From my earliest years I was brought up, like most of my contemporaries, developing my love of the game in the back streets of a slum area, playing with any sized ball, and sometimes, something that just about resembled a ball! More often than not, we played in teams the size of which could have been compared to an army regiment! The occasions which we got to go to the park and play with a real leather 'casey' were treasured. Anybody who had the luck to own a 'casey' treasured it, nurtured it, and loved it like a sister. Normally, they would last only a season or so because in the main, most of the surfaces that we played upon had only had a brief nodding acquaintance with grass! To own a pair of football boots was also a great joy - not for us a new pair every year. Parents were thrifty in their choice - if they came across a pair in a second hand shop and could afford them - then they were bought - and it didn't matter what the size! No size was too big - Dad stuffed the big bulbous toe caps with paper until we grew into them! Kids from the posher south side of Manchester, and the better schools, hated playing against us - they seemed to be bemused at the sight of 9/10 year olds wearing size nine boots - they thought that they had come across some strange tribe of mutants with oversize feet! Fashion was never a concern of ours - we just wanted to play. I can remember one season in which we played against a team who had had their shirts knitted by their Mothers from left over pieces of wool, and when they lined up, not one of them was wearing a shirt of the same colour! We nicknamed them 'Basset's' because to us they looked like an assortment of liquorice allsorts! We listened in awe to our fathers, grandfathers, uncles, and their friends, as they regaled us with tales of the great managers, players, and clubs of the past, and the great feats which they had all accomplished. With a hunger for knowledge about the game that would give credit to the appetite of a pirahna, we read almost everything that we could; comics, books, newspapers, magazines etc., because in those dear days, apart from the odd radio programme or newsreel clip at the cinema, the written word, and printed picture, was our only way of learning about the game's immediate, and past history. None of our families owned television sets because all the houses in those areas were lit by gaslight. Today, I see young kids with the best of everything; replica kits, designer boots, tracksuits, training shoes, shin pads, 'keepers gloves, proper footballs. Things do come easy for them. They are saturated with football coverage on the television, and watch and listen as the game is dissected piece by piece, by people called pundits, some of whom, have never ever played the game at any decent standard, and even those that have, talk in a manner that would have you believe that football began the day that they started playing. Today's media coverage is full of sensationalism, bias, untruths, innuendo, and certainly does not concentrate, nor report about the game. This does influence kids in a big way as to how they perceive football, and for the most part, would certainly have them believe that anything pre-1992, was not worth reading or hearing about, because whatever happened before then was either second rate or it didn't happen. I smile to myself because it makes me realise how lucky the kids of my generation were. Not for a minute do I begrudge the kids of today their material wares, fair play to them, and if they fall in love with game, all power to them. But it makes me wonder what will fuel their hunger, their imaginations, their passions, and where will they find their romanticism for this great game from?
I have seen so many changes in the game over the years - sometimes it's difficult to come to terms with them. I grew up watching the game standing on the open terraces at Old Trafford. First it was as a young 5 year old, going to watch United's reserve team, and afterwards, I spent the next fifteen years or so, rooted to the spot in various parts of the ground. My position changed according to the rate of my growth, and I think that over the period of those years, there is not a vantage point from inside that wonderful stadium, that I have not watched a match from. It is true to say that today, because of society being the way that it is, kids will never enjoy the sheer elation of the freedoms which we enjoyed as youngsters, to freely come and go as we pleased, without supervision, fear, or hindrance, to watch our beloved football teams.
Oh! how I loved those early days at reserve team games! Initially, I would go with my brother who is five years older than me. In those days, the various schools throughout the City of Manchester, would receive free of charge, an allocation of tickets from both United and City, for reserve team matches. These tickets would be distributed by the schoolteachers on a Friday afternoon together with two red bus tokens, which allowed free travel on the buses. My brother was never really enamoured at the task of having to chaperone me to matches, so after he became quite sure that I knew my way to Old Trafford, we came to an agreement. We would leave home together about 11 a.m., on a Saturday morning, walk to All Saints, and then go our separate ways; him to do whatever he wished, and me to Old Trafford. In those days, there was no floodlighting at Old Trafford, and Saturday games would kick off at 2p.m. during the winter months. My brother and I would meet up again around 5 :30 p.m. and make our way home together, our parents never any the wiser!
I would catch the 49 bus at All Saints, and sit with my nose pressed against the window as it trundled its way up Stretford Road, watching as the crowded pavements full of Saturday shoppers looked for bargains in the myriad of shops along the route. It seems funny now as I think of all the local landmarks which became so familiar along that route. Pauldens at Cambridge Street, Clyne’s Pub, Braun's Pork Butchers, The Fifty Shilling Tailors at Great Jackson Street, the Zion Institute, the Three Legs of Man pub, Burke's Brushes at Trafford Bar. The bus would then go on to Chester Road, and pass Henshaw's Institute for the Blind on the left hand side of the road, and would just past that, the White City Stadium. Salford Docks would loom large over to the right hand side. The Manchester, and Royal Mail Liners would be sitting majestically at their berths on the various quaysides, their funnels spouting smoke skywards as they prepared for their journeys across the Atlantic to Canada. Finally, the bus would arrive at my alighting point at The Trafford pub at Warwick Road. The sheer excitement and thrill of going to Old Trafford has never left me, even to this day. I still get that same thrill, that surge, that expectation, which I experienced as that young child. Most often than not, my arrival at Warwick Road would be over two hours before kick-off time. There would not be too many people around. I would walk down Warwick Road, over the railway bridge with the white painted slogan emblazoned upon its bricks, which were blackened with grime; 'Ban the A Bomb - United we win!' Then onto the brick croft that passed as the forecourt to the ground! You have to remember that the ground had not been open for too long as it had been rebuilt after the damage that it had incurred from the German bombers during World War Two. Although the stadium was rebuilt, the service areas all around the ground, apart from United Road, were non-existent.
I have seen so many changes in the game over the years - sometimes it's difficult to come to terms with them. I grew up watching the game standing on the open terraces at Old Trafford. First it was as a young 5 year old, going to watch United's reserve team, and afterwards, I spent the next fifteen years or so, rooted to the spot in various parts of the ground. My position changed according to the rate of my growth, and I think that over the period of those years, there is not a vantage point from inside that wonderful stadium, that I have not watched a match from. It is true to say that today, because of society being the way that it is, kids will never enjoy the sheer elation of the freedoms which we enjoyed as youngsters, to freely come and go as we pleased, without supervision, fear, or hindrance, to watch our beloved football teams.
Oh! how I loved those early days at reserve team games! Initially, I would go with my brother who is five years older than me. In those days, the various schools throughout the City of Manchester, would receive free of charge, an allocation of tickets from both United and City, for reserve team matches. These tickets would be distributed by the schoolteachers on a Friday afternoon together with two red bus tokens, which allowed free travel on the buses. My brother was never really enamoured at the task of having to chaperone me to matches, so after he became quite sure that I knew my way to Old Trafford, we came to an agreement. We would leave home together about 11 a.m., on a Saturday morning, walk to All Saints, and then go our separate ways; him to do whatever he wished, and me to Old Trafford. In those days, there was no floodlighting at Old Trafford, and Saturday games would kick off at 2p.m. during the winter months. My brother and I would meet up again around 5 :30 p.m. and make our way home together, our parents never any the wiser!
I would catch the 49 bus at All Saints, and sit with my nose pressed against the window as it trundled its way up Stretford Road, watching as the crowded pavements full of Saturday shoppers looked for bargains in the myriad of shops along the route. It seems funny now as I think of all the local landmarks which became so familiar along that route. Pauldens at Cambridge Street, Clyne’s Pub, Braun's Pork Butchers, The Fifty Shilling Tailors at Great Jackson Street, the Zion Institute, the Three Legs of Man pub, Burke's Brushes at Trafford Bar. The bus would then go on to Chester Road, and pass Henshaw's Institute for the Blind on the left hand side of the road, and would just past that, the White City Stadium. Salford Docks would loom large over to the right hand side. The Manchester, and Royal Mail Liners would be sitting majestically at their berths on the various quaysides, their funnels spouting smoke skywards as they prepared for their journeys across the Atlantic to Canada. Finally, the bus would arrive at my alighting point at The Trafford pub at Warwick Road. The sheer excitement and thrill of going to Old Trafford has never left me, even to this day. I still get that same thrill, that surge, that expectation, which I experienced as that young child. Most often than not, my arrival at Warwick Road would be over two hours before kick-off time. There would not be too many people around. I would walk down Warwick Road, over the railway bridge with the white painted slogan emblazoned upon its bricks, which were blackened with grime; 'Ban the A Bomb - United we win!' Then onto the brick croft that passed as the forecourt to the ground! You have to remember that the ground had not been open for too long as it had been rebuilt after the damage that it had incurred from the German bombers during World War Two. Although the stadium was rebuilt, the service areas all around the ground, apart from United Road, were non-existent.
Lazy cnut.