Climbing the Silver Pyramid E-Book

David Kindon

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 453

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

David Kindon, a lifetime football fan and amateur player, decided to track a number of English football teams from club level at Saltash United through all fourteen group stages, all the way to the FA Cup Final in the 2018 - 2019 season. His passion for 'The Beautiful Game' comes through strongly as he entertains all lovers of football in an account replete with amusing anecdotes and with typically dry English humour, provides a fascinating look into the quirks and personalities of players, managers, coaches and media personalities, some of whom became trusted friends. He makes no secret of his regret at how the game has changed with the advent of the Premier League, the influence of the media and the vast sums of money that have been poured into the professional game.

Leseprobe

Contents

Imprint 2

Dedication 3

Acknowledgements 4

Citation 6

Chapter Listing 7

Foreword 9

Chapter One 12

Chapter Two 30

Chapter Three 45

Chapter Four 65

Chapter Five  81

Chapter Six 95

Chapter Seven 113

Chapter Eight 127

Chapter Nine 158

Chapter Ten  180

Chapter Eleven 199

Chapter Twelve 219

Chapter Thirteen 243

Chapter Fourteen 266

The Author 294

Imprint

All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.

© 2022 novum publishing

ISBN print edition: 978-3-99107-639-1

ISBN e-book: 978-3-99107-640-7

Editor: Hugo Chandler, BA

Cover images: Victoria Porkhun, Chunni4691 | Dreamstime.com; David Kindon

Cover design, layout & typesetting:novum publishing

Images: David Kindon

www.novum-publishing.co.uk

Dedication

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE SUPPORTERS, STAFF AND PLAYERS OF TAUNTON TOWN FOOTBALL CLUB

May the glorious claret and blue plumage

of The Peacocks never lose a feather,

Dave.

Acknowledgements

Sincere and heartfelt thanks to the following people for their invaluable contribution to this project and for giving me a deeper insight into the Beautiful Game.

Greg CoulsonChairmanWestbury United FC

Sean RothwellRefereeFootball Association

Andy PowerSecretaryTaunton Town FC

Matt WrightCaptainTaunton Town FC

Rob WenhamHead StewardTaunton Town FC

Dan CarterMascotTaunton Town FC

Keith TuckwellSupporterBillericay Town FC

John CrootDirectorChesterfield FC

Neil ShipperleyEx PlayerCrystal Palace FC

Trevor HigginsManagerElburton Villa FC

Richard WalkerHead of MediaWatford FC

Gary CotterillReporterSky Sports News

Barry SilkmanAgentProfessional Football

Tom SampsonCounty RepDevon FA

John Martindale RivalSubbuteo

Citation

“Football is undoubtably the oldest of all English national sports. For at least six centuries, the people have loved the rush and struggle of the rude and manly game … and Kings with their edicts … divines with their sermons … scholars with their cultured scorn … and wits with their ridicule, have failed to keep the people away from the pastime they enjoy.”

SIR MONTAGUE SHEARMAN

(English Judge and Athlete)

Late 19th century

Chapter Listing

FROM KIMBERLEY TO WEMBLEY

1) DASHES TO ASHES Saltash v Odd Down

2) TALES OF THE WHITE HORSE Westbury v Saltash

3) MEN IN BLACK Bitton v Westbury

4) THE CURSE CONTINUES Taunton v Bitton

5) IT’LL BE ALL WRIGHT ON THE NIGHT Taunton v St Albans

6) FLYING WITH THE PEACOCKS Billericay v Taunton

7) BILLERICAY BLUES Chesterfield v Billericay

8) IT’S GRIMSBY UP NORTH Chesterfield v Grimsby

9) SHINE THROUGH THE GLOOM Crystal Palace v Grimsby

10) MONEY MAKES THE BALL GO ROUND Crystal Palace v Tottenham

11) ROY AT THE ROVERS Doncaster v Crystal Palace

12) THE EAGLES ARE LANDED Watford v Crystal Palace

13) THE RETURN OF MAGIC MIKE Watford v Wolves

14) BLACK DOG AND A BLUE MOON Manchester City v Watford

Foreword

A RIDE WITH ME

A long time ago in a stadium, far, far away …

I blame a footballer called Kevin Keegan for not only my love of the FA Cup, but of football itself.

May the fourth is celebrated by fans of ancient galactic religions, wizardry and space pirates, but for me, that date in 1974 is as momentous to this fifty-three year old Englishman as Wembley Stadium stands as an iconic symbol to generations of football fans brought up kicking, screaming and falling in love, watching the greatest sporting competition in the world.

A few years before Luke Skywalker destroyed the Death Star and Han Solo blasted his way onto the silver screen, it was the green hallowed turf of our national stadium on which Keegan and his team mate Steve Heighway blasted three goals between them and destroyed Newcastle United’s hopes of returning to their north east base with the famous silver trophy.

The future captain of England replaced musician Bryan Ferry and, before him, my dad as a hero, and as far as my immediate family was concerned, I was lost. The boy who was still young enough to dream grew into a troubled teenager with a chip on his shoulder, a ‘rebel without a clue’.

Time took away the magic of Christmas and birthdays became just a number, but the FA Cup final was always there, keeping me on the good side of the law. Non-scripted but dramatic. No musical lyrics, yet poetic. And it was real.

The idea for this book was simple but took on a life of its own. Starting with the Cup’s preliminary rounds I watched Saltash United, geographically the nearest team to my doorstep who had a home tie in mid-August. I followed them until their elimination and then their victors until they lost and so on …

Nine months later, having travelled over five and a half thousand miles, I completed an epic journey through all fourteen stages of the competition. An adventure which started in Cornwall took me to Wiltshire, Gloucestershire, Somerset, Essex, Derbyshire, Surrey, Yorkshire, Hertfordshire and ended at Wembley in north London.

There are fourteen chapters in ‘Climbing the Silver Pyramid’ representing each round of the 2018-19 FA Cup, and each one includes interviews with football folk involved in all aspects of the game, a match report and a nostalgic nod back to the notable Cup finals of the competition’s glorious past.

But what happened to the FA Cup? Why has it lost it’s appeal to generations of football fans? How does the pyramid in English football work?

Money it seems has replaced the magic.

This journey was just as much about investigating the reasons why as much as it was about the glory. Coming out of depression in January 2017, I decided to give myself a long-term target to ensure my personal focus steadied itself on the track known as life contentment. Thus, my life was dominated on this nine-month quest as two ticks appeared on my bucket list.

The structure of our national game is unique and in my opinion, the best on the planet. I want this book to go some way to explain why anyone born post the mid-1980’s possesses more passion for The Premiership and only holds a mild sense of curiosity as to why the older generation’s love of the FA Cup remains strong.

Whatever age you are, and what ever team you follow, I’m sure you’ll agree that football is still and will always remain ‘The Beautiful Game’.

DAVID KINDON

JULY 2019

“Lose your dreams and you may lose your mind.”

MICK JAGGER

Chapter One

DASHES TO ASHES

If looks could kill! The Cornishman says nothing at first, but his eyes say it all. His glare bores into my confused look. What have I done to deserve such a warm welcome in the most westerly county in England? Then it dawns on me. I’ve had the nerve to park outside his house. What was I thinking? Stupidly taking for granted that I could park a taxed car on a public highway! Ah, but that’s not the point is it. Not only is it his house; but it’s his pavement, his road, his empire. Not content with having a driveway, this local resident of east Cornwall wants the whole damn street to himself and probably the playing fields that separates his castle and Kimberly Stadium, home of Saltash United Football Club.

“You’re one of those aren’t you!”. It’s more of an accusation than a question.

“One of what?” I needlessly ask because I know which angle he’s coming from.

“That lot!”. He points eastward in the direction of the Tamar Bridge which spans the river between Devon and Cornwall. And he’s right, I am one of that lot. I’m English, I’m the devil!

Cornish folklore has it that when Isambard Kingdom Brunel designed the railway bridge which joins Plymouth to the county the locals call ‘Kernow’, he was in fact giving the Devil a route directly into God’s Country. Since the mid-nineteenth century a certain amount of resentment has built up in this Duchy towards the rest of the English race. Politically and professionally Cornwall may be a part of the UK, but from an emotional point of view Plymouth the ‘City of Pilgrims’ may as well be the natural Land’s End.

Today Cornwall may as well be another country. The self-appointed traffic enforcement officer of Warfelton Crescent sees me as a foreigner, but I haven’t got time for this territorial shit. I’m going to miss the kick-off between Saltash, known as ‘The Ashes’ and their opponents today, Odd Down from Bath. This is the first game of fourteen in this season’s FA Cup which signifies not only the start of a great adventure for me but also fulfils a promise I made to myself years ago. The start of a nine-month journey and starts are the one thing I hate to miss. So, biting my lip I literally move the car ten yards further up the street just to appease him. Possibly coming back to a scratched company car would be ultimately costly and inconvenient for me, but for the eighteen stone brave warrior it would mean a symbolic and justly strike against the invading enemy. I’m only here to watch a football match for Christ’s sake!

Just a few minutes to spare as I cross the playing field and into the ground where it costs a fiver to get in. The reason I’ve chosen this game as my first is twofold. Firstly, Saltash are geographically the nearest team from my doorstep who have a home tie in this FA Cup preliminary round. The idea is simple. Follow a team in this knockout competition until they are eliminated and then follow their victors. The second reason I’ve chosen The Ashes is that they have a player called Callum Martindale whose father is a lifelong friend of mine.

Ah, my old mate John Martindale! Both hailing from a place called Efford in Plymouth, we’ve known each other since primary school. As kids we were keen rivals on the Subbuteo pitch and as young men, bitter rivals when it came to the fairer but at times, crueller sex. But in the words of Frank Sinatra …

‘I’ve loved, I’ve laughed and cried, I’ve had my fill, my share of losing. And now, as tears subside, I find it all so amusing.’

Saltash United is only eleven miles away from where I live and easy to get to via the A38 Devon Expressway. It’s a 3pm kick off on a Saturday so why am I nearly late, especially when I sacrificed a Friday nights works do when all the booze and food was free? It’s because twenty four hours earlier I’d volunteered to meet a customer at 7.30am today for an emergency call out. Ideal for me. It meant I could take the company car home and drive it not only to work early on Saturday but also use it for the rest of the weekend, including this game. Trouble was, I had nothing else to do but catch up on some sleep in bed. Waking up at 2.15pm, oh shit! Jumping into the shower, jumping into the car and negotiating heavy traffic heading west. And it’s typical August weather, pissing down. This obviously made driving that little bit more hazardous as I weaved in and out of more sensible slower drivers treating the A38 like an American highway. Basically, anything goes. The Devil crossing the River Tamar? I’m driving like him!

And even from the weather’s point of view, Cornwall really could be a different country on this day. As soon as I enter God’s Country the sun breaks through. A rainbow appears in the direction I’m driving, which makes me dream about the pot of gold that could be waiting for me on this quest. No pot of gold waiting near the ground though; only an overweight tosser who would be better off spending his time at a Weightwatcher’s meeting rather than imitating a demented and bitterly failed traffic warden.

The town of Saltash has a football team they can be proud of, due to their success ever since being founded just after the war; three times Western League champions all achieved in the 1980’s and various other silverware dotted around the decades. They currently play in the South West Peninsula which stands at level ten in the English football pyramid; the structure of our national game. They are one of no less than seven hundred and thirty six teams that have entered this season’s Cup, the holy grail of every football club in England, untouched by money and built on dreams. The FA Cup works like this …

It’s a knockout competition comprising of fourteen rounds (six qualifying and eight proper).

The seventh stage and therefore the first proper one introduces the professional League teams and it’s here where the magic begins.

It’s where full-time footballers are challenged by electricians, plumbers, builders and welders. Another two rounds take place and then the best teams in the country join the party. So, in theory, Saltash United could take on Manchester United in a small stadium situated in a small town. There’s nothing like it in the rest of the world which makes it unique, special, magical, envied and widely regarded as the most famous of all sporting competitions on the planet. David leaps out of a biblical fairy tale to take on Goliath.

Although the teams are not seeded (they are represented by a numbered ball in a free-for-all draw administered by a machine noisier than a faulty boiler), there is a format of ‘byes’ which ensures that the higher ranked teams are entered in the later rounds, and thus giving the so-called smaller teams huge incentives to battle through and achieve heroic status.

Today’s game sees a team from level ten of the football pyramid taking on a team from level nine. What sort of standard is that? There are roughly fifteen levels in the pyramid and at the bottom of that structure is possibly your next-door neighbour or the local pub drunk who’s forever telling everyone that he was once scored the winning goal for some team or other and once played alongside someone who nearly made it as a professional and could have played for England.

Saltash United play at level ten in the pyramid so therefore their status just qualifies them to play in the FA Cup as shown in this table …

ROUND

PYRAMID LEVEL INTRODUCED

TEAMS PLAYING

Extra Preliminary

9 & 10

368

Preliminary

8

320

First Qualifying Round

7

232

Second Qualifying Round

6

160

Third Qualifying Round

80

Fourth Qualifying Round

5

64

First Round Proper

3 & 4

80

Second Round Proper

40

Third Round Proper

1 & 2

64

Fourth Round Proper

32

Fifth Round Proper

16

Quarter Finals

8

Semi Finals

4

Final

2

It’s at this preliminary stage that you’ll see working class players take each other on. Plasterers versus estate agents, gardeners versus drivers, factory workers versus the unemployed.

Pele once called football ‘The Beautiful Game’. It’s beautiful because dreams can come true. Imagine playing alongside your mates in the latter stages of the Cup against a professional team in a big stadium. That’s where a number of future stars are spotted. The twenty-three-man England squad in the 2018 World Cup for example had seven players who started out at non-league clubs further down the pyramid.

After spoiling myself and splashing out an extra quid for a match programme, I’m pleasantly surprised to see that the Ashes’ secretary is Scott Cooksley, son of another lifelong friend Steve. If John Martindale and I loved playing Subbuteo as kids, it was Steve Cooksley who pioneered it in our area, by forming a league at the wide-eyed age of eight years old.

FA CUP EXTRA PRELIMINARY ROUND

SATURDAY 11TH AUGUST

KIMBERLEY STADIUM

ATTENDANCE – 92

SALTASH UNITED 1 ODD DOWN AFC 0

In a crowd of less than a hundred, it’s not hard to spot John. It takes a few seconds for him to recognise me as I haven’t shaved for two weeks and am wearing a beanie. He grins, gets to his feet and shakes my hand. Then he motions me to sit down next to him on a damp wooden bench; damp because it had rained earlier you understand and not because he’s that pleased to see me! He has no idea I was going to be there or why;so he points out Callum playing in Saltash’s home colours of red and white stripes. Very smart,but looks too much like Exeter City for my liking.

So, this is it then! The first of fourteen rounds to attend. Starting here at Kimberley Stadium and ending at Wembley Stadium.

“When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.”

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

John is rightfully proud of Callum. At first glance Martindale junior shows an effortless ability to do the basics well. He moves into space to receive the ball, controls it, then gives it to a teammate before gliding into another space.

Closer examination of his game however shows so much more. An intelligent mind enables him to always be in a position to receive the ball. A deceptive turn or burst of pace beats opponents with ease. His left foot tells the ball exactly what to do and the fact that he plays out wide on the left-hand side of the pitch makes his game all the more impressive. Where there is hardly any or no space, he creates it. As far as I can see, if he was given carte blanche in a more central attacking role, he would be a constant threat to the opposition.

But it’s two things that show that Callum Martindale is no prima donna. He works hard. Off the ball, he covers large areas of the pitch with a casual style of running which is both effective and economical, always ready to retrieve the ball and launch an attack. He also possesses a controlled aggression; not afraid to put his foot in and stare down the recipient who takes exception. At one point he says something to an Odd Down player who can’t seem to grasp the fact that being strongly but fairly tackled is actually permitted in the laws of the game. I look at Martindale senior and smile, but he’s wearing the same look as his boy; like father, like son.

Concentrating on Callum’s performance, I almost forget that there’s an FA Cup game taking place. And it’s not a bad one. Saltash look the better team in the early stages. Odd Down from the Bath area, look leggy in comparison and off the pace. Later, Ashes’ assistant manager Dane Bunney tweeted that in his opinion, the visitors only turned up to waste time and ruin the game. I didn’t agree. Only once did I see anything untoward the spirit of the game when an Odd Down player was fouled, and made a meal of it by rolling around in mock agony right in front of the main stand. Although there’s a small crowd this isn’t the smartest part of the pitch to employ this tactic, and makes him about as popular as a fart in an elevator.

But it’s not any of the visiting players that frustrate the home supporters. The referee starts to make some bizarre decisions which all too often interrupts the flow of the game and helps Odd Down grab some much needed respite.

The biggest criticism of referees is their lack of consistency. One official’s view on breaking the laws of the game can differ from another’s. This referee however is inconsistent in the same game; penalising and cautioning one player but then not even blowing his whistle a few minutes later when another player does exactly the same thing. It’s the same for both teams today, so in a strange way you could call it a fair contest. It’s driving the Saltash faithful mad though.

Respect is a word that often pops up regarding the man in the middle. But respect is a two-way street which has to be earned. This referee is not only stopping the game for no apparent reason, he’s also failing to explain to the players why. In Rugby, the whole attendance can hear the referee explain his decisions so there is no doubt and no dissent. In football, most referees fail to communicate properly to the most important people in the game, the players. No interaction with footballers equals no respect.

Even as a Sunday footballer, the referee would communicate with me, even if it was in a negative way. I’ve never forgotten some of the things said or shouted at me. The best referees gave as good as they got …

-“Hey ref! Where’s your fucking glasses?”

-“At home with my fucking hearing aid!”

Or their little quips that made me smile in the heat of a game. After misplacing a pass I’d mutter, “Oh bollocks!”

“Wasn’t even that good player!” came the in-depth tactical analysis as he jogged on by. Instant respect, he made me laugh. There was the other side to the villainous man in black though that could wind me up and only provoke my wonderful lowest form of wit known as sarcasm.

On one occasion in my … ahem, illustrious career as a hungover parks player, I was on the receiving end of a nasty blow from an opponent where, on the Sunday League stage, such actions frequently went unpunished.

Chasing a long pass from the opposing team which was overhit to such an extent that it wouldn’t have looked out of place on a golf course, I ran shoulder to shoulder with an opposing attacker. Knowing he wasn’t going to reach the ball first, he decided to take his frustration out on my Adam’s Apple by administering a spiteful right elbow, which left me on all fours gasping for oxygen. There was no referee’s whistle. On recovering, which basically meant your manager running at you with a bucket of ice-cold water and a sponge, I felt a little hard done by.

However, that little word called respect came into my head, so I thought I’d give the visually impaired official some helpful advice. As soon as he was in earshot I casually mentioned that Boots opticians were currently running a two-for-one sale and if he was lucky, may even qualify for a better deal, given his age. Thankfully, there was nothing wrong with his hearing as well as his eyesight and brandished a yellow card in my direction – just one of the many reasons I love the game. An assault on my throat followed by a fine of £8. Such ingratitude for looking out for his welfare!

By the way, did you know that referees in Scotland are sponsored by Specsavers? Oh, the McIrony!

But the best piece of man-management by a referee I ever saw and heard was so good it earned him a spontaneous round of applause from both teams, and it involved me directly.

A bit worse for wear one Sunday morning after a stag night (happily not mine), I turned up to play at a place called Victoria Park in Plymouth for a Cup match. Despite it’s regal name, Victoria Park was a mugger’s paradise by night and a dog walker’s heaven in daylight. In fact, there was so much dog mess you could have mistaken the place for the film set of 101 Dalmations.

My manager, Neil Penhallurick, in his wisdom decided to play me at right back. This meant chasing a younger, quicker and more skilful left winger all morning. Just what you want when nursing a hangover! One saving grace however on this autumnal morning was the state of the pitch. A mixture of sticky mud and wet grass made it ideal for slide tackling and therefore giving a one paced defender such as myself a couple of yards advantage over an attacking player who would prefer to stay on his feet and maintain balance.

The game was in it’s early stages when, once again, a long pass was hit down my side of the pitch and keenly chased by the aforementioned young, quick and skilful winger. I read the flight of the ball and moved to engage him just as he accelerated. Damn! He’s quicker than my half-drunk brain anticipated! There was no other choice but to go to ground and slide. It wasn’t reckless. It was a controlled challenge with my right leg extended towards the path of the ball and my left leg trailing behind me.

Now if I’m being honest, I’m not sure if I made contact with the ball first or his complete lower body. What I do know is that both ball and players went flying over the touchline and unbelievably avoided tons of dogshit. As I got up, butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth, and I jogged back to a position to defend the throw-in which the referee awarded. It was a brilliant performance worthy of an Oscar nomination, which convinced the official that nothing had been done by yours truly to break any law, or leg for that matter.

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, the winner of this year’s Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor goes to David Kindon for his performance in YOU DIRTY BASTARD’

Cue a standing ovation from a handful of dogwalkers as I step forward for my acceptance speech.

Had the referee given a free kick and even cautioned me, I wouldn’t have complained. But he didn’t and the winger was incensed. He was pointing at me, making accusations of trying to hospitalise him and shouting at the referee to send me off. At least he wasn’t covered in shit! I just outstretched my arms to the side of my body in that ‘what have I done wrong’ classic posture that all footballers, professional or not, have mastered over the years.

The game continued, but the wronged winger still demanded justice. In fact, he moaned for so long that even I wanted him to get a free kick just so he would shut up. Eventually Paddy the ref blew his whistle and stopped the game. Standing in the centre of the pitch he invited the winger over for a friendly chat.

-“Yes please number eleven, over here. Yes, you, number eleven!”

As number eleven walked toward him, Paddy reached for his top pocket. We all thought he was going to book him. But no! Instead of producing a yellow card, he pulled out a baby’s dummy.

-“Here you go player, suck on that and you’ll feel a lot better”

Laughter and applause all around the pitch. Having to save face in front of his mates, the winger decided to go with the advice and literally didn’t spit his dummy out. A few seconds later he returned it, and a football match broke out. Brilliant man-management.

Now I’m not suggesting that officials working at the the top level of the game should pop into Mothercare to replenish their equipment on the way to a game, but what I am saying is that communication is an essential part of a referee’s kit.

That day, Paddy earned respect by disarming the dissenting player by his own means of communication. As players, we’re always told that referees are only human and make mistakes. Well, it’s the same for footballers. They want a little respect as well.

Talking of referees, time to get back to Saltash versus Odd Down. This ref stops the game yet again but this time for good reason. One of the visiting players is injured on the far side of the pitch and receiving treatment. The Ashes’ supporters are sympathetic to his plight.

-“The bridge is that way mate! Piss off home!”

There are two incidents in the game I recall more than any other. Callum Martindale had a chance to score. Having once more found space, the ball came his way. He was fifteen yards from goal but didn’t make a clean contact with his weaker foot and their goalkeeper saved it easily. I was so disappointed. How appropriate would it have been if Callum had scored the first goal of this cup run! After all, he was the reason I chose this game to start my path of destiny.

Strangely enough though it was the other Callum in the team who broke the deadlock to score the only goal of the game. Defender Callum O’Brien stepped forward for a succession of corner kicks and finally headed the ball towards goal. Somehow the ball landed in the back of the net via the goalkeeper’s legs, and red and white striped shirts joyfully converged on the unlikely goalscorer as mad celebrations took place by the corner flag. At first, I thought it was the captain and number nine Ryan Richards who’d scored but I only realised it was O’Brien’s goal when he ran back over the halfway line wearing a smile as wide as the River Tamar.

I’d left my glasses in the car so a lot of things on the pitch were a little blurred. It was obvious that I needed to wear glasses a few years before when after making an appointment with Specsavers, I walked into the wrong branch for the eye test!

The goal woke Odd Down from their lethargy and prompted them at last to attack. They create half chances for the remainder of the game, which was more than they had done in the previous seventy minutes. The game ended. Thanks to the Football Association doubling its prize money this season, Saltash received £2250. They needed it too. The pitch wasn’t the best and the whole ground needed more than a lick of paint. Odd Down received £750 just for turning up.

The Martindales hug. I shook Callum’s hand and told him “well played”. Previously, he’d played at a higher level for Taunton Town and at this standard, he positively shone.

The Father

Immediately after the game, John Martindale walks away from the ground and points out the state of the pitch I’d walked across earlier. Although it’s August and has hardly been used this season, the stage on which Saltash United’s junior team play is in poor condition. Owned by the local council, the grass is uncut, puddles gather in uneven goalmouths and the whole scene looks generally neglected. He tells me that this is a common theme in grass roots football and rather than some of the obscene amount of money generated at the top of the pyramid funding this level, youth teams are feeding on scraps.

A while later, John and I caught up over a couple of beers. He works for the Wrigleys factory in Plymouth and told me their social and sporting facilities are much better than anything you’d see at Kimberley Stadium. Wrigleys have enough employees to field football teams, but they know that if they pick up any injuries even while representing their employer, it might affect their staff bonus. However, their factory pitch is good enough to reduce any risk of injury as it’s regularly maintained.

You can’t point the finger at Saltash United FC for the state of these pitches as they’re struggling financially with the season-to-season costs of running a football club. If they’re averaging just under a hundred spectators every home game, then the fiver I paid to get in isn’t going to go far. Welcome to Planet Non-League. The further down the pyramid you go, the wider it gets, and the funding is drip fed amongst the immense number of amateur football clubs making up the foundations of the national game. The top of the pyramid represents a multi-billion hyped up global product existing through self-interest and pure greed; but it’s not illegal. It’s called business, and like any other industry, the small companies can only hope for huge windfalls which the FA Cup can bring.

When his two younger lads were picked to play for Plymouth Schoolboys, it was John and his wife Beverley who had to fund any trip they undertook. And what if they couldn’t come up with the money? Would that mean young talent being denied a chance to make it in a fast-growing pastime which we’re told is the best thing to keep kids off the street and stay on the right side of the law?

Sitting next to John was a chap called Darren Raven who was watching the game with his son Owen, currently on the books at Plymouth Argyle. Not for long though it seems. Apparently, Argyle haven’t got the set up or the investment required to sow seeds and reap the rewards from an academy system. Ridiculous when you think that they are the biggest football club in four counties, a large catchment area.

John told me about Brentford Football Club based in west London. It’s smaller than Plymouth Argyle historically, but are planning on moving to a bigger ground thanks to a thriving youth academy. It wasn’t the first time that I would hear praise about Brentford on my journey up the pyramid. As I found out later, they do things right there; a football club who realises that you can’t have a top without a bottom; but try telling that to The Football Association Premier League Ltd run by it’s twenty shareholders (i.e. the executives and directors of the Premiership clubs).

John, Bev and their sons Harvey & Brennan are holidaying abroad as from the next day, so they will miss Callum’s next Cup match in a fortnight. I promise I’ll keep him posted through the game.

And the father walks away, a very proud one.

As I approach the company car across the neglected pitch I see my favourite traffic warden is still patrolling his side of the street. He doesn’t say anything, just wears a smug fat look. I get into the driver’s seat, fasten the seatbelt and turn on the ignition. As I’ve now got more time for a bit of banter I decide that I should congratulate him on his country’s victory today over an English county. Down goes the electric window and I inform him that Cornwall have beaten England 1-0. He can’t hear me above the engine so I reckon sign language will be more appropriate. I give him the thumbs up and then gesture the final score. ONE (I extend the middle finger of one hand), NIL (I place my thumb across four folded fingers on the other hand whilst shuffling it to and fro near my mouth, moving using my tongue against the inside of my cheek in harmony with my hand, for a clearer message).

For some strange reason he looks angry, and being the brave invading warrior that I am, I pull away just as he’s waddling out of his precious driveway.

As I drive back into Devon across the Tamar Bridge (this time adhering to the Highway Code), I think about Plymouth Argyle and the lack of foresight they possess. To me it only makes sense that there should be a youth academy for so many reasons. For a start, they could recruit a whole generation of young talent from Cornwall, Devon, Dorset and Somerset. Seasoned professionals on the whole are reluctant to join Argyle for two reasons. Firstly, they like to mingle with players from other teams, but the nearest club is Exeter City forty miles away. Secondly, players hate travelling long distances for away games and Argyle cover more mileage than any other team in the country. Playing Bristol Rovers is a case in point. It’s one hundred and twenty miles away but still classed as a westcountry derby! Yet if Rovers travelled to the midlands to play Walsall for example, you’d never call that a local clash, but Walsall are much closer to Bristol than Plymouth is.

All the more reason to invest in youth. Local pride. According to the ‘Green Army’ every other supporter in England is a northern bastard, something to boast about apparently. Apart from being the most southerly and westerly professional team, another fact about Plymouth is that it’s the largest city in the United Kingdom never to have played in a top-flight division; and a big reason for that is in the previous paragraph.

Everyone in the game knows only too well the huge potential of Plymouth Argyle. But the answer doesn’t lie in paying out big money for players or even loaning them short term. Think long term. Think about the untapped talent in this huge area and invest in a scouting/coaching project. The proven talent will naturally follow later when it’s seen that the club is ambitious and going places. Don’t believe me? Then ask someone like Ian Holloway who left Argyle to manage Leicester City only to regret it for the rest of his managerial career.

1970 WINNERS – CHELSEA

John Martindale’s second favourite team is Chelsea. If you’re from Plymouth, chances are that you will follow a team from the top flight, simply because Argyle have never been there.

Chelsea from London’s West End have always been the glamour boys, even if their ground was falling to bits during the seventies. Flamboyant on and off the pitch, they rubbed shoulders with the likes of Hollywood beauty Raquel Welch.

In 1970, the FA Cup final was billed as glamour versus grit. Chelsea took on an uncompromising side from Yorkshire whose ruthless professionalism had struck fear into many an opponent and seemed to relish the fact they were hated. Leeds United took no prisoners. This wasn’t just a football match contested between two of England’s best teams of the day, this was a clash of cultures and style.

The name ‘Dirty Leeds’ which has stuck for decades has never done their talents justice. They could be nasty, yes. But they could play good football, and on their day they were brilliant. A deadly melting pot of physicality, cynicism, artistry and skill; a mixture of industry and invention. But for all their title challenges and Cup final appearances, they finished up as runners up more times than lifting silverware, which never mirrored the brilliance of their international players; possibly due to a manager who seemed more paranoid than charismatic. The phrase ‘always the bridesmaid never the bride’ could have been invented for Don Revie and his football family. A family looked upon as a Yorkshire mafia.

Leeds had their followers in Plymouth; a close friend of mine Steve Marshall for example. Four years older than me, he was one of an estimated twenty-eight million viewers to witness an epic Cup final in the three-channel era of BBC1, BBC2 and ITV. “The best team lost” he always tells me. I believe like so many other friends of my generation that when Steve saw his first final that year, he fell in love.

A close and mutual friend of ours is Sean Scott, another Chelsea fan. Born in 1968 he would be too young to watch this final, but being born and bred in Plymouth, once he was old enough to see a top team on TV he too was hooked. Your first team is always your favourite team, and there’s no going back.

For his fiftieth birthday, I bought Sean a replica 1970 Chelsea FA Cup winners retro shirt. On the morning of his half-century he texted me a message from Dubai where he was celebrating and simply said, ‘Awesome!’ I’ve never seen him wear it though!

Chelsea beat Leeds and lifted the Cup for the first time in their illustrious history after the first game at Wembley was drawn two goals each. The replay was held at Old Trafford in Manchester and this time ‘The Blues’ triumphed two goals to one in a bruising encounter. Striker Peter Osgood is still the last player to score in every round of the FA Cup after the introduction of level one clubs in the third round.

The state of the Wembley pitch for the first game was absolutely disgraceful. Back in the day, the Football Association didn’t own the stadium so they would hire it from the local council to stage not only its flagship game but also England internationals. A week before the final, the iconic twin towers of Wembley oversaw ‘The Horse of the Year’ show which left the place with hardly a blade of grass and a surface dominated by mud and sand. It made Victoria Park in Plymouth look like a bowling green in comparison and meant that the ball itself would act unpredictably. Skidding instead of bouncing just added to the drama. The ground beneath the players’ feet was constantly moving as they struggled to keep balance and poise. A magician of a footballer was Eddie Gray of Leeds who could make opponents disappear. He tortured the Chelsea defence that day with pacey and mesmerising runs on a surface that didn’t seem to bother him. It was football’s equivalent of walking on water in a show stealing performance. He didn’t deserve a loser’s medal.

And it wasn’t just the pitch that showed the ugly side of the game. Referees in this age would usually let the game flow as much as they could, enabling the hard men of the period to take advantage and kick lumps out of their opposite number. Most teams had at least one player who had attended the ‘if it moves then kick it’ school, and these two teams graduated with flying colours.

There was no love lost between two sides who couldn’t have approached the game more differently. ‘We respected them as professionals’ commented the systematic Leeds players. The feeling wasn’t mutual. ‘Hate. Pure fucking hate. There’s no other word for it’ the Blues corner stated.

Almost three decades later, an experienced referee was asked to review the 1970 final on video. His damning verdict was twenty yellow cards and six red. Compare that to just one booking on the day itself!

The most serious crimes witnessed from the Royal Box included punching, head butting and the odd Kung Fu kick. The good old days eh?

The day after Saltash eliminated Odd Down, I checked the FA website to see where the next leg of my adventure would take me. This is where the fun begins. Where Saltash United go, I will follow. To my surprise, the draw has been pre-determined as the competition is still in the preliminary stage and … I’m on my way to Westbury in Wiltshire. Conveniently a no change direct journey from Plymouth Train Station. So, late one afternoon as I was in the city centre, I decided to buy a ticket there and then. The lady behind the glass partition looked tired, no doubt from carrying out her tedious duties all day long.

- “I’d like a return ticket please”

- “Where to?” she sighs.

- “Back here of course!”

It seems the old jokes aren’t the best ones, as her bored rolling eyes suggest.

Chapter Two

TALES OF THE WHITE HORSE

What have the town of Westbury and Wembley Stadium got in common? Both places were built on legends of a white horse.

If you’ve ever headed east on a train journey from Somerset and into Wiltshire, the first stop is Westbury. On leaving the station take a look at the rolling hills of Salisbury Plain on your right and you’ll see a magnificent chalked white horse carved into the countryside. It’s not known for sure of either its origins or age, but there are plenty of theories why the Anglo-Saxon town is represented by this iconic symbol.

Overlooking one corner of the ground that is home to Westbury United Football Club the ‘Westbury White Horse’ to give it its official title is both loved and worshipped in this green and pleasant part of England.

During the country’s notable 2018 World Cup run, two large red ribbons were placed overnight both vertically and horizontally onto the heraldic landmark, depicting the St George Cross measuring the proud and patriotic feeling sweeping the nation. The locals were obviously amused but the town elders reacted angrily. Incensed by what they saw as an act of vandalism and not just a mischievous bit of fun, the police were summoned to seek out the perpetrators but gladly to no avail.

The horse is symbolic of battles past (apart from playing Croatia in a semi-final) when it was believed that if your enemy spotted a white one in the midst of a battle, death would certainly follow.

Westbury United are therefore known as the ‘White Horse Men’, playing at level nine in the pyramid and slight favourites against Saltash in the next preliminary round of the Cup. At this infant stage, all games are regional which saves on travelling costs for the away team and boosts local interest and therefore generates a sizeable attendance. That’s the theory anyway.

A week before the game, I leave a message on the club’s answering machine requesting an interview with a member of staff or player for the purposes of this book. I receive a call from a chap called Greg Coulson, chairman of Westbury United who doubles up as secretary to save costs. It’s a similar picture when running a local parks team at the base of the pyramid, where sponsorship is the name of the game for the working-class player and money isn’t the be all and end all. He kindly agrees to give me a few minutes of his busy schedule before the game, which I’m grateful for.

On the same weekend Manchester City lay down a marker for this season’s domestic domination by thrashing Huddersfield Town six goals to one. The result triggers something in my mind’s eye. 6-1 against Huddersfield in August brings back sweet memories of an era when watching Plymouth Argyle was the one constant in life; singing, chanting and celebrating in the Lyndhurst Road End at Home Park after the few obligatory pints. And in the eighties there was plenty to cheer about.

Some of us enjoyed Saturday lunchtime in the Noah’s Ark pub, sinking lager and then rushing to get into the ground with minutes to spare. The Lyndhurst stand ran the length of the pitch opposite the player’s tunnel and the team would be greeted with an explosion of green and white as they entered our back garden. In an era before you were forced to sit in plastic seats on a cold day, you were part of a choir that harmonized in ‘janner’ tones, swaying and jumping to the beat of The Pilgrim’s attack. At times it felt as if we were winning before the game had even started, and who stood with me in this raucous green church? John Martindale! Along with Mark Ross and Steve Vaughan, the four of us became virtually inseparable for a while,the pre match drink was just a dress rehearsal for Saturday night’s main event.

There were pockets of estate lads on that side of the ground, each group proud of the area he lived in and even prouder of the City he hailed from; Efford over here, Eggbuckland just over there, Devonport on our right and Honicknowle at the back. The four of us got to know the faces of the Eggbuckland lads who drank in a pub called The Mermaid, just a few years after the older generations of our neighbouring pissing grounds would have been at each other’s throats. In these heady days of competing (and winning) in level two of our national structure however we all got along as we verbally took on the so-called bigger clubs of Leeds, Sunderland and Birmingham. Singing as one, the crowd you were part of became the much clichéd twelfth man, forerunners of the now famous Green Army which today travels the length and breadth of the Football League in their thousands.

To this day, someone I would never have met if it wasn’t for Argyle such as Kev Wheeler from The Mermaid will still shake hands wherever and whenever I bump into him. The bond is still there after celebrating and sometimes suffering in an alcohol fuelled haze with the rest of the Lyndhurst lads.

On this particular day, we were definitely celebrating. I’d seen Argyle smash six goals past the opposition before and a few more followed, but this game sticks out more because of an impromptu free gig we gave the rest of the ground including a coachload of Huddersfield supporters.

Argyle were cruising towards victory when a Mermaid regular called Andy Collins decided to start singing non-football songs. He was the sort of bloke who on entering a pub would at first ignore the bar and instead head straight for the jukebox. Didn’t matter if it was U2, UB40 or Ultravox, Andy had a love for a broad range of music.

For some reason, his opening number was ‘I’m Still Waiting’ by Diana Ross but this didn’t quite catch on despite our mellow and merry state. His second choice though ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ produced a brilliant vocal performance by our choir which in this day and age would have even left Simon Cowell impressed.

‘Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy? Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality …’

The most impressive thing of this version of Queen’s classic isn’t how a load of half pissed football fans stayed in tune, but actually remembering all of the operatic lyrics.

‘Mama, just killed a man. Put a gun against his head. Pulled my trigger now he’s dead …’

And then one of the deadliest goalscorers in English football pulled his trigger to kill off Huddersfield. Tommy Tynan, assassin extraordinaire, scored a shedload of goals for Argyle, but none as good as this one. Controlling the ball on his chest from a long clearance he was all alone near the halfway line. Quickly engaged by two defenders he turned with the ball and dribbled past the first before sidestepping the second. Thirty-five yards from goal and intelligent enough to realise his average pace couldn’t outrun the recovering defence (the one reason he couldn’t get a regular place in Liverpool’s great side where he learned his trade), he struck the ball powerfully into the roof of Huddersfield’s goal. Spectacular doesn’t even come close to describing this awesome shot. Both arms typically raised in the air triumphantly, he ran towards us in the Lyndhurst milking the astonishment and sheer joy his amazing goal had made us feel.

It was almost an act of defiance. ‘Bored are you lads? Singing pop songs from years ago are we? Okay, I’ll just go and score one of the best goals of my career just to get your mind back on the game’.

A few minutes later the football crowd’s cheers die down and the choir continues its gig.

‘I see a little silhouette of a man. Scaramouch, Scaramouch will you do the Fandango. Thunderbolt and Lightning very, very frightening me …’

Argyle score another almost immediately. It’s a rout.

‘Galileo, Galileo, Galileo, Galileo, Galileo, Figaro, magnifico…’

And how can you possibly have a medley without including The Beatles?

‘Weeee all live in a yelluh submareeeeen, yelluh submareeeeen, yelluh submareeeeen …’

Of course, it’s much easier to sing when you’re winning, and when you’re standing. Two years before the Hillsborough tragedy claimed 96 innocent lives, most football supporters stood to watch a game and did so safely. It’s become official now of the sheer injustice that happened before, during and especially after that awful event. But all those years ago, all football fans up and down the country knew the truth. We weren’t listening to the lying police or reading what the shithouses printed in The Sun newspaper. We didn’t need enquiry after enquiry and the people of Merseyside shouldn’t have had to wait thirty years for a Government apology. We knew what had happened. We trusted the system but the system despised us.

Hillsborough was a result of authorities treating us like cattle, herding us from pen to pen. We were tarred with the same brush ever since the 1960’s when football hooliganism first reared its ugly pathetic head. Nothing was ever done to stamp out the violence, simply because the law and the courts which represent it are too soft on crime, so the footballing bodies and football clubs had just one option open to them. They fenced us in. That tragedy was waiting to happen. There were near fatalities in the previous two decades but no one took any notice. We had no voice. We were sub-human. The Prime Minister at the time, Margaret Thatcher, voiced her concern that Her Majesty’s finest would shoulder the blame and whether she ordered a cover up or not isn’t really known. What we do know because it came to light years later, is that the officers on duty that day falsified their notes, and guess who got the blame? We did. We were drunken violent louts who got what we deserved. Welcome to Planet Power Abuse.

1923 WINNERS – BOLTON WANDERERS

Also known as ‘The White Horse Final’ 1923 was the first year that the newly built Wembley Stadium hosted the Cup final. It’s also become the first nostalgic look back of so many footballing folklores in the World’s most famous sporting venue, but it almost became the first spectator disaster that would have eclipsed the Hillsborough tragedy.

In a stadium designed to hold one hundred thousand people the Football Association decided it was a waste of time making it an all-ticket affair as they estimated only half of that number turning up; but they reckoned without the fascination and national pride. The Empire Stadium at Wembley was the latest and grandest structure to be built as part of The Great British Exhibition, which celebrated the country’s glorious industrial achievements at a time when we owned a quarter of the globe.