Feed the Goat E-Book

David Clayton

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 365

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The inspirational tale of a universally respected player who refused to give up on his dream. Shaun Goater was signed by Alex Ferguson almost as a political pawn after a Manchester United tour of Bermuda went disastrously wrong. He never made it with United and instead moved on to Rotherham. Undeterred by homesickness and the Yorkshire weather, he became a huge favourite at Millmoor before moving to Bristol City, where his goalscoring exploits endeared him to the fans and caught the eye of Man City manager Joe Royle. He won over the doubters at City, who had seen him only as a journeyman striker bought to plug a gap. Within a year, he'd become a cult figure and his knack of poaching goals soon gave rise to one of the best modern-day terrace chants 'Feed the Goat and he will score'. Season after season, the bond between player and supporters grew and his name was etched into City folklore. He was captain for their last match at Maine Road before joining Reading. His career stalled with the Royals when manager Alan Pardew left a few weeks after Goater's arrival and Steve Coppell took over. He went out on loan to Coventry before Southend United rescued him at the start of their highly successful 2005/06 season.

Leseprobe

This book was first published in 2006 by Sutton Publishing

This edition first published in 2007 by

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

Copyright © Shaun Goater and David Clayton, 2006

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher and copyright holders.

Shaun Goater and David Clayton hereby assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978-0-7509-9741-6

Typeset in 11/15 pt Photina.

Typesetting and origination by

Sutton Publishing Limited.

Printed and bound in England.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword by Joe Royle

  1. The Pond Dog

  2. Opportunity Knocks

  3. Cold Trafford

  4. The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore

  5. Bristol Fashion

  6. A Tale of Two Cities

  7. Blue Murder

  8. ScapeGoat?

  9. The Incredibles!

10. From Zero to Hero

11. Proving a Point

12. Wolves at the Door

13. Record Breakers

14. Who Let the Goat Out?

15. Keegan Gets His Wish

16. A Member of the Royal Family

17. Sent to Coventry

18. Thanks for the Cheers, the Privileges and the Adrenalin Rush

19. Cheeseburgers and Dirty Nappies – Adventures with the National Team

20. The Next Chapter: Looking Forward

This book is dedicated to my grandmother, the late Dorothy Dillon.She saw the beginning, the middle and I wish she could have been here to see the end of my career.Rest in Peace, Momma.

Acknowledgements

When I was first asked by my publisher to put my autobiography together my thoughts went to the ups and downs of my career, from the early days playing at the Desert Field in Bermuda, to the Wembley Finals and derby games at Maine Road and Old Trafford. I am proud of my achievements and the desire and strength of mind it has required along the way. One thing is for certain, you cannot succeed in any industry without the love, support and guidance of people along the way.

First and foremost I would like to say thank you to my mother, Lynette Goater, for her love and support from, as she tells me, the age of two, telling me I would be a great footballer. Thanks are due to many others, too.

To my grandmother, the late Dorothy Dillon, who was the rock of the Goater family and who said to me, ‘Whatever the future holds, always stay humble as the Lord can take it all away’, words I have never forgotten. To my sister, Juanita, who is always supportive, even though she doesn’t like football!

To Russell Calvin Smith, my stepfather, for his continual support through my career. To my extended Goater family for always wishing me well and being there.

To Andrew Bascome, who has been my inspiration, mentor and a father figure to me. To the late Bernice Bascome and her grandsons and my good friends Herbie Jr and David Bascome for making their home feel like mine when I needed it.

Harold ‘Dock’ Dowling, Leroy ‘Poker’ Augustus and Woolly Wendall Baxter – youth coaches at North Village – thank you for all your advice and knowledge in the earlier years.

To the Bermuda Football Association for their continual support over the years.

To Mark Trott for writing that letter to Manchester United FC.

Thank you Joe Royle, for giving me the opportunity at a wonderful club, for having belief in my abilities and in me, and for providing the foreword to this book.

To Willie Donachie, who was instrumental in improving my game.

To Paul Connor, my sports physiologist, who helped me through the tough times at Manchester City – you taught me how to be mentally stronger when I most needed it.

To Billy McEwan for giving me a second chance at being a professional footballer and for giving me the chance to learn about English football.

To John Ward, former manager of Bristol City, who was a great man-manager, and the man who knew how to get the best out of me.

Many thanks to Terry Connor for making strikers’ shooting sessions insightful and fun at Bristol City.

To Steve Tilson and Paul Brush, who convinced me to play one final year with Southend and for allowing me to be myself and play with the energy and enthusiasm I naturally carry with me.

Thank you to all the fans at all the clubs I represented, but especially the Manchester City fans for their love and unbelievable support – they have given me many precious moments through the years and, trust me, I’m City till I die!

To David Clayton for never giving up trying to persuade me to write this book and for turning my voice into written words.

Thanks to Paul Dickov for helping me turn around my career at City – that boy has the heart of a lion and I’m delighted to see him back at City again.

To Lawrence Trott for encapsulating my thoughts and views so succinctly over the years he interviewed me for the Royal Gazette. He wrote things the way I wanted them to be and there was never an agenda with him – and for that I’m eternally grateful.

To my agent, friend and mentor Mark Georgevic for all the good advice through the years and to his family for understanding the long hours we sometimes spent on the phone.

To my mate, Kyle Lightbourne, who motivated me through our personal goal scoring battles while in the lower divisions and to his wife Rosemarie, who has been a good friend of my wife and me through the years.

Finally, to my wife, Anita, and my daughters Amaya and Anais – thank you for your loving support through all the ups and downs of my career over the years and for assuring me that love at home is unconditional.

Shaun Goater

June 2006

Foreword

I first saw Shaun Goater play in 1990 when Rotherham United reserves mauled my Oldham Athletic reserve side on the sloping pitch at Millmoor. I made a mental note to keep an eye on the gangly striker up front, who was chasing every lost cause and generally out-battling our back four. I could not help but be impressed by his honesty and willingness to go in where it hurts. I would, however, admit that at this stage there was no great hint as to the future goal machine that Leonardo Shaun Goater would become – in fact it took him five seasons to get into double figures as a scorer. But once he started he never stopped.

The next step for Shaun took him to one of my old clubs, Bristol City. The £175,000 that they invested in him will count as one of the best pieces of business they ever did. I always kept in touch with Shaun’s progress through an old friend from my playing days at Bristol, Chris Garland. Every other week Chris would ring and tell me of Shaun’s progress and the scoring charts confirmed what I was being told.

Deadline day in 1997 saw me as the new manager at Manchester City, desperately looking for a goalscorer to keep the ailing Sky Blues in the First Division. Shaun came to mind and after protracted negotiations we signed the likeable Bermudian for £400,000 – as good a £400,000 as I have ever spent.

I went to dinner in Manchester the night before signing Shaun and bumped into Sir Alex Ferguson. I told Sir Alex of my intention of signing Shaun, who had been released by Manchester United as a young man. The soccer peer was unequivocal in his praise and tipped Shaun to be a big success. He was right!

Shaun carried on scoring of course, and three goals in seven games confirmed that his scoring touch had not deserted him. However, he had not arrived in time to save us from the drop.

It is no secret that Shaun’s all-action galloping style was not instantly endearing to the Maine Road faithful, bred on a diet of Rodney Marsh, Colin Bell, Francis Lee et al., but the best fans in the business always loved a trier, and boy, was Shaun a trier!

The following two campaigns were promotion seasons and the doubters were dispelled as the natural charm and honesty on and off the pitch led to the chant ‘Feed the Goat and he will score’, and score he did, at the prodigious rate of just under a goal every two games.

I often tell my players that one of the best feelings in life is to prove people wrong. These early doubters of Shaun must cringe when reminded of his status now as a Manchester City legend.

Those who met Shaun at supporters’ clubs all over Lancashire have been charmed by the natural smile and honesty of the big Bermudian.

I know that Shaun finished his career down at Southend recently. They too have come to love ‘The Goat’, and it is no coincidence that, in his only season at Roots Hall, they won promotion.

A career that started slowly and climaxed at Manchester City means that Shaun will never be forgotten when goalscorers are talked about. Well done Shaun, and thank you from just one of your grateful managers. I wish you, Anita and your children all the best back on your beautiful island; I am sure that another successful career awaits you there. ‘The Goat’ for Prime Minister? Don’t bet against it!

Joe Royle

May 2006

ONE

The Pond Dog

Far from the idyllic images of white sand and aqua-coloured waters, my earliest memories of growing up in Bermuda are a million miles from the picture-postcard images most people have of my home island. Following the assassination of the Bermudian governor Richard Sharples in 1973, there were large-scale riots in and around my home town of Hamilton, the capital, and as mobs wandered the streets smashing windows and torching public buildings, a four-year-old Leonardo Shaun Goater was smack bang in the middle of the unrest, excited by all the commotion though not actually involved.

So for all those who imagined my early days were spent lying on a beach with a fishing rod in one hand and a cool drink in the other, think again – and there was no affluent sea-front home for the Goater family, either. We lived on Court Street, right in the heart of the ghetto, next to the Spinning Wheel nightclub, which is still going strong today. We had a yard, but in truth the whole of Court Street was my yard – I knew everyone and everything on my little bit of turf, and though it probably stretched no more than a few hundred yards in either direction, it was my world and I loved it.

During the riots many roads were blocked by burned-out wrecks and cars sped past our house at all hours, often loaded with planks of wood, bricks and anything else that could be used to cause damage. I even saw the odd machete – but thankfully no guns – and even an impressionable young kid like me could see that the guys were intent on causing some serious damage. There was one occasion I remember vividly because I had strayed too close to the action and was affected by a tear-gas canister fired by the police. My eyes were stinging and I couldn’t see a thing, and although I could hear my mum shouting to me from down the street, I thought, ‘Yeah, but what are these guys up to and what are they going to do next?’

At that age it’s all a game, but the neighbourhood guys were always looking out for me and they knew where to draw the line. If I was too near danger, they’d turn around and say ‘Shaun, it’s time to go home – you need to go now’, and mostly I followed their advice – mostly! Even the so-called bad guys knew that kids needed to be kept away from anything underhand, and they made sure you were ushered away if you got too close. Maybe that was the big difference between then and now. Right up to the age of 12 all the other kids I knew who grew up with me were kept out of harm’s way as much as possible.

My granny – Dorothy Dillon – was a popular and respected figure in our neighbourhood and I believe that’s why the older guys used to make sure I didn’t become involved in anything I shouldn’t. I think they knew that if I had come to any harm they would have had to answer first to her, and then to my mum, and then to my aunts – and only a fool would risk the wrath of those ladies! People who were probably into drugs, stealing and other types of activities the police would have been interested in knew where to draw the line, and so, while I may have witnessed things most kids of that age would not normally have seen, it was always from a distance. If anyone did try to sell weed in the alley that ran down the side of Granny’s house she’d be out in a flash to tell them in no uncertain terms what she’d do if they didn’t take a walk, and I can assure you they walked away every time and didn’t try again.

My granny was a large, heavy-set lady and was in her mid-forties around the time of the unrest, and she was also at the height of her powers. When she raised her voice everyone listened – and she could make the house rattle if she was aiming a verbal volley at somebody. The house where I lived in Court Street was hers, and along with my mum, Lynette Goater, there was my aunt Idae Mae and another of my mum’s sisters, known as Mama Julie. I also had cousins who lived there or stayed a short while, and at times it was hard to keep track of who was stopping over and who was living there, but I loved it because it was always a happy place to be, and exciting. The house was the centre of the Goater family’s world; friends and neighbours would stop by, or if it was late, family members would sleep over.

It was also a place where relatives stayed when they were trying to get on their feet. When their fortunes improved they’d move out and find their own home. My mum and I moved in and out a couple of times over the years, but no matter where we went my granny’s house was always there for us and felt like home. I remember the fantastic parties she used to hold there, too. There were so many people there you’d have thought they were block parties. She would sometimes ask me to dance in the middle of the room and I and my cousins, who had one or two fancy moves up our sleeves, lapped it up. The parties would go on into the early hours of the morning and for me, aged five or six, it was normal to stay up, trying to join in the fun. Of course my mum or aunts would tell me it was time to go to bed and I’d say, ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m going up now’, before sneaking back into the midst of everything.

There was no time to watch TV back then, because there was always something going on – that is, unless my mum and granny were watching the late afternoon American soaps. Man, they didn’t budge until those shows were over – and some of them seemed to go on for ever!

During the day it seemed as though the whole neighbourhood would stop by to say ‘Hello’ and have a chat, and of course everybody knew me because I was ‘connected’ to the Godmother! In fact, I believe the only difference between Don Corleone and my granny was that if she had ordered a professional hit it would have been with a well-aimed slipper, rather than with a revolver.

Financially my mum and I didn’t have much, and I suppose we were a working-class family, but I have nothing but happy memories of those days on Court Street. When we moved out for the first time it was only a couple of blocks, to an area known as Happy Valley.

At this point you may be wondering why I’ve not mentioned my dad, and the answer is fairly simple: he was not around, and it would be almost twenty years before I knew for sure who he was. He is not even mentioned on my birth certificate and from the day I was born my mum raised me on her own. She was 22 when she had me, and all through my early years I lived with my mum, granny, aunts and cousins. Not knowing or seeing my dad was not a big deal for me because I’d never known anything different. I never asked my mum ‘Who is my daddy?’ because all my cousins were in the same boat, none of their dads was around, it was perfectly normal and there was no stigma at all. I was not down and out, I was healthy, I had food and clothes and I was happy with my lot. I was okay, and if my dad was not around, so what? That’s how I felt, and I can’t say I have changed right up to this day. Certainly I didn’t get everything I ever wanted, but everything I ever needed – like football boots, or my first bike – I got. Sometimes I would say to my mum, ‘Hey, I want that’, or ‘I really need this’, and she would reply, ‘No, no, no, you don’t really need it and you ain’t getting it, I can’t afford it’, and I would get over it. But she always found the money for the things that she knew would enrich my life or help me develop.

My mum worked around the clock to bring in enough money for us to live a comfortable life. Her main job was at the Bermudiana Hotel in Hamilton. Many of my family used to work in the hotel trade, often as housemaids. I could turn up at my mum’s place of work and the chances were that I would see someone I knew or was related to, so tracking her down was never a problem. My aunts Pam, Julie and Maxine and my uncle Clyde always seemed to be working at the same place as my mum – it was definitely a family business. Mum was always a popular figure, because apart from being a good-hearted and happy woman, she was a mean pool player, and also a good footballer! She was as competitive a person as you are ever likely to meet and in later years her first words during a transatlantic phone call would be, ‘Did you win?’ So you could say the secret of my success can be traced back to my mum and her career with the Bermudian Cosmos – named after their idols, the New York Cosmos, whom mum watched on TV whenever she had the chance.

I was playing football myself by this time and spent a lot of time with the Caisey brothers, Albert and Clinton. Albert was one of the best left-backs of his day and on a typical afternoon we would chill out at their house and then go and play football for a few hours on the nearby field. We’d play various skills games – one-touch, two-touch or keep-ups – and cricket until the sun went down.

Mum often worked two shifts at the Bermudiana Hotel – one during the day and another in the evening, as a waitress. She worked there for fifteen or twenty years, pretty much all through my formative years, in fact. If she worked late, I’d stay at my granny’s – where else?

When I was around 9 years old we moved out to West Pembroke, about a five-minute car ride from Court Street but still considered ‘town’ – and a real journey for Bermudians when you consider the island’s size! We moved to Marsh Folly when I was about 10 and again mum would work late. As I got a little older I’d be on my own, sometimes until about ten o’clock at night, but I’d stay up until she came home because she would bring back something nice for me to eat – steak or fish from the hotel – and it was a treat I looked forward to. She always cooked something for me to eat before she went to work, but I would always save room for the hotel food and I’d say, ‘Yeah, that’s fine and I’ll eat it, but bring me home some steak, mama!’ I told my friends, ‘Yeah, my mama can cook really well – we eat steak every night!’

Living in Marsh Folly had a major impact on my life because it was here that I became good friends with Andrew Bascome, who would eventually, in my opinion, become Bermuda’s best footballer. He became my mentor and, in many ways, a father-figure, even though he was only about six years older than me. I first met Andrew at West Pembroke as I walked to Victor Scott primary school. I had been kicking a tin along the street, doing the odd step-over here and there, and I had seen Andrew a couple of times on the journey when, one morning, he came over and said, ‘Come on then kid, what have you got for me?’ urging me to take him on with the tin can. I took up the challenge, and started to look forward to our daily little battles. When we moved to Marsh Folly we discovered that the Bascome family lived virtually next door – and I suppose you could argue that destiny was already edging me down a particular path. I soon became close friends with Andrew and his brothers, Herbie Jr and David, and I suppose it was my good fortune that they were all talented footballers.

David was closer to me in age so we soon became good friends and from the age of about 11 we became best mates. By this point I was immersed in football, as well as cricket, and I was determined to show Andrew and his brothers what I was made of. I might not have had any blood brothers of my own, but these guys felt like family, and in retrospect the Bascome brothers were crucial to my future in the game. They loved football and cricket, and there was always an enjoyable edge to our knockabouts on the field. I still saw my old friends from Court Street from time to time, but I was now immersed in football and as time went on I saw my old buddies less and less.

David had been brought up by his granny and was more disciplined than many kids of his age – including me. He had to do his household chores before he could play out on the field, and if we were out there playing football five days out of seven David would be at home for maybe two days doing chores for his granny. As for me, I played every day and you couldn’t have kept me away if you had tried.

I remember that one day I asked David’s granny if it would be okay to sleep over and she said, ‘Of course’. My mum was happy with that, but then it was only three doors away. From then on I stayed over a lot, just hanging out with the boys, playing football and cricket. Sometimes we would go down and play with the Caisey brothers, but if David’s mum said he couldn’t we would knock the ball around his yard.

We would go and watch David’s brothers playing for local league side North Village. They were in the junior team; Andrew was in a class of his own, while Herbie was a fair player, too. Andrew was an intelligent boy and attended one of the best schools in Bermuda. He would tell David things such as ‘Remember who you are and who you represent; don’t go out without combing your hair; tuck your shirt in; make sure your shoes are clean’. He was a parental figure for David, and as I got older he became more of a father-figure in my life, too. He not only influenced my football but helped shape me into the man I am today. He was a perfect role-model for any young boy.

When his young brother Herbie grew his hair into dreads, Andrew would say, ‘You don’t want to be having dreads, it looks untidy – come on, comb your hair’; but funnily enough in later years Andrew grew his hair into dreads too, and with that hairstyle comes a lot of baggage, in that people perceive you to be a certain type, and think, ‘Oh, he must smoke weed and do this or that’. I only know the role-model who was there for me when I needed a little guidance, and that’s the Andrew I always think of.

Back home my mum had started seeing a guy called Russell Calvin Smith, and a few years later he fathered a little girl, my sister Juanita. I was a teenager when she arrived but I could not have been prouder to have a baby sister, and I decided I would be big brother and, when needed, father-figure and mentor for her. If my baby sister needed me I was always there because I never saw it as a chore. After a couple of years we were on the move again, this time to Warwick. Mum still had to work. On Sundays she was out for as much as three hours and I would do my share of babysitting.

I was around 14 at this point, and I always made sure that I went out and played football into the early evening. I was an independent kid and, as much as I was still a mama’s boy, I was happy to take care of myself and hang out with my friends. If it wasn’t sport of one kind or another I would be out skateboarding or on my bike. I was a mean skateboarder and we skated down Pond Hill at speed and did jumps off small hills. Being ‘Pond Dogs’ – the slang term for people who lived or were raised in the area around the city dump known to one and all as ‘the Pond’ – my friends and I couldn’t always afford to buy BMXs, Mobylettes or the other popular bikes of the day, so made our own from spare parts we found at the dump – chains, seats and wheels, anything we could adapt into a racing machine. People would throw away some amazing stuff and there were always plenty of bits lying around – and the bikes we made were fast, too.

Sometimes we would use a Chopper wheel at the front and a Mobilette wheel – a big, heavy motorbike wheel – at the back, and that made the bike better for racing down hills. We would reach fair speeds and had guys at the bottom of the hill stopping traffic so that we had a clear, safe run – it also helped having no brakes to call upon! We didn’t see any danger in it and we held challenges between kids from different areas, racing on different tracks and representing our street or village. We literally lived by the seat of our pants and were into everything, although we never progressed beyond the mischievous. If we wanted to go fishing down by the harbour we would jump over the bakery wall, grab a tray of stale bread that was waiting to be thrown away, and then go fishing at places where we had seen schools of fish – snappers and bream. They would swim in front of the ships docked at Hamilton Harbour, in water illuminated to a depth of 100ft by the ships’ lights. We would drop our lines down, and despite the fish being so big I couldn’t catch a bloody thing, yet my friends could catch anything.

That, along with swimming and the occasional cliff diving over at North Shore and the Ducking Stool, was what the majority of kids did in Bermuda, and although our geographical surroundings were undoubtedly beautiful they made no real impression on us because that was all we had ever known. The sun shone constantly, the sea was blue and crystal clear, and it was our home. We used to see the big liners dock in the harbour and unload wealthy tourists in their hundreds. The wealth gauge for the locals was that if you shopped on Front Street you had money. I recall that my mum took me out to dinner one time at Elbow Beach Hotel, an affluent hotel out on Bermuda’s south shore and I wore my school uniform in order to look smart, so you can probably guess that we never shopped on Front Street.

Tourists are part of life on the island and I can remember leaning on the harbour wall on one occasion, staring up at a huge ship and thinking, ‘Yeah, I’d like to cruise over to New York on that one day’. Then I could shout down at the people and say ‘Hey! I’m up here, see you in a few weeks, I’m off to New York City!’ The visitors were good for Bermuda’s economy and they were the reason many locals had jobs. When my mum did waitress work in the evenings, it was the tips of affluent Americans that helped boost her wages. I just hoped one day I could help her.

I suppose there is one thing I should touch upon before closing this chapter, because it is something Bermudians are constantly asked about – the Bermuda Triangle. So far as the islanders are concerned it just doesn’t exist. My granny went to America once or twice and she used to tell me, ‘Well, I’m still here and I flew right through it’. If you asked the locals about the Triangle they’d just say, ‘You got here okay, didn’t you?’ The mystery for which my home is perhaps most famed only seems to fascinate people outside Bermuda.

TWO

Opportunity Knocks

Until I moved to England I had hardly heard of Clyde Best. Best was one of the first black players really to make an impression in English football, and he became a popular figure for West Ham United in the early 1970s. You would think that Bermuda’s first really successful football export would be a legendary figure and a household name back home, but that was not the case at all.

There were stars who played for various Bermudian league clubs, and I knew who they were. For instance, I knew the big names who played for Somerset – Clyde Best’s team when he was based on the island, though this was a few years after he’d left for England. Watching Andrew Bascome play regularly for North Village, I learned who the really talented players were – the guys who turned on the style for the First Division clubs and also represented Bermuda at international level. Yet I wasn’t aware of our most successful export until I came to England. People would say, ‘You must know Clyde Best’, and they were taken aback when I replied, ‘Who is Clyde Best?’ The reason was partly to do with the lack of media coverage at the time, but also because he never came home until the late 1990s.

When he left England he moved to America and it was only later, around 1997, that he came home, but by that point I had been in England for eight years and both Kyle Lightbourne and my best mate David Bascome, who was playing in the indoor league for Harrisburg Heat, were also doing well, so the focus and attention he might have received had shifted onto us. He managed to get some kids out on community programmes, but this was more likely because their parents knew who he was and what he had done in the past, and the fact remained that he was more famous in England than in Bermuda.

My early football heroes were Andrew Bascome, Ralph ‘Gumbo’ Bean, Woolly Baxter, Joe Trott, and Parks and Punchie Dill. These were the North Village stars, and they were entertainers. It was a great era for Bermudian football and I was really lucky to be around at a time when my own career was just beginning to show promise. Had Andrew not been a mentor for me I would have had another seven to choose from, because North Village was blessed with great players.

This was a time when Bermuda would easily beat the USA in international matches, as well as many of the Caribbean sides. Footballers from the island played for teams such as New York Cosmos. Sam Neusun was a goalkeeper who played in the same team as Pele, and he incurred the great man’s wrath by holding on to the ball too long. ‘He can’t play in goal,’ Pele had said, ‘he needs to give the ball to us!’

All young players had mentors in that golden era of Bermudian football, whether they played for St George’s, Somerset or North Village – Kyle Lightbourne had a mentor, Marichal ‘Mop’ Astwood, at Pembroke Hamilton Club (PHC), a team based in Warwick. It wasn’t hard to find a role-model back then, and I would play for the North Village minors and then for the bantams on a Saturday morning. Then, if the junior team only had a dozen players, I might get a place on the subs’ bench and that was a real privilege – mixing with the big boys!

I would watch Andrew and Herbie Bascome play for the juniors; Andrew was easily good enough to play professionally. But at that time, even to suggest leaving Bermuda was considered nothing short of certifiable. People would say, ‘What? You’re leaving Bermuda and going into the big world? You must be crazy.’ I think that was enough to deter Andrew from pursuing his career overseas. He could have signed for a professional club in Mexico, but if he had gone I think he would have been homesick. He was the best talent of his age without a doubt.

There was no national stadium as such in those days, and Bermuda played on a field with a large hill at one side, packed with spectators – maybe up to 7,000 on certain occasions, not bad for a country with only 60,000 inhabitants. North Village would average around 1,500 fans, although nowadays you would be lucky to have 200 people watching, because interest has waned and the league needs a bit of a shake-up.

I began my association with North Village at the age of 8 and the coach at the time, Harold ‘Dock’ Dowling, would say to me, ‘Done your homework yet, Shaun?’ and even if I said ‘Yes’, he would say, ‘I can tell you haven’t just by the way you answered – go home and do your homework’, and he would send us away until he was certain we had. He was a tough disciplinarian and I would be sick if I missed training, but he was just doing the right thing. When we trained my friends and I would stay and play football until everyone else had gone home and it would be David Bascome, the Caisey brothers and me turning off the lights at the end. We would practise different tricks, one-on-ones and anything we could do, to improve our game, just because we loved playing so much. The coach would shout, ‘Okay you guys, pack up, it’s time to go’, and we would tell him we’d switch everything off and jump the fence to get out. He would smile, shake his head and lock up.

We trained at a field known as the Desert, right next to the Pond – in fact the Desert is now part of the city dump. It was dry and bobbly, but to us it was a field of dreams because we knew the bounces, slopes and other anomalies. In later years I would look at its brutal surface and wonder how I ever managed to play on it at all. Maybe my knack for scoring from anywhere in the box with any part of my anatomy developed because I looked for the unpredictable and had learned how to deal with it – and that is how the legend of the ‘Goater clean strike’ was born!

One of my earliest memories as a player is of representing my school team and my mum standing on the sidelines shouting, ‘Give the ball to my son! He’ll win the game for you – give it to Shaun!’ I asked her to be a little more discreet (‘Mama, please be quiet!’) but I think I scored four goals in that game, and she was unrepentant, saying, ‘See, just give the ball to my son and he’ll score’. Perhaps this was an early version of ‘Feed the Goat’?

In later years, when I was around 15, I wanted to play in North Village’s first team but was not allowed to because of my age, so I took part in what we called backyard kicks when there was no training scheduled. These free-for-alls took place at Bernard’s Park, which is another field adjacent to the Pond and pretty well anybody could take part in these games; if you wanted, you could pull your car over and just join in a game of shirts and skins with players of all ages, although at that time they were mostly older than me. There were four main characters that stood out in these kick-abouts, including a guy known as Geese, but to us he was like Maradona – tricky and skilful. Ting was a no-nonsense tough guy who would come in hard, leave you crumpled on the ground, and then tell you to get on with it! Funnily enough, nobody ever called a foul against him, and if they did it was usually just as they were about to drive off in their car! Then there was Shaggy Dog, Bermuda’s best long-range passer. He would give a pass and shout ‘Sorry for giving you such a great ball’. Wire was another character, a self-appointed referee and commentator, though not the best player in the world. I played in these scrimmages, which were mainly between squad members from North Village, Boulevard and Devonshire Cougars, and I thought, ‘Yeah, there’s no fear for me here’. I was holding my own and people would say, ‘You’re ready, you know? You could play for the first team now.’ I wanted to play for the junior team before my time, but coach Woolly Baxter would not allow it, so I went to play for Boulevard – a team full of dreads! Their pre-match preparation was to put on a bit of Bob Marley and they had other, ‘medicinal’, ways of relaxing before the games, too! But they let me play for their junior team and I stayed with them for a year; I had needed to up the stakes and play against older opponents and Boulevard gave me the chance to do exactly that. I found an outlet with, shall we say, a more relaxed attitude to the laws of the game (and certain other laws too!).

I didn’t play every week because they too had a talented side, but I believe I featured in about half of their matches, in midfield, and my game then was mainly about creating chances for others. After a year I returned to North Village, and this time they allowed me to play for the junior team. Obviously they thought I was ready now – either that, or they just wanted me back among their ranks.

It was around this time that I met the girl who would eventually become Mrs Goater. I remember seeing Anita – the object of my affections – at school when I was about 16 and in the fourth year, and I said to my mate Sean Dill, ‘I like her! Yeah, I really like her’; so, thanks to the tried and tested communication link of Chinese whispers, she eventually found out she had an admirer. I was always saying ‘Hi’ to her and absently smiling at her, and occasionally I would go to her class and tell her teacher that the principal wanted to see Anita. When she came into the hallway she would say, ‘What does the principal want to see me for?’ and I’d say, ‘He doesn’t want to see you, girl, it’s me that wants to see you!’ She would ask me if I was serious and then head towards the principal’s office, leaving me thinking, ‘He doesn’t want you – only me’. I’d gone from a Pond Dog to a hound dog in my pursuit of her affections.

I think she realised just how much I thought of her when she went home on her moped one lunchtime and didn’t return to school for the afternoon classes. I waited around where she usually parked her moped and after a while I knew something was wrong. I asked her friends where she was and eventually discovered a car had pulled out on her and knocked her off her machine. I set off for her house as soon as I finished school – by this time she lived only a ten-minute walk from my house. I went to her room and there she was, looking sorry for herself and a little sore and bedraggled. She had a few grazes and a twisted ankle and lay there surrounded by her friends, suitably sympathetic to her misfortune. I sat alongside her, gave her a hug and asked if she was okay. That was when the penny dropped that I was serious about her. Apparently her friends were not convinced of my affection, but after I left that afternoon they were all in agreement that I was for real. It was big news around school for a week or so.

We started dating after that, and I settled down a bit more at school. She was always on my case, asking if I was going to graduate or not. I would tell her, ‘Of course I am’, and she’d coolly shake her head and say she wondered how that was possible because she never saw me doing any work. I thought it was time to concentrate a bit more, and was determined to prove that, while I might have been a Pond Dog, I wasn’t into a lot of the things some of my mates from the neighbourhood were into at the time. It was as if I had to work doubly hard to shake off the stigma attached to coming from the wrong side of town. She accepted me for who I was – eventually!

Back to football. There were other influences on my game around this time and most of them were from faraway shores. My friends and I were avid watchers of a TV football show called Big League Soccer