goals you’re after, there are a fair few to choose from should you be lucky enough to follow the Hammers. But be careful here – goals aren’t everything. West Ham’s record win is a 10–0 demolition of lowly Bury in the League Cup but, according to those who were there (and not many were), if you weren’t able to get along to that you really didn’t miss much – although manager John Lyall clearly saw something in Bury’s centre half that night because he promptly went out and bought him. So what exactly was the thinking here?If the extremely shaky Shakers had not had Paul Hilton in their side that night, they would have been beaten really badly.
One game that I would have really liked to have been at was the one in which Geoff Hurst scored six. Yes, I know technically it should have been five – because the first one was handball – but we’re talking about a knight of the realm here, not some dodgy character with a history of abusing recreational substances and an arse the size of Patagonia. It’s only cheating when he does it and claims it was the hand of God.
West Ham 8, Sunderland 0 makes me dribble just imagining what Upton Park must have been like on that Saturday afternoon in 1968. Any takers for the scorers of the two goals that weren’t down to Sir Geoff? Of course, it was Saint Bobby and Sir Trev. You know the times of the goals as well? Oh. I can see I’m going to have trouble with you.
But picking any old game that you missed where we gave the opposition a good hiding would be too easy – and if West Ham stands for anything at all it’s about doing things the hard way. So I’m ruling out the massacre of the Mackems and several others like it. For the sake of this rather pointless exercise, you have to select a game that you had actually given some thought to attending but didn’t get to for one reason or another. Perhaps it was your wife’s birthday, or you had a hangover that merited an entry in the Guinness Book of Records. It doesn’t matter to me (although I imagine your missus would have something to say if the two coincided).
So I’m going to leave Sunderland behind and move forward a few years to 1976 and the Cup Winners’ Cup semi-final against Eintracht Frankfurt. By this time Hurst and Moore were gone, and the shops in Green Street no longer closed on a Wednesdayafternoon. But we still had Trevor Brooking. That’s Sir Trevor Brooking. The man who’s got a stand with his name on it.
If you are of an age that means you were too young to have seen Brooking play, I envy you your youth. But I also feel sorry on your behalf that the odds are impossibly stacked against you ever getting the chance to see a true one-club hero who could make hardened supporters smile knowingly while simultaneously shaking their heads in disbelief at his outrageous skill. It’s thirty years since he retired, yet I can still get through grey days by picturing Brooking angling his body to receive a pass, letting the untouched ball slide past him as he used his muscular frame to shield it, and then bringing it under instant control while he turned and powered away from a desperate defender who, seconds before, thought he had everything under control. What made it really special was the fact opponents knew it was coming, but could do nothing within the laws of the game to prevent it happening. These days, climbing stairs makes me gasp. Back then, it was Trevor Brooking.
I will concede that he left something to be desired as a TV pundit (I can say this after fifty years of devotion to West Ham – supporters of other clubs are not permitted to utter one word of criticism of Sir Trev). The problem was twofold, I believe. First, he himself was so good as a player he was unable to believe others could be so inept. And, secondly, he was too nice to be horrid about anyone. So when some useless lump failed to bring the simplest of balls under control, or fired it over the bar from 6 yards out, he put it down
One game that I would have really liked to have been at was the one in which Geoff Hurst scored six. Yes, I know technically it should have been five – because the first one was handball – but we’re talking about a knight of the realm here, not some dodgy character with a history of abusing recreational substances and an arse the size of Patagonia. It’s only cheating when he does it and claims it was the hand of God.
West Ham 8, Sunderland 0 makes me dribble just imagining what Upton Park must have been like on that Saturday afternoon in 1968. Any takers for the scorers of the two goals that weren’t down to Sir Geoff? Of course, it was Saint Bobby and Sir Trev. You know the times of the goals as well? Oh. I can see I’m going to have trouble with you.
But picking any old game that you missed where we gave the opposition a good hiding would be too easy – and if West Ham stands for anything at all it’s about doing things the hard way. So I’m ruling out the massacre of the Mackems and several others like it. For the sake of this rather pointless exercise, you have to select a game that you had actually given some thought to attending but didn’t get to for one reason or another. Perhaps it was your wife’s birthday, or you had a hangover that merited an entry in the Guinness Book of Records. It doesn’t matter to me (although I imagine your missus would have something to say if the two coincided).
So I’m going to leave Sunderland behind and move forward a few years to 1976 and the Cup Winners’ Cup semi-final against Eintracht Frankfurt. By this time Hurst and Moore were gone, and the shops in Green Street no longer closed on a Wednesdayafternoon. But we still had Trevor Brooking. That’s Sir Trevor Brooking. The man who’s got a stand with his name on it.
If you are of an age that means you were too young to have seen Brooking play, I envy you your youth. But I also feel sorry on your behalf that the odds are impossibly stacked against you ever getting the chance to see a true one-club hero who could make hardened supporters smile knowingly while simultaneously shaking their heads in disbelief at his outrageous skill. It’s thirty years since he retired, yet I can still get through grey days by picturing Brooking angling his body to receive a pass, letting the untouched ball slide past him as he used his muscular frame to shield it, and then bringing it under instant control while he turned and powered away from a desperate defender who, seconds before, thought he had everything under control. What made it really special was the fact opponents knew it was coming, but could do nothing within the laws of the game to prevent it happening. These days, climbing stairs makes me gasp. Back then, it was Trevor Brooking.
I will concede that he left something to be desired as a TV pundit (I can say this after fifty years of devotion to West Ham – supporters of other clubs are not permitted to utter one word of criticism of Sir Trev). The problem was twofold, I believe. First, he himself was so good as a player he was unable to believe others could be so inept. And, secondly, he was too nice to be horrid about anyone. So when some useless lump failed to bring the simplest of balls under control, or fired it over the bar from 6 yards out, he put it down
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