Now, this is Football!
The FA Cup and the Meaning of Football
Havant and Waterlooville 2 Carshalton Athletic 0
(FA Cup 3rd Qualifying Round)
October 14, 2006
Copyright 2006 Stephen P. Spence
So, how did I end up at an FA Cup third-round qualifying match in a small town 20 minutes down the road from Fratton Park, the illustrious home grounds of Premiership Portsmouth Football Club, nicknamed “Pompey” and today hosting West Ham United and their two exciting new Argentinian signings – Carlos Tevez and Javier Mascherano?
It was no accident. I made a conscious decision to choose this match over all alternatives. I chose it partially because I am undeniably and certifiably obsessive about small club football and partially because, 40 years after falling in love with the FA Cup, for the first time I now have the opportunity to experience it in person.
It’s a full hour before kick off and except for the stadium staff and volunteers busily preparing the grounds for the match it appears I am the only spectator present. I stand just off the pitch in Westleigh Park, the home of the Hawks from Havant and Waterlooville Football Club, and a park where obviously it has been decreed that everything is to be blue. (Sadly for Waterloovillians, no one it seems uses the “Waterlooville” half of the club name.) The Hawks compete in the Nationwide South conference.
Even though by English standards, Westleigh is very young at just 25 years old, it has the feel of a much older ground. Except for the 100 foot wide and 15-row seated stand on the south side, the playing surface is completely surrounded by three-level concrete terraces for standing spectators only. In Westleigh, as in so many other small football parks, matches can be enjoyed the best way possible, standing up.
As I sip my hot chocolate - my recently adopted favourite drink for small-club football - I open up a conversation with the two tea-ladies wearing blue smocks who work in the tiny blue concession stand just off the corner of the playing surface. One tells me that it is a real accomplishment for the lads to make it this far in “their FA Cup”. “Of course, it’s not the real FA Cup” the other says “but it’s still very good for us”. Even though I consider this to be my first ever FA Cup game, I have to assume that the blue tea-ladies would still consider me to be an FA Cup virgin.
The Hawks will today be facing Carshalton Athletic, a club from Surrey nicknamed the “Robins” who currently compete in the lower Premier Division of the Ryman League, relegated at the end of last season from the South Conference. Today’s match is an FA Cup third qualifying round match with the winners advancing to the much more prestigious and highly touted fourth qualifying round. Those fortunate enough to then win the fourth round advance to the “real” FA Cup.
Two new customers make their way to the blue tea hut so I bid farewell to my two new friends in blue smocks and stroll along the blue railing encircling the playing surface in front of the terraces toward the two brick enclosed player benches. I stake out a position close enough to the Havant bench so as to hear the coaches and players on the sideline once play begins.
Players from both teams now begin their slow meandering trickle from the locker rooms under the seated-stands to their respective half of the pitch to begin their warm-up. On the Havant half, one person has taken complete control of the warm up, barking out instructions like a drill sergeant. At first I thought he must be an assistant coach but I soon discover that the warm-up commandant is Dean Holdsworth, a striker with many years of experience playing in the English Premiership, the highest level of professional football in England and arguably one of the top leagues in the world. Holdsworth played for many clubs but most notably for Wimbledon and Bolton. His best two seasons with Wimbledon were 1992-93 and 1993-94 when he scored 19 goals and 17 goals respectively.
At 38 years of age Holdsworth’s role on the squad, judging by his spare tire, is undoubtedly spiritual leader for the boys and food-tester for Manager, Ian Baird. It’s not unusual for ex-Premier players to extend their careers by helping out in the lower ranks, often as an investment toward a future career as a manager.
As Holdsworth puts the Hawks through an organized, structured and spirited warm up, the Robins from Carshalton on the oppositive half of the pitch are notably less engaged and those leaning on the blue rail near me and stretching seem more concerned with their stories oflast night’s party than preparing for the upcoming match. Whereas the Hawks were readying themselves to swoop, the Robins seem content just to sit on the branch and sing.
I have been crazy about the FA Cup since I was a young boy growing up in western Canada. Despite what the blue tea-ladies told me, this in fact is the very same FA Cup competition that culminates in the famous FA Cup Final, the annual spring extravaganza that is one of the most prestigious sporting events on the globe. There are so many teams that enter the FA Cup competition that many of the lower level pairings are played out as early as August simply to ensure there is ample time to complete all of the games by the following May. The stronger, better known clubs do not enter the competition until much later on. The point in the competition at which the top level teams enter the draw for games (or fixtures as they are called in Great Britain), is known as the “FA Cup proper”. Games played earlier than this point, are considered to be the Qualification Rounds, known by Tea Ladies everywhere as “Not the Real FA Cup”.
One of the greatest of football spectacles in my opinion is when one of the lower teams through luck or grit advances far enough in the tournament to play one of the countries more esteemed clubs. The enormity of the gap between the two teams – two teams that would have no other reason to ever compete against each other - provides ninety minutes of David and Goliath wonderment. Just for the possibility that the lower team could make history by defeating a much loftier opponent, these are magical FA Cup moments.
From a young age the FA cup had a special attraction for me because for many years the annual Cup Final match was the only professional soccer game that was televised. One Saturday morning every May, I would reserve the television from my five brothers and sisters and pray that the reception was good – a hit or miss proposition in the days before we had cable. I was spellbound by the enduring images and sounds of Wembley Stadium filled to the rafters with 100,000 standing singing flag-waving supporters. The strong British influence of 1960s British Columbia combined with the annual televised FA Cup majesty tattooed me with both a love of football and affection for the FA Cup.
But, my first exposure to the game of football (we called it “soccer”) was a film night in 1967. My parents, having recently moved from central Canada to the west coast, decided that ice hockey was too expensive and signed up their eight year old son to play soccer instead. Our local club managed to secure a copy of the official 1966 World Cup film. I vividly remember the exuberance and passion that radiated even through the grainy black and white projections at the front of the crowded room. All of my sporting experiences to that point in my young life had revolved around ice hockey and baseball. This new sport was strange and almost mythical. I remember seeing Jackie Charlton kneeling and crying as if it were yesterday after England’s historic World Cup win over West Germany. To a Canadian eight year old in the 60s a sport that could bring a grown man to tears was new and obscure – an incomprehensible phenomenon that although I did not realize it at the time would stay with me forever.
Having finished their warm up, the teams now leave the pitch for final words of encouragement from the coaches in the privacy of their respective locker rooms. More supporters trickle in and I recall the blue tea ladies telling me that although they usually get 500-600 fans out to Westleigh, today’s crowd would be decidedly smaller since “Pompey was playing”. A few more supporters enter through the blue turnstile but with only fifteen minutes until kick off the spectators number no more than at a typical youth match. The fleeting consideration that I might have made a mistake choosing this game over the Pompey-West Ham match occurs to me but then vanishes in an instant. Although I arrived at Gatwick Airport on my overnight sleepless flight from Ottawa just three hours earlier, I could not think of a place that I would rather be at this moment than in this tiny but warmly inviting football park.
At 2:55 pm the players return to the pitch led ceremoniously by the three officials in black. I think I recognize the referee Ashley Slaughter from televised games but I will have to look that up later. Still a small crowd, it now appears that an additional 200 or so supporters entered the park since the end of the warm up.
If there’s one thing you can count on with football matches sanctioned by FIFA (Federation Intérnationalé de Football Association), the world governing body of football, is the game kicking off at its scheduled time. At exactly 3:00 pm Slaughter blows his whistle and the game begins. My heart skips a couple of beats when, fourty years after my introduction to the magnificence of the FA Cup, I am finally watching a game in person.
Now, this is football!
Both teams start in a classic 4-4-2 formation. I am once again a little startled by the angry noise that emanates from the players almost immediately after the opening whistle – anger directed to each other and to Mr. Slaughter. Although I recognize the importance of communication, I find it a little odd that there can be so much instantaneous anger when nothing compelling enough to irritate has occurred.
The game has an erratic start. The defensive ploy of knocking any ball out of your half of the field as quick as possible and trusting the strikers and midfielders to sort it out is a classic English football tactic. Euphemistically referred to in football circles as “playing direct”, it is a system of attack that appears to the uninitiated as unruly but is actually a deliberate attempt to keep the opposing backs under constant pressure. Just one slip-up usually results in a good goal-scoring chance for a striker skilled enough to gain quick control while holding off an opposing defender.
Neither team shows much dominance in the middle third of the pitch with the majority of the game being played from the back line up to the strikers bypassing the midfielders altogether. One good reason for this is the fact that the two Carshalton’s central midfielders are look decidely out of shape. Even early in the game they struggle to stay up with the play. For a brief moment I was almost convinced that the two blue tea-ladies had suited up for the Robins. One of these midfielders Craig Dundas, a big man who appears fresh from a failed Sumo wrestling career was quite deserving of his nickname, “Jelly”.
The Hawks start to take control of the match early, finding little opposition from the Robins in the middle of the field. After just eight minutes, Havant is awarded a corner kick. Defender Neil Sharp pushes up into the box and heads home the corner with little opposition to give the Hawks an early 1-0 lead. The small crowd erupts. Fantastic! My first FA Cup goal after just eight minutes.
Havant has at least two or three more goal-scoring changes before the match is 30 minutes old. Midfielder Mo Harkin in the 23rd minute sends a cracker of a low shot just outside the near post after receiving a through pass from Sharp. Then, just one minute later, Micky Warner also narrowly misses giving the Hawks its second goal when after a brilliant give and go with “Bylsie” (midfielder Luke Byles) he also sends the ball inches wide of the near post.
Carshalton traveling fans although only 35-40 in number are lively and vocal. They have gathered on the terrace at the end of the park behind the goal being attacked by their team, singing and chanting like shrilly Robins with two large Carshalton banners pinned to the wall behind them. As if accepting a challenge, a larger group of Havant fans soon gather behind the goal at the opposite end of the pitch. For the remainder of the match, both sets of supporters duel in earnest vocal competition. As one group starts, the other sings louder, repeatedly returning volleys of song over the heads of the players the full length of the field. Now, this is football!
The Carshalton players on the pitch are showing considerably less creativity than their singing supporters. Each time Carshalton gains possession, instead of mounting an attack, they seem content to give the ball back to one member or another on the Havant back four.
As the first half nears completion the Carshalton players grow frustrated chasing the ball around the pitch with seldom an opportunity to touch it. Their tackles became more violent and deliberate. The Havant home supporters soon begin expressing their annoyance with referee Slaughter for not clamping down on some very tough Carshalton tackles. It seems to me that on almost every aerial challenge a Carshalton player would reach his arm over the shoulder or head of his Havant opponent. But then again, I have been known to too easily adapt the habits and bias of the home supporters.
In one touch-line altercation near the end of the first half, Jelly shows his disapproval with the Havant substitutes for loudly pleading with the referee to caution him for a particularly rough slide-tackles near the Hawks bench. As Jelly gets up and re-enters the playing surface he hurls the ball angrily behind his back slyly aiming at the bench personnel and narrowly missing Manager Ian Baird’s head. I looked at the Havant players on the bench, expecting to see an angry reaction, but rather than player’s jumping up to defend their manager, I see five heads drop in unison and shoulders slump and bounce ever so slightly in quiet restrained laughter at their Managers expense.
Slaughter then blows the double-whistle announcing the half-time break and the players and officials head to the locker rooms.
With the break in the action I return to more esoteric thoughts – the reason behind my fanaticism, my quest for the true meaning of football. Is it possible that small club football and small stadiums reflect something about the soul of the game of football that, for me at least, is not so evident in larger more popular football parks?
I watch top level football on television regularly and do so with enjoyment and undeniable admiration for both player and coach. The affection for premiership football that so many football fans feel is a commercialized affection, a material love that for me seems more of an infatuation than a true love. I would like one day soon to attend my first Premiership match, but I am not drawn to it with the same fascination as I am to small parks.
Football in the Premiership is dream-like. But this much I know for certain, my passion for football is reality-based. It radiates from real people, from neighbours who gather to share the ups and downs of the local team. The Premiership is polished up to shine for the cameras. But, television is as much a creator of culture as it is a view into it. There are no cameras in small club football. Real football – the not so dreamlike football of small parks – reflects a mythological beauty complete with flaws and tragedies. If you don’t see the artistic beauty in flaws – in the weathered cracked face of an 80-year old farmer; in the dilapidated abandoned farmhouse that hints of ancient memories of long-since past occupants – then you may not be able to understand the beauty of small club football.
Sadly, all across the United Kingdom the scratches and blemishes are being polished off the large stadiums. These grand old dames of football, the historic palaces of yesteryear, are being replaced with air-brushed silicone-implanted opulent trophy stadiums in the pursuit of more corporate revenue, higher ticket prices, and higher brow fans. It was a sad day when Arsenal left its revered Highbury, complete with sub-par seating capacity and tiny playing surface, to take up residence in the new larger and gloriously polished Emirates Stadium.
The football castles that it seemed would forever be home to the collective sports memory of all footballers and football supporters are now rapidly being replaced with cold, modern steel skyscrapers. Even Anfield, the venue inextricably linked to the historical legacy of the Liverpool Football Club’s success may soon be replaced. At least in this respect, English top-level football, is no different than top-level North American sports where stadiums older than 25 years are replaced in the interest of progress. In professional sports, economics is suppressing history.
But football history does live on. The very sustenance of nine levels of football in the UK reveals an intrinsic attraction much deeper than the Hollywood-type hopes of stardom and the pursuit of colossal Premiership salaries. The reason behind my passion lives on. Of the four thousand adult matches played every Saturday afternoon in England, very few are played in parks that hold more than a few thousand fans. It is in these small parks, in small towns as well as big cities, where I believe the soul of football lives on.
Small club football holds few dreams of stardom, other than for a very few. It is not about dreams. It is not about what could be or about what once was. Dreams of future or past glory are mostly reserved for the Premiership. Small club football is about the here and now.
Buddhists believe that true enlightenment – true happiness – comes from an appreciation of the moment. They believe that the degree to which a person allows cravings to affect their thoughts and actions will impede their attainment of true happiness. Small club football, although not completely without self-interest, is largely lacking the cravings that so often pit player against player and club against club in the Premiership. Small club football has a more Buddhist-like appeal, an appreciation for the moment.
Big club football is about championships, television revenues, and European qualification. Stadium attendance therefore fluctuates, as in most professional sports teams in North America, with the home team’s success. At small clubs however attendance is determined less by the team’s performance and more by inane factors like weather and conflicts with other events in the community. There is an undeniably strong sense of community in small club football.
In small clubs, supporters are participants and not just observers. Most supporters do not sit but stand on concrete terraces next to or behind their neighbours and friends. They lean against and bang signage boards advertising small engine repair shops and local insurance agents.
The players return to the pitch and I move to the end terrace to be amongst the loud contingent of Hawks supporters. In parks like Westleigh, unlike the larger stadiums where an end section of the stadium is typically reserved for traveling supporters, the fans here gather behind the goal that their team is attacking. This means of course that at half-time a ritualistic migration occurs of team supporters rotating terraces with their counterparts. I did find it a little odd that the migration is in a counter-clock-wise direction and not clock-wise like the English roundabouts.
The public address system informs the crowd that in the event of a draw there will be no overtime but instead the game will be replayed on Wednesday evening in Carshalton’s home park in Surrey. Although I was well aware of FA Cup rules, this eventuality had never occurred to me. The FA Cup is a single knock out tournament – you win, you go on – but games that end in draws are replayed in their entirety. How could I have forgotten? This is one of the most endearing and most frustrating characteristics of the FA Cup. Why did I book a return flight to Canada on Wednesday afternoon when Thursday would have worked so much better? What was I thinking? You idiot!
As the second half kicks off, I see that Carshalton Manager Dave Garland has pushed Jelly up front – presumably to be closer to the tea ladies concession stand. But before Jelly is able to place his first order of sausage and chips, Havant striker Craig Watkins is pulled down in the Carshalton box at the opposite end of the pitch. Rocky Baptiste steps up and confidently drives the penalty kick low to his left to increase the Hawks lead to 2-0 just two minutes into the second half.
At about the 55th minute mark, the match starts to turn slightly in Carshalton’s favour. The loose balls that eluded them for most of the match and the errant passes that defined their game to this point seemed to start bouncing their way. For what seemed like the first time in the match, Carshalton is actually having success penetrating the Hawks back line and gaining goal-scoring chances. But, sadly for them, none resulted in goals.
As if to quell the offensive, at the 68th minute of the match, the Hawks Manager Baird makes his first substitution and sends on the aging Holdsworth to replace Carl Wilson-Denis. The popular Wilson-Denis leaves the pitch waving to the end supporters who sing in tribute: “There’s only one Wilson-Denis. There’s only one Wilson-Denis.” Somewhat lenient, the referee allows Holdsworth to bring on what appears to be an additional player under his undersized jersey without demanding that a second player be removed from the pitch. It is soon evident that despite the extra weight, Holdsworth is still a striker that is capable of game-breaking moves. His touches are excellent and every first-touch sets up a second touch beautifully. Within minutes of entering the pitch, he has at least two goal-scoring chances and embarrasses at least two Carshalton defenders by dribbling past them with ease. Baird’s substitution of Holdsworth for Wilson-Denis proves successful as the Hawks regain control of the match and the Robins are left with nothing but a sad song to sing.
Havant has numerous more scoring chances but no more goals are needed. At the 93rd minute referee Slaughter blows his final whistle and the match is won and it’s on to the fourth qualifying round for the Hawks!
After the players complete their celebration with each other, they turn to us, the loyal supporters of the end terraces. As they jog toward us with hands over the heads clapping in traditional appreciation, we return the favour raising our hands and applauding their fine effort. Once again, it is a moment of community sharing. Now, this is football!
I reluctantly head toward the exit with the others unable to conjure up a valid reason to stay behind. Refreshed and rejuvenated, I contemplate an explanation for this sense of fulfillment that now flows over me. I walk shoulder to shoulder with others, pleased with the result but more enriched by the occasion. We are a procession - a parade of quiet spiritualists leaving the temple enlightened with a replenished vision.
“What is the meaning of football?” I consider the possibility that each of my visits to a small football park could be a pilgrimage – a pilgrimage to nourish my soul and illuminate my fervor. But there is no single Mecca for these pilgrimages of mine. There are many small parks like Westleigh, each a uniquely treasured Mecca offering in its own way a valuable clue to the mystery of the games natural passion.
Many of the hundreds - if not thousands - of small-club football parks in England are nestled unassumingly in residential communities. Each park reflects in some way the characteristics of its community and serves as a temple for its people to share their devotion. If the neighborhood football park is a temple, then the game of football must be that for which the community gathers to worship.
EPILOGUE:
Just fifteen months later, on January 26, 2008, the Hawks played undoubtedly the biggest game in their history. After qualifying for the fourth round of the FA Cup proper, the Hawks drew against mighty Liverpool, a team 123 positions and six levels above them in English football. The match played at Liverpool's revered Anfield was a dream-like event for players and supporters. In a classic David and Goliath story, Havant shocked spectators when in the 8th minute striker Richard Paquette, who I had watched play for Worthing FC in an FA Trophy match the previous year, scored to give the Hawks a 1-0 lead.
(http://soccerramblings.blogspot.com/2005/11/cmon-worth-ing.html)
They later took an impressive 2-1 lead but Liverpool would drew even before half-time. Liverpool fought back as expected and won the match 5-2. At at the end of the game, while the players lingered on the pitch, the Anfield faithful in the Kop, so impressed with the Hawks performance (and maybe a little relieved to have escaped what could have been a colossal embarrassment), saluted their opponents by singing with them the famous Liverpool anthem, "You'll Never Walk Again".
Havant and Waterlooville 2 Carshalton Athletic 0
(FA Cup 3rd Qualifying Round)
October 14, 2006
Copyright 2006 Stephen P. Spence
So, how did I end up at an FA Cup third-round qualifying match in a small town 20 minutes down the road from Fratton Park, the illustrious home grounds of Premiership Portsmouth Football Club, nicknamed “Pompey” and today hosting West Ham United and their two exciting new Argentinian signings – Carlos Tevez and Javier Mascherano?
It was no accident. I made a conscious decision to choose this match over all alternatives. I chose it partially because I am undeniably and certifiably obsessive about small club football and partially because, 40 years after falling in love with the FA Cup, for the first time I now have the opportunity to experience it in person.
It’s a full hour before kick off and except for the stadium staff and volunteers busily preparing the grounds for the match it appears I am the only spectator present. I stand just off the pitch in Westleigh Park, the home of the Hawks from Havant and Waterlooville Football Club, and a park where obviously it has been decreed that everything is to be blue. (Sadly for Waterloovillians, no one it seems uses the “Waterlooville” half of the club name.) The Hawks compete in the Nationwide South conference.
Even though by English standards, Westleigh is very young at just 25 years old, it has the feel of a much older ground. Except for the 100 foot wide and 15-row seated stand on the south side, the playing surface is completely surrounded by three-level concrete terraces for standing spectators only. In Westleigh, as in so many other small football parks, matches can be enjoyed the best way possible, standing up.
As I sip my hot chocolate - my recently adopted favourite drink for small-club football - I open up a conversation with the two tea-ladies wearing blue smocks who work in the tiny blue concession stand just off the corner of the playing surface. One tells me that it is a real accomplishment for the lads to make it this far in “their FA Cup”. “Of course, it’s not the real FA Cup” the other says “but it’s still very good for us”. Even though I consider this to be my first ever FA Cup game, I have to assume that the blue tea-ladies would still consider me to be an FA Cup virgin.
The Hawks will today be facing Carshalton Athletic, a club from Surrey nicknamed the “Robins” who currently compete in the lower Premier Division of the Ryman League, relegated at the end of last season from the South Conference. Today’s match is an FA Cup third qualifying round match with the winners advancing to the much more prestigious and highly touted fourth qualifying round. Those fortunate enough to then win the fourth round advance to the “real” FA Cup.
Two new customers make their way to the blue tea hut so I bid farewell to my two new friends in blue smocks and stroll along the blue railing encircling the playing surface in front of the terraces toward the two brick enclosed player benches. I stake out a position close enough to the Havant bench so as to hear the coaches and players on the sideline once play begins.
Players from both teams now begin their slow meandering trickle from the locker rooms under the seated-stands to their respective half of the pitch to begin their warm-up. On the Havant half, one person has taken complete control of the warm up, barking out instructions like a drill sergeant. At first I thought he must be an assistant coach but I soon discover that the warm-up commandant is Dean Holdsworth, a striker with many years of experience playing in the English Premiership, the highest level of professional football in England and arguably one of the top leagues in the world. Holdsworth played for many clubs but most notably for Wimbledon and Bolton. His best two seasons with Wimbledon were 1992-93 and 1993-94 when he scored 19 goals and 17 goals respectively.
At 38 years of age Holdsworth’s role on the squad, judging by his spare tire, is undoubtedly spiritual leader for the boys and food-tester for Manager, Ian Baird. It’s not unusual for ex-Premier players to extend their careers by helping out in the lower ranks, often as an investment toward a future career as a manager.
As Holdsworth puts the Hawks through an organized, structured and spirited warm up, the Robins from Carshalton on the oppositive half of the pitch are notably less engaged and those leaning on the blue rail near me and stretching seem more concerned with their stories oflast night’s party than preparing for the upcoming match. Whereas the Hawks were readying themselves to swoop, the Robins seem content just to sit on the branch and sing.
I have been crazy about the FA Cup since I was a young boy growing up in western Canada. Despite what the blue tea-ladies told me, this in fact is the very same FA Cup competition that culminates in the famous FA Cup Final, the annual spring extravaganza that is one of the most prestigious sporting events on the globe. There are so many teams that enter the FA Cup competition that many of the lower level pairings are played out as early as August simply to ensure there is ample time to complete all of the games by the following May. The stronger, better known clubs do not enter the competition until much later on. The point in the competition at which the top level teams enter the draw for games (or fixtures as they are called in Great Britain), is known as the “FA Cup proper”. Games played earlier than this point, are considered to be the Qualification Rounds, known by Tea Ladies everywhere as “Not the Real FA Cup”.
One of the greatest of football spectacles in my opinion is when one of the lower teams through luck or grit advances far enough in the tournament to play one of the countries more esteemed clubs. The enormity of the gap between the two teams – two teams that would have no other reason to ever compete against each other - provides ninety minutes of David and Goliath wonderment. Just for the possibility that the lower team could make history by defeating a much loftier opponent, these are magical FA Cup moments.
From a young age the FA cup had a special attraction for me because for many years the annual Cup Final match was the only professional soccer game that was televised. One Saturday morning every May, I would reserve the television from my five brothers and sisters and pray that the reception was good – a hit or miss proposition in the days before we had cable. I was spellbound by the enduring images and sounds of Wembley Stadium filled to the rafters with 100,000 standing singing flag-waving supporters. The strong British influence of 1960s British Columbia combined with the annual televised FA Cup majesty tattooed me with both a love of football and affection for the FA Cup.
But, my first exposure to the game of football (we called it “soccer”) was a film night in 1967. My parents, having recently moved from central Canada to the west coast, decided that ice hockey was too expensive and signed up their eight year old son to play soccer instead. Our local club managed to secure a copy of the official 1966 World Cup film. I vividly remember the exuberance and passion that radiated even through the grainy black and white projections at the front of the crowded room. All of my sporting experiences to that point in my young life had revolved around ice hockey and baseball. This new sport was strange and almost mythical. I remember seeing Jackie Charlton kneeling and crying as if it were yesterday after England’s historic World Cup win over West Germany. To a Canadian eight year old in the 60s a sport that could bring a grown man to tears was new and obscure – an incomprehensible phenomenon that although I did not realize it at the time would stay with me forever.
Having finished their warm up, the teams now leave the pitch for final words of encouragement from the coaches in the privacy of their respective locker rooms. More supporters trickle in and I recall the blue tea ladies telling me that although they usually get 500-600 fans out to Westleigh, today’s crowd would be decidedly smaller since “Pompey was playing”. A few more supporters enter through the blue turnstile but with only fifteen minutes until kick off the spectators number no more than at a typical youth match. The fleeting consideration that I might have made a mistake choosing this game over the Pompey-West Ham match occurs to me but then vanishes in an instant. Although I arrived at Gatwick Airport on my overnight sleepless flight from Ottawa just three hours earlier, I could not think of a place that I would rather be at this moment than in this tiny but warmly inviting football park.
At 2:55 pm the players return to the pitch led ceremoniously by the three officials in black. I think I recognize the referee Ashley Slaughter from televised games but I will have to look that up later. Still a small crowd, it now appears that an additional 200 or so supporters entered the park since the end of the warm up.
If there’s one thing you can count on with football matches sanctioned by FIFA (Federation Intérnationalé de Football Association), the world governing body of football, is the game kicking off at its scheduled time. At exactly 3:00 pm Slaughter blows his whistle and the game begins. My heart skips a couple of beats when, fourty years after my introduction to the magnificence of the FA Cup, I am finally watching a game in person.
Now, this is football!
Both teams start in a classic 4-4-2 formation. I am once again a little startled by the angry noise that emanates from the players almost immediately after the opening whistle – anger directed to each other and to Mr. Slaughter. Although I recognize the importance of communication, I find it a little odd that there can be so much instantaneous anger when nothing compelling enough to irritate has occurred.
The game has an erratic start. The defensive ploy of knocking any ball out of your half of the field as quick as possible and trusting the strikers and midfielders to sort it out is a classic English football tactic. Euphemistically referred to in football circles as “playing direct”, it is a system of attack that appears to the uninitiated as unruly but is actually a deliberate attempt to keep the opposing backs under constant pressure. Just one slip-up usually results in a good goal-scoring chance for a striker skilled enough to gain quick control while holding off an opposing defender.
Neither team shows much dominance in the middle third of the pitch with the majority of the game being played from the back line up to the strikers bypassing the midfielders altogether. One good reason for this is the fact that the two Carshalton’s central midfielders are look decidely out of shape. Even early in the game they struggle to stay up with the play. For a brief moment I was almost convinced that the two blue tea-ladies had suited up for the Robins. One of these midfielders Craig Dundas, a big man who appears fresh from a failed Sumo wrestling career was quite deserving of his nickname, “Jelly”.
The Hawks start to take control of the match early, finding little opposition from the Robins in the middle of the field. After just eight minutes, Havant is awarded a corner kick. Defender Neil Sharp pushes up into the box and heads home the corner with little opposition to give the Hawks an early 1-0 lead. The small crowd erupts. Fantastic! My first FA Cup goal after just eight minutes.
Havant has at least two or three more goal-scoring changes before the match is 30 minutes old. Midfielder Mo Harkin in the 23rd minute sends a cracker of a low shot just outside the near post after receiving a through pass from Sharp. Then, just one minute later, Micky Warner also narrowly misses giving the Hawks its second goal when after a brilliant give and go with “Bylsie” (midfielder Luke Byles) he also sends the ball inches wide of the near post.
Carshalton traveling fans although only 35-40 in number are lively and vocal. They have gathered on the terrace at the end of the park behind the goal being attacked by their team, singing and chanting like shrilly Robins with two large Carshalton banners pinned to the wall behind them. As if accepting a challenge, a larger group of Havant fans soon gather behind the goal at the opposite end of the pitch. For the remainder of the match, both sets of supporters duel in earnest vocal competition. As one group starts, the other sings louder, repeatedly returning volleys of song over the heads of the players the full length of the field. Now, this is football!
The Carshalton players on the pitch are showing considerably less creativity than their singing supporters. Each time Carshalton gains possession, instead of mounting an attack, they seem content to give the ball back to one member or another on the Havant back four.
As the first half nears completion the Carshalton players grow frustrated chasing the ball around the pitch with seldom an opportunity to touch it. Their tackles became more violent and deliberate. The Havant home supporters soon begin expressing their annoyance with referee Slaughter for not clamping down on some very tough Carshalton tackles. It seems to me that on almost every aerial challenge a Carshalton player would reach his arm over the shoulder or head of his Havant opponent. But then again, I have been known to too easily adapt the habits and bias of the home supporters.
In one touch-line altercation near the end of the first half, Jelly shows his disapproval with the Havant substitutes for loudly pleading with the referee to caution him for a particularly rough slide-tackles near the Hawks bench. As Jelly gets up and re-enters the playing surface he hurls the ball angrily behind his back slyly aiming at the bench personnel and narrowly missing Manager Ian Baird’s head. I looked at the Havant players on the bench, expecting to see an angry reaction, but rather than player’s jumping up to defend their manager, I see five heads drop in unison and shoulders slump and bounce ever so slightly in quiet restrained laughter at their Managers expense.
Slaughter then blows the double-whistle announcing the half-time break and the players and officials head to the locker rooms.
With the break in the action I return to more esoteric thoughts – the reason behind my fanaticism, my quest for the true meaning of football. Is it possible that small club football and small stadiums reflect something about the soul of the game of football that, for me at least, is not so evident in larger more popular football parks?
I watch top level football on television regularly and do so with enjoyment and undeniable admiration for both player and coach. The affection for premiership football that so many football fans feel is a commercialized affection, a material love that for me seems more of an infatuation than a true love. I would like one day soon to attend my first Premiership match, but I am not drawn to it with the same fascination as I am to small parks.
Football in the Premiership is dream-like. But this much I know for certain, my passion for football is reality-based. It radiates from real people, from neighbours who gather to share the ups and downs of the local team. The Premiership is polished up to shine for the cameras. But, television is as much a creator of culture as it is a view into it. There are no cameras in small club football. Real football – the not so dreamlike football of small parks – reflects a mythological beauty complete with flaws and tragedies. If you don’t see the artistic beauty in flaws – in the weathered cracked face of an 80-year old farmer; in the dilapidated abandoned farmhouse that hints of ancient memories of long-since past occupants – then you may not be able to understand the beauty of small club football.
Sadly, all across the United Kingdom the scratches and blemishes are being polished off the large stadiums. These grand old dames of football, the historic palaces of yesteryear, are being replaced with air-brushed silicone-implanted opulent trophy stadiums in the pursuit of more corporate revenue, higher ticket prices, and higher brow fans. It was a sad day when Arsenal left its revered Highbury, complete with sub-par seating capacity and tiny playing surface, to take up residence in the new larger and gloriously polished Emirates Stadium.
The football castles that it seemed would forever be home to the collective sports memory of all footballers and football supporters are now rapidly being replaced with cold, modern steel skyscrapers. Even Anfield, the venue inextricably linked to the historical legacy of the Liverpool Football Club’s success may soon be replaced. At least in this respect, English top-level football, is no different than top-level North American sports where stadiums older than 25 years are replaced in the interest of progress. In professional sports, economics is suppressing history.
But football history does live on. The very sustenance of nine levels of football in the UK reveals an intrinsic attraction much deeper than the Hollywood-type hopes of stardom and the pursuit of colossal Premiership salaries. The reason behind my passion lives on. Of the four thousand adult matches played every Saturday afternoon in England, very few are played in parks that hold more than a few thousand fans. It is in these small parks, in small towns as well as big cities, where I believe the soul of football lives on.
Small club football holds few dreams of stardom, other than for a very few. It is not about dreams. It is not about what could be or about what once was. Dreams of future or past glory are mostly reserved for the Premiership. Small club football is about the here and now.
Buddhists believe that true enlightenment – true happiness – comes from an appreciation of the moment. They believe that the degree to which a person allows cravings to affect their thoughts and actions will impede their attainment of true happiness. Small club football, although not completely without self-interest, is largely lacking the cravings that so often pit player against player and club against club in the Premiership. Small club football has a more Buddhist-like appeal, an appreciation for the moment.
Big club football is about championships, television revenues, and European qualification. Stadium attendance therefore fluctuates, as in most professional sports teams in North America, with the home team’s success. At small clubs however attendance is determined less by the team’s performance and more by inane factors like weather and conflicts with other events in the community. There is an undeniably strong sense of community in small club football.
In small clubs, supporters are participants and not just observers. Most supporters do not sit but stand on concrete terraces next to or behind their neighbours and friends. They lean against and bang signage boards advertising small engine repair shops and local insurance agents.
The players return to the pitch and I move to the end terrace to be amongst the loud contingent of Hawks supporters. In parks like Westleigh, unlike the larger stadiums where an end section of the stadium is typically reserved for traveling supporters, the fans here gather behind the goal that their team is attacking. This means of course that at half-time a ritualistic migration occurs of team supporters rotating terraces with their counterparts. I did find it a little odd that the migration is in a counter-clock-wise direction and not clock-wise like the English roundabouts.
The public address system informs the crowd that in the event of a draw there will be no overtime but instead the game will be replayed on Wednesday evening in Carshalton’s home park in Surrey. Although I was well aware of FA Cup rules, this eventuality had never occurred to me. The FA Cup is a single knock out tournament – you win, you go on – but games that end in draws are replayed in their entirety. How could I have forgotten? This is one of the most endearing and most frustrating characteristics of the FA Cup. Why did I book a return flight to Canada on Wednesday afternoon when Thursday would have worked so much better? What was I thinking? You idiot!
As the second half kicks off, I see that Carshalton Manager Dave Garland has pushed Jelly up front – presumably to be closer to the tea ladies concession stand. But before Jelly is able to place his first order of sausage and chips, Havant striker Craig Watkins is pulled down in the Carshalton box at the opposite end of the pitch. Rocky Baptiste steps up and confidently drives the penalty kick low to his left to increase the Hawks lead to 2-0 just two minutes into the second half.
At about the 55th minute mark, the match starts to turn slightly in Carshalton’s favour. The loose balls that eluded them for most of the match and the errant passes that defined their game to this point seemed to start bouncing their way. For what seemed like the first time in the match, Carshalton is actually having success penetrating the Hawks back line and gaining goal-scoring chances. But, sadly for them, none resulted in goals.
As if to quell the offensive, at the 68th minute of the match, the Hawks Manager Baird makes his first substitution and sends on the aging Holdsworth to replace Carl Wilson-Denis. The popular Wilson-Denis leaves the pitch waving to the end supporters who sing in tribute: “There’s only one Wilson-Denis. There’s only one Wilson-Denis.” Somewhat lenient, the referee allows Holdsworth to bring on what appears to be an additional player under his undersized jersey without demanding that a second player be removed from the pitch. It is soon evident that despite the extra weight, Holdsworth is still a striker that is capable of game-breaking moves. His touches are excellent and every first-touch sets up a second touch beautifully. Within minutes of entering the pitch, he has at least two goal-scoring chances and embarrasses at least two Carshalton defenders by dribbling past them with ease. Baird’s substitution of Holdsworth for Wilson-Denis proves successful as the Hawks regain control of the match and the Robins are left with nothing but a sad song to sing.
Havant has numerous more scoring chances but no more goals are needed. At the 93rd minute referee Slaughter blows his final whistle and the match is won and it’s on to the fourth qualifying round for the Hawks!
After the players complete their celebration with each other, they turn to us, the loyal supporters of the end terraces. As they jog toward us with hands over the heads clapping in traditional appreciation, we return the favour raising our hands and applauding their fine effort. Once again, it is a moment of community sharing. Now, this is football!
I reluctantly head toward the exit with the others unable to conjure up a valid reason to stay behind. Refreshed and rejuvenated, I contemplate an explanation for this sense of fulfillment that now flows over me. I walk shoulder to shoulder with others, pleased with the result but more enriched by the occasion. We are a procession - a parade of quiet spiritualists leaving the temple enlightened with a replenished vision.
“What is the meaning of football?” I consider the possibility that each of my visits to a small football park could be a pilgrimage – a pilgrimage to nourish my soul and illuminate my fervor. But there is no single Mecca for these pilgrimages of mine. There are many small parks like Westleigh, each a uniquely treasured Mecca offering in its own way a valuable clue to the mystery of the games natural passion.
Many of the hundreds - if not thousands - of small-club football parks in England are nestled unassumingly in residential communities. Each park reflects in some way the characteristics of its community and serves as a temple for its people to share their devotion. If the neighborhood football park is a temple, then the game of football must be that for which the community gathers to worship.
EPILOGUE:
Just fifteen months later, on January 26, 2008, the Hawks played undoubtedly the biggest game in their history. After qualifying for the fourth round of the FA Cup proper, the Hawks drew against mighty Liverpool, a team 123 positions and six levels above them in English football. The match played at Liverpool's revered Anfield was a dream-like event for players and supporters. In a classic David and Goliath story, Havant shocked spectators when in the 8th minute striker Richard Paquette, who I had watched play for Worthing FC in an FA Trophy match the previous year, scored to give the Hawks a 1-0 lead.
(http://soccerramblings.blogspot.com/2005/11/cmon-worth-ing.html)
They later took an impressive 2-1 lead but Liverpool would drew even before half-time. Liverpool fought back as expected and won the match 5-2. At at the end of the game, while the players lingered on the pitch, the Anfield faithful in the Kop, so impressed with the Hawks performance (and maybe a little relieved to have escaped what could have been a colossal embarrassment), saluted their opponents by singing with them the famous Liverpool anthem, "You'll Never Walk Again".
posted by Stephen Spence at
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