West Ham supporters. I counter with the suggestion that if he did know who we support, heâd have taken pity on us after the day weâve just had.
18.50: The next train to Brighton â and weâre on it. Not that it was an unpleasant wait; Blackfriars station spans the river now, and the views are terrific. Itâs easy to forget what a majestic city London is.
19.10: We pass through Crystal Palace station without stopping. South London is not majestic.
19.12: Geoff is reading â I decide to treat myself to a game of Hearts on my phone. Simple, mindless pleasure. Unlike the card game I got involved in on a football special many years ago. Was it Hull? No â thatâs where they ambushed us at the station. It was somewhere north, though. I was travelling alone and had bagged a window seat with a table at Euston when I was joined by some lads about my age. They produced a pack of cards and asked if I fancied joining them in a friendly game of Pontoon. It wasnât so friendly half an hour later when most of their money was piled up in front of me. In fact, the atmosphere around the table was distinctly hostile. The game was gathering a crowd. Winning was bad enough. Doing so in front of amused spectators was worse. I was clearly lining myself up for a good kicking. Thereâs no nice way of putting this: these boys were all monumentally stupid. I tried to let them win their money back. I would twist on nineteen and get the two of hearts. Or Iâd stick on fourteen and theyâd keep twisting until they bust. I donât think they could count up to twenty-one between them. But I suspected they were all good at fighting. In the end I managed to lose enoughof my winnings to live to tell the tale. I remember I travelled back in a different carriage. Who the hell did we play that day?
19.23: The Hearts game completed, I turn to my crumpled copy of Over Land and Sea (Issue No. 583; Price £2.50). The cover is excellent â itâs a Sgt Pepperâs mock-up, with Sam Allardyce behind the bass drum and a collection of West Ham faces, past and present. I count forty-nine in all. But whereâs Christian Dailly? I want curly hair, too. I like OLAS . It doesnât worry much about spelling and punctuation, but it also doesnât pull any punches. Itâs had enough of Allardyce and his style of football. It doesnât much care for West Hamâs vice-chairman Karren Brady, either. As I say, I like OLAS .
20.25: Itâs good to be home. A glass of red now and supper soon. Diâs doing Mexican. Viva fajitas!
22.30: No one is interested in Match of the Day tonight. We check out the movie channels instead.
23.30: The eyelids are getting heavy. I fear this film is going to join the long list of those whose ending will remain unknown to me for evermore.
00.20: I awake on the couch to discover my concerns were fully justified. But who cares? There will be always be another movie. Just as there will always be another match day. Sure, we lost. Much of the football was pretty forgettable, to be honest. That doesnât stop you going again, though, does it? The game aside, it was a great day out: a chance to spend some time with my one of mykids; quality banter with mates; a couple of beers; a whole range of emotions; a chance to relive past glories â what more could anyone want (other than three points and a team capable of passing the ball to one another)? Win, lose or draw, thereâll always be another day at Upton Park. Only there wonât, will there? Not when weâve gone to Stratford.
00.28: I turn off the bedside light and watch the illuminated numbers on my clock tick over to 00.29. Another minute closer to the end for the Boleyn Ground. Another minute closer to the end for us allâ¦
Chapter 4
Trevor Brooking walks on water
G IVEN A FEW moments, we can all think of the best game we ever watched. But what about the best game you never saw?
If it’s
18.50: The next train to Brighton â and weâre on it. Not that it was an unpleasant wait; Blackfriars station spans the river now, and the views are terrific. Itâs easy to forget what a majestic city London is.
19.10: We pass through Crystal Palace station without stopping. South London is not majestic.
19.12: Geoff is reading â I decide to treat myself to a game of Hearts on my phone. Simple, mindless pleasure. Unlike the card game I got involved in on a football special many years ago. Was it Hull? No â thatâs where they ambushed us at the station. It was somewhere north, though. I was travelling alone and had bagged a window seat with a table at Euston when I was joined by some lads about my age. They produced a pack of cards and asked if I fancied joining them in a friendly game of Pontoon. It wasnât so friendly half an hour later when most of their money was piled up in front of me. In fact, the atmosphere around the table was distinctly hostile. The game was gathering a crowd. Winning was bad enough. Doing so in front of amused spectators was worse. I was clearly lining myself up for a good kicking. Thereâs no nice way of putting this: these boys were all monumentally stupid. I tried to let them win their money back. I would twist on nineteen and get the two of hearts. Or Iâd stick on fourteen and theyâd keep twisting until they bust. I donât think they could count up to twenty-one between them. But I suspected they were all good at fighting. In the end I managed to lose enoughof my winnings to live to tell the tale. I remember I travelled back in a different carriage. Who the hell did we play that day?
19.23: The Hearts game completed, I turn to my crumpled copy of Over Land and Sea (Issue No. 583; Price £2.50). The cover is excellent â itâs a Sgt Pepperâs mock-up, with Sam Allardyce behind the bass drum and a collection of West Ham faces, past and present. I count forty-nine in all. But whereâs Christian Dailly? I want curly hair, too. I like OLAS . It doesnât worry much about spelling and punctuation, but it also doesnât pull any punches. Itâs had enough of Allardyce and his style of football. It doesnât much care for West Hamâs vice-chairman Karren Brady, either. As I say, I like OLAS .
20.25: Itâs good to be home. A glass of red now and supper soon. Diâs doing Mexican. Viva fajitas!
22.30: No one is interested in Match of the Day tonight. We check out the movie channels instead.
23.30: The eyelids are getting heavy. I fear this film is going to join the long list of those whose ending will remain unknown to me for evermore.
00.20: I awake on the couch to discover my concerns were fully justified. But who cares? There will be always be another movie. Just as there will always be another match day. Sure, we lost. Much of the football was pretty forgettable, to be honest. That doesnât stop you going again, though, does it? The game aside, it was a great day out: a chance to spend some time with my one of mykids; quality banter with mates; a couple of beers; a whole range of emotions; a chance to relive past glories â what more could anyone want (other than three points and a team capable of passing the ball to one another)? Win, lose or draw, thereâll always be another day at Upton Park. Only there wonât, will there? Not when weâve gone to Stratford.
00.28: I turn off the bedside light and watch the illuminated numbers on my clock tick over to 00.29. Another minute closer to the end for the Boleyn Ground. Another minute closer to the end for us allâ¦
Chapter 4
Trevor Brooking walks on water
G IVEN A FEW moments, we can all think of the best game we ever watched. But what about the best game you never saw?
If it’s
Similar Books
