The Diary

08 September 2007: The Tank, The Tour - And The Shark!

And so we come to the end of a lovely day ? or week, as is your wont. Strange, isn?t it? Only now are we truly experiencing the benefits of glorious summer, just a matter of weeks before the leaves start changing colour, and the local bird population beats right back to wherever it is they spend the winter. A case of tax-exile avians truly ?feathering their nests?, I wonder?

Anyway, whatever the benefits, or otherwise, of spending the winter away from Blighty, back here in the present, I took myself away to Dudley town centre this morning, partly because it was a pretty lovely day for that sort of thing, but also to suss out what the place still had going for it, should we choose to move there. It being years since I?d been in those thar parts, and word reaching my ears that the place had suffered pretty badly in the aftermath of Merry Hill shopping complex opening for business, I decided that the only way to tell was to suck it and see. Which I did.

Result? Yep ? the place is a lot more run down and tatty than I remember it, but there are plus-points, like the market, and an excellent branch of Boots. And there was also a Cat Protection League mobile information point operating on the periphery of the market, a handy stopping-off point, as I did need info about the handling of multiple cats during a house move. As it turned out, I managed to grab a pretty comprehensive booklet: even better was the pleasant discovery that most of the measures I?d already deemed necessary were included in the booklet, so I must have been on the right lines all along.

Tonight, as per usual, it was down to my stepmother?s place, where my big sister, already there, was showing off her newly-acquired suntan. The lucky so and so had just got back from what amounted to a Baltic cruise, with bits of Norway and Finland chucked in for good measure. Even better, so I was told, were the numbers of passengers who were Baggie people. Very important, that: the ship, assuming that the Premiership was the all-important passenger consideration, only supplied Prem results and/or live games on their TV system. Presumably, the link, minus the stuff that really mattered, came courtesy of Sky, but Albion supporters being the resourceful lot they are, weren?t to be defeated ? which is how my sister and hubby were kept updated with all the latest Championship scores and transfer gossip whilst on the boat.

One chap they befriended ? name of ?Bill?, anyone? ? was blind, but had a season-ticket, with a seat up close and personal with the professional match commentators, so he had a pretty good ?running commentary? on the go all the time, and without the need for recourse to the club?s facility. We think this might be a chap by the name of ?Phil?, whom we?ve known for years, and is a regular away, as well as home: uses his lad, now grown, as his ?eyes? when at other grounds. Is it the same bloke, I wonder?

The day previously, we also had business of a Baggie nature, involving Main Branch, and their meeting held in the East Stand that evening. If you were an ?old-timer? like me, then the guest list would have been right up your street: savour such delights as Dave Rushbury, Albert McPherson, Stan Jones ? and, last, but most certainly not least, one Percy Freeman, formerly of Stourbridge FC., then, most memorably, The Baggies, and, after a two year Hawthorns stay, out to the periphery of Fenland, and Lincoln City.

True, ?tis not exactly exalted Albion company we?re discussing, here (but then again, just how do you define ?exalted?, in a footballing sense?), but all four of ?em, in their own way, playing a not-inconsiderable part in the extensive history of our favourite football club. The period we spent admiring the pictures adorning all four walls of the venue was also a productive one: comprising part of what was billed as ?The Harold Pearson Collection?, and loaned to the club by relatives of the great man, it depicted various aspects of Hawthorns life back in the early-to-mid Thirties, and not just the usual sort of matchday action shots, either.

Unusually, what you had was a pictorial record of Albion players in training, undergoing treatment for injuries, playing golf (wow, loved those ?plus-fours?!), travelling to away games by train, indulging in a spot of ?shove-halfpenny?, would you believe, plus, what I believe to be the initial signs of the ?superstar era? yet to come, an evocative picture of two players sitting in what looked suspiciously like a sports model car of venomously-fast proportions. Leave the car as it is, but tweaking the subjects, inserting any two modern performers you care to mention instead, and I guarantee you?d have not a little difficulty telling the difference.

Just one thing puzzled me about that particular shot, though: back then, footballers? wages didn?t stretch much more than the average working-class remuneration, around a fiver a week, so how the hell could our players have afforded to indulge in, what was then, to all intents and purposes, a complete luxury? The very first one ever, in our family, to buy a car only got his (an Austin 7, I believe!) in 1939, and that because he had a bloody well-paid job in the local steel industry.

Perhaps the power of the ?brown envelope surreptitiously stuffed inside the boot? was far more pervasive than even history will reluctantly admit. Not that I begrudge them any backhanders, mind: back then, players were retained only on a year-to-year basis, held totally serf-like in the employ of the club, and, with medical knowledge of sports injuries nowhere near as good as it is today, something as redeemable as a simple cartilage problem could completely finish a player?s career.

There weren?t all that many who could go into a related field, like becoming a sports master at some local school or another (a formal teaching qualification being mandatory for work in State education), or into coaching/management/so-called ?physio? work (I say ?so-called? because very few held qualifications in the subject, and at the time, the FA didn?t specify any), consequently, most finished up either running a pub, with all the attendant hazards, or back on the shop floor. Harold certainly finished in local industry, as there was a picture on the wall to prove it!

Mind you, one thing I did notice about these images were their clarity and freedom from crease marks, grain, etc. Look in any old picture collection, and you?ll generally find that Time has left its mark, but not these. I can only assume that the family have had the originals digitally retouched and mastered, thereby eliminating much of the ?crud?, leaving images pin-sharp, pristine, and with a pleasingly warm sepia tone about them. In many ways, it?s a shame that only a small number of supporters will have chance to properly admire them.

But onto the main part of the evening, which concerned the four guests previously mentioned. Before the start, I happened to notice a sound system set up in front of the top table, and by the look of it, needing someone with a degree in astrophysics to operate it. All necessary to make the miles work, apparently, and the brainchild of Dave Knott, ever-busy road-testing his spanking-new (only purchased the day before, folks!) digital camera. Flashes everywhere, and anywhere you cared to mention ? coo, I didn?t know you were into ?flashing? that much, Dave! But I did like the back screen on your camera, mate: wow, what a big one you?ve got!

Anyway, to business. A couple of announcements, first, one of which was totally serious. As readers may recall, early last season, the Haydens lost their son, Steve, to leukaemia. As part of the ongoing fundraising efforts, a ?Steve Hayden Memorial Dinner? is in prospect, the event due to be held on the 15th of November, the venue (I believe) the East Stand, and the price ?40 quid per person, with a table for ten bookable for ?400. More details as and when I get them: any queries in the meantime, pass ?em on to me via the usual channels, and I?ll see they reach the relevant lugholes.

The Supporters Club are also looking towards reviving what used to be a quite popular feature of the Supporters Club calendar, and that is/was ?The Brain Of Albion Quiz?. Should you feel possessive of a sufficiently nerdish streak to have intimate knowledge, say, of what kind of breakfast our players consumed on the morning of the 1931 Cup Final, or who featured in some obscure Youth Cup tie or other, circa 1949, then this event is most certainly for YOU! Extreme examples, sure, but you know what I mean. As before, more details as and when I get ?em, of course.

Albert McPherson? To be perfectly honest, until last night?s event, the most I?d ever known about the bloke was the fact he used to coach our first team, then, much later, went on to train the kids, winning the FA Youth Cup along the way. That, plus the fact he spent 20 years with us, then 10 with The Saddlers, in a similar capacity. I was quite startled to learn that he?d actually turned down Man United and Villa down in favour of joining us! You simply can?t imagine any of the current, money-mad lot doing that today, can you?

Dave Rushbury? ?Whatever you do, when you come to our house, get out of the car, and come in quick, before the neighbours spot you?.? That was his advice to Don Howe and accompanying retinue, when they wanted to talk to Dave?s parents about him joining the Baggies. The reason? Er ? would living slap-bang in the middle of a nest of Dingles suffice? Dave knew all too well that if the word got around the neighbours, not to mention the local kids, his life wouldn?t be worth living!

Another story from Dave concerns a game at Millwall, in which he played for our first team. Apparently, for ?match? read ?running battle?, and with an opponent who rejoiced in the name of Alf Woods, an undiagnosed homicidal maniac, judging from the mental ?picture? that Dave painted of the bloke. The worst bit was the damage to Dave?s jaw inflicted on the sly when both attacker and defender went for the same ball, right in the Albion goalmouth. Result? A distinctly-rattled upper and lower set, and luckily, considering the location, the referee actually spotting the infringement and disallowing the goal. Incidentally, by the time our hero returned to the Black Country, he looked as though he?d just gone ten rounds with Muhammad Ali.

A brave whistler, that: in those days, it wasn?t exactly unknown for the Den?s clientele to threaten (and sometimes successfully intimidate) match officials with all sorts of post-match retribution. Remembering one particularly notorious midweek game (but not involving us, I hasten to add), the match report stated some home supporter had actually chucked a hand-grenade onto their pitch. I think it eventually turned out to be a deactivated version, but with that lot, anything?s possible!

And so we turn to Percy Freeman, the chap once known as ?The Tank?. Quite a turnaround for the lad, when he first arrived at the club: from the mean streets of Stourbridge to the African veldt, in but the space of a few short weeks. Percy was fulsome in his praise for Albert (then our reserve team coach), whom he reckoned was the only member of the Albion coaching staff who took an interest in him. One lovely story about Percy, just one of many, I hasten to add: when he arrived home with his new club suit, preparatory to travelling to Africa with the first team squad, his parents? first reaction was that Percy had nicked it!

The best story about Percy, though, concerns the narrow escape he had from a shark while on the aforementioned tour. Apparently, at one point, they were taken out on a boat, to catch fish, or, for those that didn?t want to exercise their piscatorial rights, a crafty bit of sunbathing etc. Anyway, intrigued, Percy decided to indulge in a bit of fishing himself, and before long, assisted by one of the locals, he?d managed to catch a tunnyfish (No, I don?t have the faintest idea what they look like, either!), weight approximately 90 lbs. I say ?approximately?, because just as Percy was about to lean over to wield a spiky implement called a ?gaff? to spear the thing and bring it safely on board, a member of the local shark population, scenting a free meal in the offing, barged in, jaws agape.

A flurry of red-tinged foam, coupled with a noise not unlike that of the jaws of Hell closing for business, later, and a startled Percy suddenly realised that not only was he permanently deprived of his prize, the bloody shark had taken part of the gaff with it, too! Mind you, what was even worse was the sudden realisation that had he been a fraction of a second later in fully extending his arm than he actually was?? Quite.

That ill-fated African tour ? well, it certainly did for Chippy Clark, felled by a murderous tackle, from which he never really recovered ? also produced another tale in which Percy featured prominently, and it went like this.

During the aforementioned game, when not only Chippy, but innumerable other Albion players were struck down by a variety of means, the blatant application of fisticuffs included, Graham Williams (who joined the meeting late on, by the way) told manager Alan Ashman that his troops had endured quite enough of the violence over the course of the game, thank you very much, and wanted to take off the ?survivors? in protest. The problem was, though, the game had been organised by the British Council, some lucrative contract work was at stake, and abandoning the game would result in Ructions From On High. Said manager Ashman, with uncharacteristic brevity: ?Don?t argue, sort it?.?

The problem was that the game just couldn?t be sorted. Eventually, things got so bad on the pitch, the local police force had to wade in, and with characteristic vigour, too, applying batons to bonces, totally irrespective of race and creed. Even-handedness of an admirable kind, I suppose, but leaving several of our lot left with rather sore heads, etc. Anyway, eventually, their African opponents, not willing to take the local police on as well as the Baggies, headed straight for the tunnel.

It sure as hell looked as though they?d completely got away with the violence that had marred much of the game ? but they hadn?t reckoned with Nemesis, in the bulky form of Percy Freeman, sitting on the bench, rising like an avenging angel, then whacking each of the opposing players as he ran towards the supposed safety of the tunnel! According to Mr. Williams, at least four ended up completely horizontal, and the rest wouldn?t have enjoyed the experience much, either.

Stan? Well, he turned the whole event into what amounted to a master-class for the Defensive Arts. Nothing to do with Harry Potter, or Hogwarts School of Wizardry and Witchcraft, come to think about it, more about how the role of the defender has changed over the years.

What annoys Stan so much is the way in which defenders are expected to contribute to the attack these days: his argument rests on the fact that by doing so, your own defence can be vulnerable to swift incursions created by losing the ball on the edge of an opponents box. He still maintains that to be properly effective, a defender has to remain precisely that: concerned with preventing goals, or opposing players getting into positions from which a goal could be scored.

When they become part of the attack, as is the norm these days, it is to the detriment of their main role in the side. In short: out and out wingers and defenders are two completely different animals, and like metallic sodium and water, not to be mixed. Certainly, Albert wasn?t averse to that point of view, and the theory did have its points. Whether you could get any modern manager to buck the trend by keeping defenders on such a tight leash, though, is another thing again, in my opinion.

There was lots more, of course, but space and time only permits me to report the essence of what was discussed. Want to hear more? Then join the supporters club and attend meetings! And, with that, it?s a ?goodnight from me?. I?ll be back on Friday night, nicely in time for the Ipswich game, of course. Until then, keep a-rockin? and a-rollin?.

And Finally??. One. Wherever you might be reading this tonight, spare a small portion of your wildly beating heart for poor John Homer, Supporters Club MC extraordinaire. I guess that after last Saturday?s virtuoso display of Black Country command over the spoken word, and all exclusively directed towards members of the whistling code, the gods that look after such people must have decided that Enough Was Enough, and his particular brand of persiflage deserving of instant punishment.

Limping all over the place, he was, yesterday, and his face looking very pained indeed every single time he applied foot to floor. Turned out he was having a nasty attack of gout, poor sod. Excruciatingly painful it is, but one thing I CAN tell you, is it?s not necessarily down to an overabundant intake of naughty things, as popularly believed, just an excess of uric acid in the blood, a biochemical problem you?re born with, if unlucky enough to be a sufferer.

Poor John has my profound sympathies: mind you, just as well for him he doesn?t live in an age where neither symptomatic relief nor effective treatment was available. Back then, the condition could progress to equally-painful gouty ?lumps? forming on finger joints, lugholes, even, then to most other joints, just like uncontrolled arthritis, not to mention the eventual possibility of kidney damage, caused by uric acid crystals acting like little shards of broken glass and wrecking their internal structure. Not that it?s much consolation to our poor bespectacled little chum, in this day and age, suffering like crazy with it. Never mind, John, talk to me nicely, and I?ll get David Mellor ? he likes sucking toes, so rumour has it! - to kiss it better, OK?

Two?. When we got back after Thursday evening?s meeting, we found a message for us on the answering machine. Came from Dawn Astle who, full of the joys of conquest, excitedly announced that her golden retriever ? called ?Astle?, naturally, what else? ? had qualified for next year?s Crufts dog show, the canine equivalent of getting into the Champion?s League, if you like.

I?m damn sure that if he were still alive, Jeff would have been laughing like a bloody drain. Being someone who?d represented the club at just about every level possible during the course of a long and honourable playing career, I?m willing to bet that the last thing he ever thought of was actually seeing his name in lights at a bloody dog show, however prestigious it might be in Society circles!

Three?. About a couple of miles from our place is a spanking new housing development called ?Gravity?. Can?t for the life of me think what attracted me there in the first place!

Four. According to the Mirror, Leicester chairman Milan Mandaric has three people in mind for the vacant managerial job at The Salt And Vinegar Flavour Stadium. The first two, Peter Reid and Iain Dowie, are both experienced gaffers at that level, and with plenty of form for creating successful promotion sides. The third? Our old chum Gary Megson, reason ditto, according to that august organ. He has what?s described as ?The X-Factor?, having led our lot to the Promised Land on no less than two occasions.

This wouldn?t be the same ?X-Factor? that has people applying firm fingers to childrens? lugholes when in close proximity to the aforementioned gent, as he goes about his blankety-blank touchline business, would it? Or, come to think of it, the same ?X-Factor? that seems to come into play whenever a prospective employer of Megson gets in touch with our club?

 - Glynis Wright

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