The Bromley Boys

by David Roberts

  Alan Stonebridge was still first.

  Phil Amato was still last.

  And David Jensen, who had been my goalkeeping idol just a few weeks ago, had disappeared from the list in much the same way as he’d mysteriously vanished from the club after conceding 29 goals in five games.

  This book wasn’t my only long-term Bromley project. Another was to be able to name all the teams in the Isthmian League in under five seconds.

  From memory.

  Barking, Bromley, Clapton, Corinthian Casuals, Dulwich, Enfield, Hendon, Hitchin, Ilford, Kingstonian, Leytonstone, Maidstone, Oxford, St Albans, Sutton, Tooting and Mitcham, Walthamstow Avenue, Wealdstone, Woking, Wycombe.

  Over the years I had got quicker and quicker. My dad had once caught me practising and while doing it made perfect sense to me, it proved almost impossible to explain to him.

  I didn’t let that affect me, though. Because after weeks of near-misses, I had finally got under ten seconds.

  •••

  Corinthian Casuals were the ‘someone else’ in the phrase ‘However bad things get, there’s always someone else worse off than you’.

  They were permanently stuck at the foot of the table and rarely managed more than a couple of wins a season. I had a real soft spot for them, probably because they were the one team a Bromley fan could look down on.

  Corinthian Casuals were hopeless for a number of reasons.

  Firstly, their name didn’t exactly strike fear into their opponents.

  Then they were resolutely amateur, so didn’t pay ‘expenses’ which most other teams routinely did. They also insisted on ‘promoting the game through fair play and sportsmanship’.

  This was taken to extreme lengths. After suffering a heartbreaking 1–0 defeat against league-leaders Leytonstone the previous Saturday, thanks to a goal that was reported as being ‘several yards offside’, the programme notes for the following home fixture pointed out that:

  ‘An excellent feature of the game was a highly competent performance by the referee, Mr K.G. Salmon.’

  Other factors preventing them from attracting the cream of footballing talent included the small matter of not actually having a ground of their own and wearing shirts that were divided up into pink and chocolate-brown quarters, which clashed horribly with their blue shorts.

  As a result of all this, Casuals teams were generally a mix of the highly principled and the totally inept.

  Tonight’s game was between the bottom team in the League (us) and the second from bottom team in the League (them). What made it even less likely to attract a sizeable crowd was that it was being played on someone else’s ground.

  As their current landlords were Tooting and Mitcham, the coach journey to the Corinthian Casuals away fixture was a bit longer than previous seasons, when they shared with Dulwich Hamlet.

  But I was glad of the extra travelling time. It allowed me to savour every minute of what was a rare experience – going to a Bromley game confident of getting the points.

  The early signs were extremely promising.

  Casuals had been forced into fielding a third-choice goalkeeper, which was the equivalent of any other team fielding their fifth-choice goalkeeper.

  Goalie Number One was in hospital for a minor operation and Number Two had gone missing. As Number Three ran onto the pitch, Roy and I looked at each other in disbelief.

  He didn’t look much older than me.

  Putting the odds even more heavily in our favour was the recent history. We had come away with the points on each of their last three visits.

  Everything was pointing to an easy victory, and it took just three minutes for Eric Nottage to confirm this by scoring after a superb through ball from Stonebridge, whose footballing abilities were starting to become wildly exaggerated in my mind.

  Then the game drifted into a stalemate.

  It was as though Bromley didn’t really know what they should do, now that they found themselves in such an unfamiliar position, while the home team simply weren’t good enough to do anything.

  Out of the blue, everything changed one minute from half time. Chris Joy, Casuals captain and the son of the Evening Standard’s football correspondent, took a free-kick from 30 yards out that sailed past a bemused Ian Mcguire and the scores were level.

  It was my turn to get the tea, so I missed out on much of the half-time analysis, but by the time I rejoined the Bromley boys, I noticed a major dip in confidence levels. We decided that a draw wouldn’t be so bad after all, as it would still keep us off bottom place. Taking comfort from this, Peter pointed out that Bromley had already equalled their highest score of the season. Plus, we weren’t actually losing at half-time, which was a first for the season. By the time the teams came back out, we were all feeling pretty good about life again.

  The second half was notable for two things – firstly Postman Pat Brown’s glorious header from a perfect Eddie Green corner which gave Bromley a barely deserved lead. And then watching Phil Amato limping from the field, a sight that filled me with conflicting emotions. I expected to feel nothing but pleasure at the possibility of a season-ending injury, but was shocked to find myself also thinking it was a shame and that he’d been playing quite well.

  These sympathetic thoughts lasted about a minute, which was how long it took substitute Colin Owen to come on and hit the post almost immediately, with what I described in my programme notes as a ‘great volley’.

  The game ended shortly after, giving Bromley their first win of the season. Even though it was only against Corinthian Casuals, I felt happier than I had in a long time. A win can do that for you, especially when it’s something you hadn’t experienced in more than five months.

  The glory of victory had completely overshadowed the fact I was off to boarding school in the morning.

  The reality of that happening hadn’t even begun to sink in.

  •••

  The next morning, I was sitting on the roof of the house, refusing to come down. The reality of going to boarding school had well and truly sunk in and I was desperately trying to avoid getting in the car and being driven the 15 miles to Sevenoaks, my new weekday home.

  I was grateful we lived in a bungalow, otherwise I might well have had to come up with an alternative protest.

  Negotiations had pretty much broken down, and my parents were playing the waiting game, knowing full well that I would be down as soon as I got either too cold or too hungry.

  They didn’t have to wait for long.

  Realising the futility and feeling uncomfortable at the small crowd which had gathered outside, I climbed down and sat in the car.

  My dad joined me and we drove off in silence. The journey took us past the Egg and Griddle, where I’d spent many a school-day making a cup of tea last for hours. We passed WH Smith, where I had spent much of the rest of the time listening to records by everyone from the Seekers to Bob Dylan in the listening booths. We then drove past Hayes Lane, home of Bromley FC and into the wilds of Kent.

  Just over half an hour later, we pulled up outside Johnson’s – the boarding house I’d be sharing with 50 other boys.

  As I dragged my suitcase inside, I looked out at the perfectly mown back lawn, where several of the boarders were enjoying a game of croquet. In the distance, I could just about make out several rugby fields.

  It was like being in another country.

  The house itself was all wood panelling, high ceilings and oil portraits of obscure gentry. There was a gong which was sounded at meal times and sweeping stairways leading to three enormous dormitories. An overwhelming smell of beeswax furniture polish hit you as soon as you stepped inside and it had a cold, impersonal atmosphere.

  The house belonged to a different era, when characters like Colonel Mustard or Professor Plum would have scurried furtively from room to room, candlestick or rope in their hands.

  I knew as soon as I set foot in the place that I didn’t belong there.

  •••

&n
bsp; Once settled in, I went for a stroll. Johnson’s was at the end of a country lane, about a 20-minute walk from the school.

  I just wanted to get away, so headed in the opposite direction from where we had driven. After about 15 minutes of aimless rambling, I found myself turning into a small cul-de-sac and was suddenly brought to a standstill by the glorious sight which confronted me.

  It was like discovering Shangri-La, Brigadoon and the Lost Kingdom all at once.

  Because there, on a small village green, was a set of full-sized goalposts. And around a dozen boys playing a game of football with varying degrees of skill as though their lives depended on it.

  I went back to Johnson’s in a far better frame of mind, but still just wanted to get the next few days over and done with. There was an important away game against Walthamstow Avenue on Saturday.

  ISTHMIAN LEAGUE HOW THEY STAND

  4TH SEPTEMBER 1969

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The supporters’ club coach was almost full – testimony to the effect of the tiniest morsel of success on the fair-weather Bromley supporter. Confusingly, the ground wasn’t in Walthamstow Avenue, but several miles away in Green Pond Road. Well, half of it was. The other half was in Higham Hill Road.

  Luckily the coach driver was up to the challenge and we were dropped directly outside the entrance.

  Walthamstow Avenue’s ground was my favourite place to visit, with the highest turnstiles and weakest floodlights in the Isthmian League, giving an eerie atmosphere of what I imagined a prison exercise yard would be like at twilight.

  This game marked my first awareness of hooliganism filtering down to the lower leagues, albeit in the mildest possible way. The programme rather huffily reported the following story:

  After the match with the Corinthian Casuals, Thursday 28th August, some young hooligan ran off with a ball. The police were called, but, as the ball was later recovered, the Club will not, on this occasion, prosecute.

  I found the boy’s actions strangely exhilarating (was he acting alone? How did the police find him? Did his mum make him give the ball back?), but kept my feelings to myself and instead joined in the general condemnation.

  The topic of conversation soon turned back to the game itself as a very confident-looking home team ran out.

  But Bromley, even without the injured Phil Amato and more significantly Pat Brown (his wife was ill), had, in my eyes at least, an air of invincibility.

  As if to prove me wrong, there was to be a disastrous start to the match. After just a couple of minutes, injury-prone goalie Ian McGuire dramatically fell to the ground clutching his ankle, even though no-one was anywhere near him. It was as though he’d been struck by a sniper’s bullet fired from the terraces.

  After lengthy treatment, he painfully limped back to his place between the posts, but it soon became apparent that he had somehow managed to self-inflict a fairly serious injury.

  Following frantic hand-waving from the committee, who were sitting together in the stand, John Mears (who had played in just about every other position that season) took over in goal and new signing Jim Watson came on as substitute to take Mears’ place.

  Both made their marks immediately – Watson handled in the area and Mears could only help the penalty into the net.

  1–0 to Avenue.

  There then followed a sustained period of attack from Bromley, which was notable for none of the shots being remotely threatening. They went straight to the goalie, wide of the post or over the bar.

  It was the latter I had been waiting for, as I stood behind the goal with the rest of the away supporters. As soon as Roy Pettet connected with the ball, I could see it was going to miss the target by several feet. It soared over the bar and kept going over the heads of the fans, finally coming to rest in a ditch behind us.

  I set off after it, with a plan in mind. No, I didn’t intend emulating the hooligan’s efforts by running away with the ball. My plan was to show the committee that I had the necessary skills to take over from the injured Ian McGuire as Bromley’s first-choice goalie.

  After retrieving the ball, I casually placed it in my right hand and, with a smooth McGuire-esque overarm action, threw it 20 yards or so in the direction of John Mears, somehow managing to not overbalance.

  I don’t know if he caught it, because I was modestly staring down at the ground after completing the throw. I did, however, permit myself a sly glance in the direction of where the committee were seated.

  They showed no signs of having noticed.

  The last 20 minutes was the most exciting period of the entire season, or so it seemed at the time. In the 70th minute, Eric Nottage added yet another goal to his impressive tally, with a tap-in after Watson’s shot was parried by keeper, Victor Bowley.

  Avenue then hit the post.

  Then Bromley hit the post.

  And then, with time just about up, Bowley the goalie (I had now started giving our opponents nicknames) helpfully repeated his earlier error and again knocked the ball into the path of Eric Nottage, who sealed a 2–1 win.

  After the final whistle, I felt elated. I didn’t want to leave and almost had to be dragged back to the coach. I stood staring at the now-empty ground, reliving the goals with a real sense of joy and excitement. It wasn’t like the win against Corinthian Casuals, which didn’t really count. This was a win against a team that had finished near the middle of the table last season. They’d also beaten us twice.

  On the journey home, I declined the usual game of cards. I was too busy working out the projected league tables. My conclusion was that if Bromley won the rest of their games, they would not only win the Isthmian League, but would also finish a record 24 points clear of runners-up, Enfield.

  When I got home, I took the lime-green Subbuteo box which housed the Bromley team from my cupboard and removed the player with a number two painted clumsily on his back. A small, plastic version of Jeff Bridge.

  I then got the thinnest paintbrush I could find – one of the benefits of having an artistic dad – and painted what was meant to be a luxuriant moustache over the right-back’s upper lip.

  It was an acknowledgement that Bromley had turned the corner and the moustache was a permanent fixture.

  Sadly, the delicate touch needed for this was absent and the Subbuteo version of Jeff Bridge ended up with a large brown smudge covering the lower part of his nose, lips and chin.

  He looked as though he’d tried to stuff an entire chocolate cake into his mouth and missed.

  •••

  I hadn’t missed a game all season. In fact, I hadn’t missed one since Leytonstone (away) on Valentine’s Day in 1968, when I was in hospital with appendicitis.

  I hated the thought of missing watching Bromley play, so I had no idea what I was going to do about the next midweek fixture, which was the Ilford match in ten days time. I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to go – I’d already asked. So the only options were to miss it or run away from school.

  The latter had recently been done successfully by another boarder called Daniel Day-Lewis, whose dad was a famous poet. Daniel was a year or two below me and had decided to take off with a couple of friends, for the understandable reason that he hated Sevenoaks School and everything about it.

  He had evidently been forgiven, because I’d seen him around since then. And if he had managed to get away with it, I probably could as well.

  I promised myself that if Bromley won on Saturday against Woking, I would walk out of school on the following Tuesday and take the bus to Hayes Lane without telling anyone. It seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

  •••

  Bromley Football Club were clearly not familiar with the philosophy of never changing a winning formula. As part of their seemingly compulsive need to overcomplicate things, they effectively formed one-man sub-committees to report to the committee, by appointing a coach (Alan Basham) and a trainer (Frank Morris).

  I knew this because I’d saved the Bromley and Kentish Times
for the Sunday evening journey back to Johnson’s and was reading it on the bus.

  There was also news of injuries to goalie/defender/half-back/forward John Mears and winger Eddie Green, whose recent good performances had forced him into third place in my favourite players list.

  They would both miss Saturday’s game against Woking, as would recent signing Bobby Lennox, who was attending a P.E. course at Loughborough College. Unfortunately, this was not the Bobby Lennox who scored in the European Cup Final when Celtic became first British team to win it.

  But such was the team’s form currently, that it no longer seemed to matter if players had to miss games. I was confident that replacements would be found who would slot in without having any negative effect.

  My faith in the committee was absolute. They had turned around a season that was heading for disaster and the team were nearly unbeaten since they had taken over.

  They could do no wrong in my eyes.

  •••

  Back at Johnson’s, I was really trying to fit in, even to the extent of joining in an early Sunday evening game of croquet. But my heart just wasn’t in it and I soon found myself wandering off to the village green, in the hopes I would find someone playing football.

  On this occasion, my luck was in.

  A group of five or six boys were practising shooting – and the really good thing was that the one in goal was complaining loudly about it being someone else’s turn. No-one was volunteering to take his place.

  I stood nervously on the sideline, hoping I would be invited to join in. I did everything short of sticking my hand in the air and jumping up and down to attract their attention. I think it was my loosening-up exercises (which consisted of rotating one shoulder, then the other – like Ian McGuire did before a game) that finally got me noticed.

  I was asked if I wanted to play. After modestly telling them I was a goalkeeper, I took my place between the posts and for the next 40 minutes dived around, making a few saves and letting in a lot of goals.

  It was the perfect way to make new friends. I got back to Johnson’s late, happy and covered in mud.