the that part of London, it had quite a wide catchment area, running across West London from Isleworth, past Hounslow and Heston to Feltham. We had to find a venue that we could all get to. My mates came from all around the area, usually on their push bikes to play. The place we chose wasn’t just any old park. It was Osterley Park.  I don’t know how we had the cheek. We played on the front lawn of one of the poshest stately homes in London! We played on an area as big as a real pitch. No sidelines, it sloped off on one side down to the lake and up on the other side into the trees.

Like I said, we had some pretty good players and had enough for about 5-a-side.There were the Holland brothers. Chris always immaculately turned out in his Chelsea strip with the White socks. Skilful and energetic. White blond hair, he looked a bit like Chris Garland. His brother Dave, taller and more solid, a Jackie Charlton type, more suited to centre half duties.  Simon Ives, another guitarist and Man U fanatic. He could place a lofted pass, a free kick or a corner on a sixpence. Another guy called Chris who we all knew as George because he had the close control and haircut of George Best. John Hoad, a doctor’s son and drummer, who lived just outside the park and usually played in goal or defence. And several more…We had the time of our lives.

We had been playing every Sunday for many months before one day a Parkie in a navy blue uniform and peaked cap showed up and started with the “You can’t play football there” line. He was like Blakey the Inspector from On the Buses. We stood up for ourselves and argued the point, saying it was a public park and that we weren’t doing any harm. Bill Nimmo our Scottish midfielder and guitar player from Feltham was the main spokesman. It reminded me of the scene from the Beatles film,  I think it was “A Hard Days Night” where they get in a similar confrontation and Lennon, I think says something like, “Sorry if we hurt your field Mister”. To be fair to the Parkie, he negotiated!  He agreed to let us keep playing, if we agreed to rotate the goal area, so that the grass did not become bare patches of mud.  I think he told his colleagues to leave us alone too.

To get to the front lawn from the entrance to the estate, you had to pass along a tree-lined drive / avenue that was about half a mile long and around one end of a lake. The lawn where we played was in front of the stately home. What a setting! In March the drive was also lined on both sides by thousands, literally thousands of daffodils. I used to pick a bunch for Mum, filling my saddle bag for the journey home. One year, the Parky saw me and went berserk. Foolishly he yelled out an “Oi You” at me from a hundred yards or so away, which gave me the chance to jump on my bike and speed off. He gave chase and was fitter than he looked. I was half way back to Heston by the time he gave up. My Mum was always delighted. I never told her exactly where they came from There were so many of the daffs, I’d never thought of it as stealing. You couldn’t even tell there were any missing.

I hope you enjoyed these memories  and for those of you that are getting on a bit it brought back some of your own. And if there are any kids reading this, for God’s sake get your Mum some flowers!