The Bromley Boys

by David Roberts

  When they went 3–0 up with a well-taken penalty, I felt the first stirrings of anxiety.

  When they went 4–0 up, I covered my head with the hood of my anorak, as if I could shut out what was happening.

  When they went 5–0 up, I turned to my fellow supporters, most of who were looking pale and shell-shocked.

  When they went 6–0 up, I glanced at my watch, then at the referee, willing the game to end.

  When they went 7–0 up with only a couple of minutes left, I looked longingly towards the exit.

  When they went 8–0 up, the Barking fans started singing ‘seven nil, seven nil, seven nil, seven nil’.

  It was the final humiliation. They’d actually lost count of the score.

  A week later, I was in Derek Dobson’s Morris 1100 on the way to Hitchin for an Isthmian League fixture, since the coach had been cancelled due to ‘insufficient demand’. As unofficial leader of the Bromley supporters, Derek had dutifully stepped in to provide us all with a lift to the game. I’d been put in the back with Roy Oliver, the myopic dustman, while Peter sat alongside Derek in the front.

  We discussed likely outcomes and none of us any longer thought in terms of winning or even getting a draw. It was now a matter of how many goals the brittle defence would leak. I liked the fact my opinions were taken seriously and that I was treated as an equal. We concluded that if Hitchin won by less than the eight Barking had scored, it would be a good result.

  There was a feeling of smug satisfaction on the way home that night. The 6–1 loss that we had just witnessed was being considered a victory of sorts, and Bromley had started to show genuine signs of improvement.

  To start with, only two players were missing – Pat Brown with a ‘poisoned arm’ and Graham Gaston who seemed unable to drag himself away from his printing job.

  Also on the positive side, the midfield was looking more cohesive, the Stonebridge/Nottage combination up front was starting to click and the defence were much better than the six goals would suggest. Roy Pettet, too, was running into form. His brilliant goal tonight doubled his total for the season.

  Maybe Dave Ellis knew what he was doing after all.

  •••

  ‘BROMLEY SACK MANAGER ELLIS’ screamed the back page of the Bromley and Kentish Times.

  The now-former manager had some entertaining reasons to explain his record. Despite using more than 20 players in his five games in charge, and despite missing all the pre-season trials due to being on holiday in Spain, he blamed everyone but himself.

  ‘Nothing went right for me,’ he insisted, finishing with ‘I signed five players from Carshalton and none came’.

  After five games Bromley were now anchored at the foot of the table with no-one in charge of the team. Now, most clubs in this situation would appoint a caretaker manager or even a successor, but not Bromley. They announced that for the foreseeable future, the team would be selected by a committee.

  This did not fill me with confidence.

  I’d seen members of the committee standing around in their blazers and not one of them appeared to be under 60. Also, there seemed to be rather a lot of them – around ten or eleven.

  Their first task was to pick a team to take on lowly Clapton that night.

  •••

  I had worked out a plan to get into the Clapton game without paying. On a reconnaissance mission during the previous home fixture, I had noticed a ginger-haired youth in a long trenchcoat climbing over the fence on the east side of the ground. It was a good place to do it, because unless you were trying to catch someone in the act, you wouldn’t have been able to see him.

  I watched as he shuffled to his spot behind the goal, after stopping to collect two cups of tea. He sat down, lit a cigarette and didn’t move until the game was over. He got through both cups of tea before half-time.

  I vaguely recognised him, because he was going out with a friend of my sister’s. I knew people called him The Grubby, but I didn’t know why.

  I decided that the Clapton game was the perfect opportunity to try out his ground-entry technique. It was pouring rain as I walked past the ground and into neighbouring Norman Park. Throwing my anorak onto the top of the fence to protect myself against any sharp edges, I pulled myself up and over, before falling into a thick grass on the other side.

  I was in.

  ‘What’s your game, son?’ bellowed an angry voice from the top of the bank. I looked up, terrified. It was Charlie King, the club chairman.

  There’s not much you can really say in a situation like this, so I explained that I didn’t have enough money to get in, but loved the team so much I couldn’t bear the thought of missing a game.

  This was apparently the right thing to say. Mr King not only allowed me to stay and watch, but he also bought me a programme.

  It was a nice gesture. But after what followed on the pitch, I remember thinking that he should have paid me to watch the match.

  It was the worst game I have ever seen.

  Two appallingly inept teams seemingly trying their hardest to avoid scoring goals.

  The crowd was officially given as 400, but then again, it always was. I never worked out why this was. It didn’t seem to matter whether the ground was packed or empty, the official attendance was always the same. My suspicion was that nobody could be bothered to count.

  During this particular game, I was so bored I decided to do a circuit of the ground and do an unofficial headcount, and counted exactly 93 heads.

  Because of this, I missed the evening’s only moment of drama, when Bromley’s latest goalkeeper Ian McGuire, filling in for the injured Jenson, was himself injured and had to be replaced in goal by left-back Les Brockman.

  The positive to be gained from this game was that it was the first time all season they had conceded less than four goals. Indeed, when Eric Nottage made it 1–1 on the hour, a draw looked the most likely result. Only a dire piece of luck prevented this happening, as a speculative pass bounced off the hapless Brown and into the path of Clapton’s left winger whose sliced shot spun tantalisingly past the fill-in keeper.

  I don’t know what the committee planned to do to stop this losing streak, but they had to come up with something spectacular – and quick.

  ISTHMIAN LEAGUE HOW THEY STAND

  29TH AUGUST 1969

  CHAPTER THREE

  I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Bromley were about to pull off the greatest coup in football history and turn their season round with two major signings. A couple of the biggest names in the game, Bobby Charlton and Denis Law, were coming to Hayes Lane! It was there in black and white on the back page of the Bromley and Kentish Times.

  This would mean the end for Alan Stonebridge and Eric Nottage, but I hoped they would stay and fight for their places. I couldn’t wait to tell my friends and rushed down to the park where I knew I would find them kicking a ball about. The news spread like wildfire, and within the next few days, at least ten people told me the news.

  It was a shame I was so excited that I hadn’t bothered reading the full article. If I had, I would have spotted the clues in phrases like ‘Thank goodness the loyal fans have a sense of humour and can laugh off their misfortunes’, ‘one suggestion is that Bromley should turn semi-professional and approach Manchester United about the possibility of having Denis Law and Bobby Charlton on loan when they are not required by the United first team’ and ‘just imagine the likely headlines if this actually happened: ‘Law and Charlton score five each for Bromley but they lose 11–10’.

  When my dad finally managed to convince me that the article was a light-hearted filler, I realised that once again, my hopes had been raised and then cruelly dashed.

  •••

  The selection committee had made further changes for the visit of Enfield. I was aware of one of these as I stood in the queue to get into the ground. A small band of fans were singing ‘One Phil Amato, there’s only one Phil Amato’. Actually, they were wrong. There were tw
o. The other one played for Margate and was also swarthy with a turbulent temper. The difference was that their one was a superb striker, who scored spectacular goals with nonchalant ease.

  I often wondered if Bromley might have got the Phil Amatos confused and accidentally signed the wrong one.

  The signs were bad.

  Not only were we playing the champions and easily the best team in the league, but we had Phil Amato, who was widely assumed to be on his way to Gravesend and Northfleet, at right-back.

  Jeff Bridge, the left-back, had grown a moustache that really didn’t suit him, but he’d vowed not to shave it off until Bromley lost next.

  I hoped he’d brought his razor with him.

  Once I was in the ground, I did what I always did and bought two programmes. One was immediately sealed in a plastic bag and put carefully into my duffel bag, between the two shin pads to stop it getting creased. It would only be taken out when I got home and added to my collection. The other would be used throughout the next ninety minutes, as I made notes which would help me relive the match at a later date.

  These notes would frequently feature the word ‘great’, as in:

  BROMLEY

  6. R. Pettet 3.25 PM. Great shot!

  BROMLEY

  9. J. Wawrzewski 3.56 PM. Great shot, lucky save by goalie.

  BROMLEY

  10. E. Nottage 4.14 PM. Great shot, nearly a goal.

  BROMLEY

  1. I. McGuire 4.16 PM. Great save!

  I always loved buying programmes, especially ones from home games. I studied them from cover to cover, devouring Charlie King’s notes, seeing who had donated the match ball and enviously reading who had won the previous week’s £5 Supporters’ Club ‘200 Club’ jackpot.

  I vowed that I would give all my future business to those who advertised in the Bromley programme. I would eat at the Khush Bhag Restaurant (‘Sophistication. Exotic Food’) or Viva Maria Restaurant (‘First Class Restaurant’).

  For heating, I’d head straight for Comfort Zones Heating (Heating) Ltd, who I knew I could rely on for my ‘home heating comfort’. My first choice of family baker would always be Stanley Wood ‘For crusty bread, cakes and pastries of quality and distinction’.

  And in the unlikely event of needing floodlights, I’d simply pick up the phone and ring Reid and Barrow Ltd.

  The league table on page 5 became a mass of mathematical calculations and arrows, as I incorporated the latest results from the Sunday paper. Sometimes, I would also include projected results for the next few weeks, based on a combination of current form and gut feeling.

  But the best bit was the front cover, where Bromley’s past successes were proudly listed. Included in the list was winning the FA Amateur Cup on three occasions and the Isthmian League four times. It was a great comfort to know that I didn’t support a useless team, but a good one that was currently going through a bad patch.

  •••

  After picking up my programme, I wandered off to the main stand and sat down. I always made sure I had ten minutes to browse through the pages before kick-off, so was shocked to see the Enfield team run out early.

  I checked my watch – 2.50pm.

  What was going on?

  Maybe the dressing-room clock was fast.

  But surely the manager had a watch?

  Then, as they started a series of exercises, it all made sense.

  They weren’t the best team in the Isthmian League for nothing – they even warmed up before their warm-up. In stark contrast, Bromley wandered out just before the kick-off, looking as though they’d all rather be anywhere but Hayes Lane.

  The game itself started routinely enough, as it took the visitors just four minutes to take the lead with a shot that went in off the post.

  But then something strange happened.

  They didn’t score any more goals, despite having countless chances to add to their slender lead.

  And then something even stranger happened. Bromley went on the attack with ten minutes left and a sliced Jan Wawrzewski shot hit an Enfield defender on the arm.

  I got to my feet screaming ‘Penalty, ref!’ – which I did at least three or four times a game with increasing desperation in my voice. On this occasion, the referee (Mr K.A. Duff of West Moseley) agreed and pointed to the spot.

  Penalty to Bromley.

  I immediately left my seat and ran behind the goal, arriving just as Alan Stonebridge was measuring out his run-up after placing the ball on the spot. He looked calm and composed and I couldn’t understand why. Surely this was one of the biggest moments of his career?

  In an old Roy of the Rovers story in the Tiger and Hurricane comic, Tubby Morton, the overweight goalkeeper for Melchester Rovers, had confided to his skipper that he always knew which way the ball would go at a penalty because the taker couldn’t resist glancing at the spot he was going to aim at.

  I looked at Stonebridge’s eyes as he ran in. Sure enough, he looked left. Wolstenholm, the Enfield keeper, must have been a Tiger and Hurricane reader too, because that’s exactly where he dived. But Stonebridge had been bluffing – the ball headed just inside the right-hand post and it was 1–1.

  1–1 against the champions!

  I don’t think I had ever felt so excited. I ran back to my seat, opened the programme, took a deep breath and, with my right hand shaking, wrote the words:

  8. A. Stonebridge 4.31 PM. Great penalty!

  I was too nervous to watch the last ten minutes, so I went behind the stands and paced backwards and forwards, relying on the sounds coming from the small crowd (official attendance – 400) to let me know what was happening.

  And then I heard it. The long, beautiful, shrill blast of Mr K.A. Duff’s whistle that signified full-time. The cheers told me that Bromley had held on.

  All the season’s disappointments were instantly forgotten as I sprinted round to the players’ tunnel to pat them on the backs and offer my heartfelt congratulations as they came off the pitch. I didn’t consider the possibility that the previous 90 minutes had been a case of a below-strength Enfield missing dozens of chances and Bromley getting a penalty that clearly wasn’t.

  I stopped off at the Supporters’ Club hut on the way out of the ground. This was a white garden shed, surrounded by a small picket fence, and was situated parallel to the edge of the penalty area.

  It was the inner sanctum of Bromley supporters, where Derek, Roy and Peter worked and then watched matches from a small bench in a fenced-off section outside the hut.

  It was my dream to join them one day.

  There really was nothing in life I wanted more than to help out in the shop and then relax on the bench with the Hayes Lane elite, getting a close-up view of the game and joining in their analysis. I always felt a sense of longing when I went to the hut, wishing I could be on the other side of the serving hatch, looking out instead of looking in.

  I knew they worked hard, but I also knew I could do the job if someone would only give me a chance.

  Before and after games, as well as at half-time, they were responsible for selling souvenirs, even though the range was limited to Bromley enamel badges (1/6) and Bromley ballpoint pens (1 shilling).

  I owned at least six of each.

  Still literally giddy with excitement, I had a look around and treated myself to a another ballpoint pen; but the real reason for dropping in was to discuss what had just unfolded on the pitch.

  Derek had gone home to be with his newborn baby daughter, but Roy and Peter were tidying away the pens and badges. I could tell they were as excited as I was, especially Roy. He was flapping his arms around, his eyes blazing behind the thick lenses of his glasses and his hair looking wilder than ever as he released all the season’s pent-up frustrations with a garbled summary of what we had just witnessed.

  After discussing the highlights, or rather highlight, at least half a dozen times, we went our separate ways.

  Instead of getting the bus home, I decided to walk so I would get to m
y local newsagents around the time the Evening Standard football special arrived. This was a paper that came out only an hour or so after the matches had finished, yet somehow had most of the results as well as match reports. I was confident that Bromley’s shock result against Enfield would be as newsworthy as whatever happened between Chelsea and Palace, who were also playing that afternoon.

  I waited outside, and at five to six the van pulled up and the driver jumped out, hurried into the shop and deposited a bundle of papers onto the counter.

  I immediately bought one and went outside to read it, savouring that fresh-from-the-presses smell. The big story was how Palace had snatched a draw at Stamford Bridge, but despite scanning every page thoroughly, there was no mention of Bromley’s heroic efforts. It didn’t even make the Stop Press section.

  I felt a ragin’ fury bubble up inside me.

  •••

  The next day, after a restless night’s sleep, I walked up to the newsagent to buy all the Sunday papers, convinced that Bromley’s draw would be a major story.

  It wasn’t.

  After ploughing through everything from the Sunday Express to the Observer, I didn’t find a single mention of the match apart from the result. It seemed I would have to wait until Thursday, when the Bromley Advertiser came out, and Friday, when the Bromley and Kentish Times appeared, to read about the game.

  I bought both of these papers every week and kept a scrapbook of all Bromley match reports, league tables and stories, which I dutifully cut out and pasted every Sunday morning, using a bottle of Gloy glue marked ‘To be used for Bromley scrapbook ONLY!!!!’

  I was currently on volume 12.

  My pocket money was spent on prints of photos which had appeared in the Bromley Advertiser, most of which seemed to feature Alan Stonebridge. These were either framed and put up on my bedroom wall, or put in the scrapbook.

  At the back of the book, I kept the up-to-date rankings of my favourite player. That morning, Wawrzewski had gone from being fourth on the list to second, displacing Ian McGuire and overtaking Eric Nottage.