The Diary

17 October 2005: Paying The Price - 1914 And Now.

You only need minimal involvement in the convoluted affairs of the beautiful game, and those who profess to run it to realise there is much more that could be done to return what is, after all, a quite simple form of popular entertainment, back to a reasonable semblance of its former almost-pristine state. Just listening to supporters discussing that self same issue in pubs before kick-off can yield several useful pointers in that direction, and so can allowing the views of those managers and club chairmen less obsessed with monetary gain and local kudos some decent column-space in the more-thoughtful publications, sometimes.

Currently, just about every facet of football, players, administrators, club owners, Aussie TV moguls, the whole cheese, all appear to worship at the Temple Of Mammon 24/7, and because money-led off-pitch activities tend to land in the gossip columns sooner or later, it?s never been a pretty sight. But it wasn?t always so: in what now seems to me a totally different and remarkably innocent age, other, better values, held sway from top to bottom, and instead of indulging in a career-long orgy of conspicuous consumption and reckless hedonism, players were ever aware there were other, nobler, callings on their time which far transcended those of club football, international fame and (modest!) fortune. Service to one?s country in time of war, for example; coupled with a cheerful willingness, bordering on what now seems, in retrospect, wide-eyed naivet?, to make the supreme sacrifice, should the capricious march of international events ever deem it necessary.

Not blind loyalty to a cause, or an unthinking bone-headed ?my country right or wrong? type assertion, remember, but a simple acknowledgment there were principles worth fighting for, followed by an eagerness, manic almost, to set an example to others by competing to be first to sign on the dotted line, as a private soldier, if necessary. And that was how it was in August 1914, some 91 years ago, when a lad called Harold Bache, currently of West Bromwich Albion and England Amateurs, did precisely that.

And it was primarily because of Harold and his extraordinary sacrifice ? no conscription whatsoever back then, remember, semi-compulsion via the Derby Scheme only came in around the time he was killed ? we found ourselves motoring through the beautifully warm and sunlit Worcestershire countryside earlier today. To look at the small stone war memorial that bears not only his name, but those of three other Baches who also served, and take lots of pictures. And ? for me, certainly ? to quietly reflect upon the life and times of a player whose career, in more ways than one, resembled that of a large meteor, the sort that punctures the ink-black night-time sky without warning, the sheer intensity of its brilliance briefly outshining every other celestial body in the night sky, then, just as quickly, fading from sight, and, as in Harold?s case, from popular memory, forever. When you compare Harold?s career with that of another Black Country footballing genius who died young, Duncan Edwards, it?s not all that difficult to find parallels.

Getting down there isn?t a problem, really; you simply take the A 456, the road that skirts the fringes of Halesowen, in the direction of Kiddy. About five miles from the outskirts of that town, you?ll come to a bit where it becomes dual carriageway, and it?s around there you?ll see a small turning to the right marked ?Churchill?. Take the turn, and you?ll end up on a very narrow lane that goes in a wide leftwards arc through the village, and some very smart new houses. Eventually, you?ll come to a bit of a dip in the landscape, and a small wood, bounded by an old people?s home on the left hand side. Slow down, because as you go to follow the sharpish bend round the curve, you?ll suddenly come across the war memorial itself, a modest stone cross-type affair, nestling inconspicuously amidst a small triangle of well-manicured lawn. You?ll find Harold?s name on the side-panel that says ?RIP?.

How do you properly quantify the true extent of what was lost, talent tragically unrealised, not just our football club, but also his numerous kinfolk, scions of a long-established West Bromwich legal family. Harold certainly had a lot to lose by becoming a soldier; an all-rounder (he?d represented his university at Rugby Union, and his county as a cricketer), and, just to round everything off, he was a Cambridge graduate also, and intended to become a teacher, eventually; prior to signing for us, he?d worked in France in that capacity.

We Baggies better know him as a player, albeit only briefly: 12 League and 2 Cup appearances under his belt for us, yielding four goals along the way, before overseas service in Belgium in early 1915 finally claimed him. Prior to his time with us, he?d played for the Corinthians, making 35 appearances for them in total, and netting some eighty-odd goals ? an average of around two goals every game. All that and much more, packed into one very brief but productive life, before he met his end, in February 1916, leading a platoon of ?bombers? trying to retake a British trench lost in a previous German surprise attack. To be so talented, yet to die so young ? and for what? A few sandbagged feet of putrescent ditch, topped with rusty barbed wire, that?s what.

Try as I might, I can?t even begin to imagine any circumstances in which the current crop might feel themselves constrained to do similar. The closest I can come to the circumstances that prevailed in 1914 is the example provided by a promising young American footballer, gridiron code, who, after the Twin Towers attacks, passed on the chance of making himself very rich in their equivalent of the Premiership, to become a Marine, and eventual death during the 2003 Iraq invasion. And I wouldn?t blame anyone, really; society has moved on tremendously since those heady days, when joining the colours just seemed a bit of a lark to most young men.

For starters, it?s almost inconceivable that British people would ever allow their sons and daughters to become part and parcel of such a flagrant waste of human life these days, and saturation media coverage of such conflicts now mean people get to see war like it really is, gaping bullet wounds, torn limbs, pulverised flesh, psychiatric illness, the works. Back then, no newspaper wanting to stay in the game did ?gritty reality?, hence all that raw meat quite happy and willing to jump into the military grinder when bidden. A distance of almost 92 years now severs us from the outbreak of the first conflict, and because the survivors are all but gone, now, only a handful, all centenarians, live on. But I?ll guarantee you one thing. Come Armistice Day, or thereabouts, I?ll be watching our players perform, as per usual, but with a small corner of my memory reserved primarily for one who, unquestioning, gave up so much for his country. There?s far more to life than telephone-number salaries, sponsorship deals, shifty agents, huge houses, fast cars, sexual prowess bordering on the rapacious, ?bling?, celebrity status. Just ask Harold.

Recovered from yesterday?s exertions yet? I?m willing to bet that a considerable proportion of you woke up this morning thinking what you?d witnessed was all part of an unusually complicated and vivid dream. OK, Lady Luck did flash her scarlet flannel knickers in the direction of our players on more than one occasion during the game, but unlike my other half, I don?t believe that was the meat of the story. And who do we have to thank for our Hawthorns deliverance, pray? As far as I?m concerned, it?s a shoo-in, complete and utter. Take a bow, Chris Kirkland. A very busy lad, that one, occupied as he is with what appears to be a bit of a sideline; helping build the new school on the opposite side of Halfords Lane to the ground. Don?t believe me? The next time you?re there for a game, just have a quick shufti at the big sign near to the main entrance to the site ? according to that, the lad?s building the place in cahoots with some other bod!

Seriously, though, superb as Chris was between the sticks yesterday, and so fulsome the praise heaped upon him in today?s media, I?ll bet you anything you care to mention that Sven will only incorporate the lad into his plans for the national side once he?s left the club. The minute he hightails it back to Scouseland ? or, being well down the custodial pecking order there, still, somewhere else - he?ll get a game, just wait and see. It?s the age-old problem again; if you don?t happen to play for a side located in the metropolis, or within the boundaries of the Manchester-Merseyside conurbation, you can forget about turning out for England on a regular basis.

I saw it with The King and Bomber Brown, back in the late sixties and early seventies, and, a playing generation later, with Derek Statham ? anyone who seriously claims Arsenal?s Kenny Sansom was the better of the two must be taking strong hallucinogenic drugs on a permanent basis - and Martyn Bennett, of course. Take time out to natter with The Fart, and he?ll provide you with endless instances when the England selectors - yes, it was a selection panel that called the shots, back then ? suffered geographical embarrassment of the worst kind within minutes of entering that bit of the trunk road system giving access to West Bromwich. Except for one notable occasion back in 1954, when several of our players were called up, no less. The exception proved the rule because by doing so, our weakened state meant the Dingles? title chances were given a considerable boost, just when they needed it. Not that anyone was accusing anybody of anything at the time, mind ? just call the whole affair a series of strange coincidences, yes? Well, if it ever happens to you, Chris, we?ll still love you!

Returning to yesterday?s game once more, how much was down to Robson getting the tactics right, either by accident or design, I wonder? Was Carter simply brought on to shore up the defence, so we could hold on for the single point, his subsequent strike being serendipitous indeed? As I commented after the Bradford game, it was most gratifying to see the penny drop, albeit belatedly, and Kanu used in the ?hole? behind the main armament. Why the hell we couldn?t have done that before, I don?t honestly know. At least we struck oil with that equaliser of his. Some didn?t agree with taking him off during the second half, but as he walked off the pitch, you could see he was knackered.

Well done, also, The Horse, for sheer effort; a solid, professional performance, that, even if the search for goals proved useless. Even at his venerable age, the old nag proved quite a handful for the opposition; that?s what comes of enjoyng a playing career that stretches the full length and breadth of the country. Robinson looked as competent as ever, as did Clem. Even Albrechtsen, who pleasantly surprised me with some pretty neat footwork on the flanks, and Greening, less hirsute these days, but still possessive of great ability. I can?t think of anyone who gave less than their all yesterday. As long as I see full commitment out there on the pitch, I?ll forgive much ? but not lazy and slipshod play, not for one minute.

Would Harold Bache have approved of yesterday?s heroics? Not of Greening?s Biblical hairstyle and full-on facial fungus, I?ll wager, but a solid work-ethic is a universally-admired virtue, and moreover, one that completely transcends any disparity, however large, that exists between life as experienced back in the days when the term ?media presence? just meant a snotty-nosed and acne-ridden cub reporter from the local rag, and ?roasting? a Sunday joint, straight from the oven, and sizzling mightily all the way. Yep ? I reckon that in a far-off dimension of which we know nothing, our former player had a broad smile on his face, come chucking-out time.

What did disappoint me, though, was hearing that awful cacophony of jeers and boos the minute Ronnie Wallwork?s name was mentioned when the teams were read out about ten minutes before the start. Sure, I know the same thing happened the previous occasion we played at home, but that doesn?t make it big or clever, by any means. As it so happened, it wasn?t a classic performance on his part, sure, but he did acquit himself reasonably well, I thought. Some people need to grow up a bit, I reckon. Lay off the guy!

And Finally?. While you?re all marvelling mightily at our deliverance, do spare a thought or three for The Fart, who started yesterday the proud owner of a viral infection giving rise to a bit of a dicky throat, but finished it sounding much, much worse. Perhaps we should forget culling suspicious birds, and cull him instead! No, don?t bother to dust off those bird flu precautions you quietly downloaded from the internet when you thought no-one was looking, just yet; what made matters much worse for the poor old sod was giving the old vocals some big, big licks after we?d scored. Mind you, if that?s the state of his throat after 90 minutes of sheer angst, I absolutely dread to think what The Noise?s vocal chords look like right now!

 - Glynis Wright

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