The Bromley Boys

by David Roberts

  But I was not convinced. Something would happen in the last few minutes of today’s game which would persuade me that he had already secretly signed for Maidstone.

  Just about everything that led up to that incident was pointing towards Bromley’s first league point of the year and maybe even our first win in six months.

  David Wise had put us ahead with a glancing header and Bromley were outplaying the home side so comprehensively that if it had been a wrestling match, Maidstone would have submitted.

  But then John Miles stepped in to change the course of the match.

  First, he missed a cross and Mickey Angel, formerly of Bromley and now of Maidstone, headed past Soper.

  Then, with time just about up, came the incident which had several Maidstone supporters sitting near us literally crying with laughter. There can be no greater humiliation than that.

  It started when Alan Soper came too far out of his goal following a corner and the ball was lobbed over his head towards the Bromley goal. Miles, who was scrambling back, had the simple task of heading it clear.

  Instead, he somehow managed to head it against the bar and then tripped over his own feet and fell back into the net, ripping a huge hole in it.

  He then sat there with a helpless expression and watched, along with the rest of us, as the follow-up shot went into the goal and through the hole that he had just made.

  I leaned over the fence, picked the ball up and rolled it back through the hole to a dazed-looking Alan Soper.

  Once again, Bromley had found a novel way to turn a comfortable draw into an embarrassing defeat.

  No-one knew if Miles was going back to Maidstone or not. But I think we were all hoping that he was.

  At least another mystery was cleared up. I had been wondering why an obscure Metropolitan Sunday League team called Southborough were suddenly getting rave match reports in the paper – often in a prominent position on the back page. Even when they’d lost, they were reported as having been unlucky or outplayed their opponents. And their goals were invariably described as being ‘brilliant’.

  It suddenly made sense when I read the latest match report and saw that one of the Southborough scorers was Tony Flood – the same Tony Flood whose day job was football writer for the Bromley and Kentish Times.

  •••

  We went to the Viva Maria Restaurant for my 15th birthday. It more than lived up to its billing on the front of the Bromley programme as a ‘first class restaurant’.

  I had thought long and hard about inviting Dave’s sister. I’d picked the phone up on several occasions, only for my courage to desert me at the last second. In the end I decided that if I didn’t ask her, she wouldn’t be able to turn me down.

  For my present from my parents, I’d requested record tokens and that was what I got.

  Even though walking was still really painful, Dave and I went to WH Smith to spend them after school the next day. He was pressuring me to buy some Bob Dylan, particularly Blonde on Blonde, which he insisted was a masterpiece.

  I listened to a couple of tracks (each of which seemed to last about 20 minutes) in the listening booth and they sounded good, so I bought the LP. I then looked at what else I could get.

  Now that my skinhead ambitions were on the back burner, the new Tighten Up – Volume 3 LP held no interest, although I was briefly excited to see a track by the Kingstonians on it.

  Unlike at Christmas, I decided to buy records I actually liked. This meant singles. There was ‘Wanderin’ Star’ by Lee Marvin, ‘Temma Harbour’ by Mary Hopkin and ‘Space Oddity’ by David Bowie, which I only bought because he was from Bromley.

  With the remaining money, I reserved a copy of England’s World Cup song, ‘Back Home’, which was coming out at the end of the season. I asked them if they could ring me the moment it arrived. I badly wanted to be the first person at school to own it.

  Afterwards, we went to Debenhams to see The Grubby. He was sitting on a rolled-up carpet, smoking and drinking tea, which, come to think of it, he was doing every time I saw him.

  I arranged to meet him at our usual place behind the goal on Saturday. Despite Bromley’s poor run, our enthusiasm hadn’t diminished.

  We were both excited about the team’s chances, despite us both knowing better.

  •••

  A South Thames Cup game against Kingstonian at Hayes Lane was not an occasion I would have expected to see one of Bromley’s most notorious skinheads angrily striding towards where The Grubby and I were sitting.

  I’d seen him around, but didn’t know him by name. I glanced at The Grubby, whose face had suddenly taken on an alarmed expression. This made me even more nervous. The Grubby was not someone who scared easily.

  The skinhead sat right down beside us. I was getting ready to run. What did he want? If it was money, I would gladly have given him some. But before I had the chance to make him the offer, The Grubby started apologising. Bizarrely, he seemed to be saying he was sorry about a key, which he was handing over to the skinhead.

  Then it got really strange. The skinhead smiled, patted The Grubby on the arm and wandered off in the direction of the exit.

  The Grubby explained that the skinhead was his brother and he’d forgotten to give him their front-door key, which meant he’d been locked out. He knew he’d find The Grubby at Hayes Lane, so had come to get the key.

  The shock of discovering that my hippie friend had a high-profile skinhead brother was immense. It made about as much sense as Alan Basham’s team selections.

  I decided to concentrate on the game, or rather what was left of it.

  The South Thames Cup was probably the least prestigious trophy in football. This was a competition that had started last season, but had carried over to this season as only a handful of first-round games had been completed. The South Thames Cup had been known to stretch over three seasons, which seemed to be down to the indifference of the participants. Just how lowly it was perceived was shown by the fact that Bromley had made the previous final, where they lost 2–1 to Sutton nearly two years ago.

  Now that both Bromley and Kingstonian had run out of excuses not to play, the fixture was finally going ahead. This, I suspected, was only because Mr Arthur Coward, the chairman of the South Thames Cup, had announced that if games weren’t completed by the end of the month, he alone would be deciding who went through to the semi-finals.

  I would like to think being forced to play for such an irrelevant trophy was responsible for Bromley’s disastrous start to the game, but deep down I knew that it was because they were rubbish.

  After two minutes, Alan Soper dropped the ball at the feet of the Kingstonian number ten, who stabbed it home. A few minutes later, it was the number nine’s turn when he took advantage of confusion between Postman Pat and John Miles.

  We were basically out of the South Thames Cup before the game had reached the five-minute mark.

  The visiting number seven added another goal on the hour, but it was completely unnecessary. The damage had already been done.

  The tie was meant to have been played over two legs, but after having to postpone the second leg because of a waterlogged pitch, the clubs apparently agreed that Bromley had no chance whatsoever of overcoming a three-goal deficit and that it would be best if Kingstonian went straight through to the next round.

  Mr Coward gave the decision his official blessing and Bromley’s last hopes of winning something had gone for the season, just like that.

  •••

  Even though my ankle was still bruised and sore, I decided that if Alan Stonebridge could play with boils on his leg, I could play with a bruised ankle.

  I made a great show in the changing room of wincing when I pulled my sock over the injured ankle. This was intended to show how brave I was being as well as setting the scene for my excuse if I didn’t have a good game.

  The disadvantages of my new boots soon became apparent. Every time I tried to swivel, it put a strain on the ankle causing me a
gonising pain. Kicking the ball had the same effect. As did running.

  I was substituted after ten minutes and watched from the sidelines as Hayesford Park Reserves put in their best performance of the season, going down 2–1 to Barnet Reserves after a late, late winner.

  I didn’t like to think about the fact that my contribution was limited to limping up and down the touchline, acting as linesman.

  The following Saturday, I was so nervous cycling down Bromley High Street on the way to Hayes Lane that I barely noticed the pain in my ankle, the howling wind blowing into my face or the cold rain dripping down my back.

  The nerves were because of what could potentially happen to Bromley that afternoon.

  We were playing Barking who had won 8–0 the last time the two teams had met. Back then, Barking were a fairly decent middle-of-the-table side. Now they were in great form. Second in the league, having scored loads more goals than anyone else. Last week, they’d put six past Tooting and Mitcham, who were considered a good team. I shuddered to think what they’d do this week.

  It was a measure of how bad the season had been that I felt enormous relief when I arrived at the ground and saw the word ‘POSTPONED’ pasted over the poster advertising the Bromley v Barking fixture.

  Under normal circumstances, I would have been angry and frustrated. I also would have climbed over the fence, and made my own pitch inspection just to make sure it really was unplayable.

  Instead, I just turned around and cycled home.

  It didn’t really feel like a postponement, though. More like a stay of execution.

  ISTHMIAN LEAGUE HOW THEY STAND

  13TH MARCH 1970

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The following Saturday was Alan Basham’s lucky day.

  It was announced over the tannoy that he had won £5 in the Bromley Football Club 200 Club lottery, which wouldn’t have made me overly suspicious if it hadn’t been for Bromley winger Tony Day winning the previous draw a fortnight earlier.

  Apart from being £5 richer, Basham also had a full squad to choose from for the first time in ages.

  Ginger Warman was back for the rearranged game against Barking, having served his time. So was Roy Pettet, our best midfielder, and Alan Bonney, our best defender. Bonney had announced himself ready to return now that his cracked fibula had healed (my mum, a nurse, told me that it was another word for the calf bone).

  For once, Bromley were at full strength.

  Basham’s luck continued for the whole of the first half, with Barking failing to take advantage of a strong wind behind them, thanks to a combination of poor finishing and Soper brilliance.

  The first half hadn’t produced any goals, which was a major shock. I’d almost let the tea get cold because I was concentrating so hard on the match. Keeping the league’s top scorers scoreless was an incredible achievement.

  Alan Basham’s luck finally ran out two minutes after the restart, when Barking went one up. When they went two up a few minutes later, I was transported back to the terraces at Barking’s Vicarage Field ground earlier in the season where a second-half blitz had left their supporters so dazed that they had lost track of the score. Something similar was a distinct possibility today.

  But just when they needed it most, Bromley got a huge slice of good fortune. Mick Lloyd took a speculative shot from 35 yards out which went high in the air, landed in front of the Barking goalie who had wandered to the edge of his six-yard box and bounced over him into the net. With that kind of luck, I felt sure he’d win £5 in the next Bromley Football Club 200 Club lottery.

  The visitors were so stunned they only scored once more after that, the traditional last-minute goal that Bromley were so fond of conceding at Hayes Lane.

  Not many teams were so bad that their supporters would get a warm glow from a 3–1 defeat, but to Roy and I it felt like yet another potential late turning point in the season.

  The improvement wasn’t just on the scoreboard – the defending had actually bordered on competent at times and the attack looked a lot more threatening than it had in recent months.

  This definitely felt like a shift. Like Crystal Palace, who were improving to the extent that they had a chance to avoid relegation, Bromley were playing as though they didn’t want the embarrassment of finishing last.

  It was then that I realised the problem with Bromley had nothing to do with fitness. The players, like the supporters, had been so crushed by the experience of loss after loss that they no longer believed winning was possible.

  •••

  The only thing that stopped me getting teased about being a Bromley supporter at school had been how badly Arsenal and Crystal Palace were doing.

  But now, both teams were threatening to turn their seasons around. Palace had started to string a few good results together and Arsenal had just had their first win in 13 games.

  It suddenly seemed that I was the only boy supporting a team doing badly.

  More than ever I needed Bromley to win a game. The person who worked out the Isthmian League fixtures seemed determined to prevent this from happening.

  The next match would take me back to the scene of the season’s biggest disappointment – Lower Mead, Station Road, Wealdstone, Harrow, Middlesex.

  •••

  It was traumatic walking into the Wealdstone ground, which was tucked just behind the ABC cinema.

  I was tempted to go there instead – watching Carry On Up the Jungle seemed a far less painful way to spend a Saturday afternoon.

  But I soon felt the familiar excitement and anticipation, when we went through the turnstiles and into the ground.

  This was enhanced when I learnt that Phil Amato had been rested. My theory was that this was a nice way of saying he’d been dropped, because Alan Basham was scared of Amato’s fiery temper.

  Like the rest of the success-starved Bromley faithful, I was also glowing in the praise of the Barking players following the last game. They’d apparently said how impressed they’d been with our defence. As this was a defence that had conceded nearly 100 goals in 30-odd games, it was a rare compliment.

  It was as if it was now official that Bromley were an in-form side, even if that hadn’t quite translated into points just yet.

  Roy, Peter and Derek all seemed to sense we had a real chance. There was a good feeling amongst our small group. Even the Wealdstone tea tasted good.

  Our confidence was partly down to the team’s performance against Barking, partly because of what happened the last time we came to Wealdstone, but mostly the blind optimism that keeps football supporters coming back to watch their team week after week.

  From the moment Ginger Warman kicked off, Bromley played with an urgency and skill we hadn’t witnessed since the winning streak had come to an inglorious end all those months ago. Eric Nottage and Pat Brown both came close to scoring in the first few minutes.

  We were outplaying Wealdstone at Lower Mead – a ground where we had lost every game we’d played in the entire history of the Isthmian League.

  Just before the break, Bromley forced three corners in a row. From the third, Ginger’s cross was glanced past the Wealdstone goalie by Postman Pat to give us a well-deserved lead.

  A lead we held on to without much trouble as full-time approached.

  The defence had been outstanding. I had no doubt that Wealdstone would agree with Barking’s assessment. The Miles brothers were making a big difference and Soper was having another great game.

  I looked at my watch. It was nearly 4.40pm.

  Surely this was it. The first win all year. Our habit of conceding last-minute goals had been dealt with by Basham’s fitness regime. The team were now capable of playing for the full 90 minutes and time was just about up.

  The excitement amongst the travelling fans was immense. We were all whistling in vague approximation of the whistle of Mr CI Boswell (Gillingham), urging him to blow for full-time. He kept looking at his watch. Maybe it had stopped. I hoped not.

&nbs
p; Wealdstone launched a last, desperate attack. Gary Hand, the left-back, scurried down the wing, put in a cross and Dave Swain, their top scorer, broke our hearts with a late, late equaliser.

  A gasp of despair and disbelief came from the small group of faithful Bromley fans. But the disappointment of not winning was soon replaced by the joy of getting a draw. It was our first point of the year and a huge relief to those of us who had feared going a full 12 months without getting a single point.

  I couldn’t help myself – overcome with emotion, I clambered over the fence and ran onto the pitch, making a beeline for Alan Soper. When I reached him, I was suddenly tongue-tied, but managed to pat him on the back and say ‘Well played, Sopes’ (a nickname I had spontaneously given him).

  He forced a smile, even though I could tell he was shattered after coming so close to experiencing winning a league match for the first time in six months.

  I walked with him to the tunnel, which was slightly awkward as I couldn’t think of anything else to say, but didn’t want to leave his presence.

  Eventually I was faced with the choice of either wordlessly following him into the changing room or turning round and going back to the coach.

  I chose the latter.

  •••

  On the way home, I was so happy with the result and the way the team had played that I didn’t even mind all the Esso stations we passed without stopping to fill up.

  The coach dropped me off at the end of my road, where Dave was waiting for me. After filling him in on the Wealdstone game we got home, made ourselves a cup of tea and sat in front of the TV, in nervous anticipation.

  The Eurovision Song Contest was about to start. Like today’s Wealdstone/Bromley game, last year’s contest had ended in a draw, even though Lulu deserved to win. This year, Mary Hopkin was representing the United Kingdom and she was amongst the favourites.

  I wanted Luxemburg to win. The singer was called David Alexander Winter, which meant he and I almost had the same name – mine being David Alexander Roberts. His song was called ‘I Fell From Heaven’ and, although it wasn’t very good, I felt it could easily win. It was the kind of song that usually did well. Dave was a fan of the Irish entry, ‘All Kinds of Everything’ by Dana, which I didn’t think stood much of a chance.