Me 2: football vs KCJS 1986-87
Right from the start, I believed being ok at sport entitled me to being treated like I was a bit special. And right from the start, I was disabused of the notion.
I'm going back to my first competitive sports matches, a football double-header for Colet Court Under-9s vs King's College Junior School, Wimbledon Under 9s. The big one. The derby of derbies.
I remember the sheer thrill of being picked for the team by our esteemed coach, Dave Groombridge (notoriously in the Guinness Book of Records for letting in the fastest hat-trick ever as goalkeeper for Leyton Orient) with his relentless side-footing practise and famous catchphrases (all of which I seem, infamously, to have forgotten, apart from "Play the way you're facing!" which somehow doesn't seem like an evocative catchphrase, just a common football instruction. Oh well).
I was confident I'd be picked despite mistakenly telling him I was left-footed, so keen was I to be so, but mistakes were made in that first selection. I pretty much remember the team - Bozoghmehr - Kesner - Knill - Bonavero - Wilder (Wilder! What madness is this?) - Band - Peters - Clark - McGaughey - Alibhai - Pounder. The classic 4-2-4 formation. Of those, only two of three would remain footballers of any worth within a couple of years, but it's hard to pick between 8 year olds, so I'll let Mr Groombridge off.
Anyway, first was the away game, the anticipation was vast, a coach trip from Barnes to Wimbledon (heady!) and then the first version of that terrible concept that would haunt my sporting youth. "Bigger boys, they're bigger boys! It's not fair ..." They were. We shat it.
[At this point, I was going to interject one of my other "bigger boys, they're bigger boys" stories, about losing 56-0 to Dulwich Under 11s at rugby when I was just 9 (oddly promoted to the team of the year above) and their team containing future England Number 8 Nick Easter, but research has confused me, as it turns out Nick Easter is exactly my age, which would make him the Easter I competed against regularly (he was not so huge then) and make him the fast bowling Easter in one of the darkest chapters in the McGaughey sporting history, the "I don't want to open the batting, I'm on terrible form, does anyone else want to open, what is wrong with you people? I can either open or go 11, right I'll go 11 then, James Matthews is hiding in the toilets and I'm a disgrace to the school? story - I'd somehow thought that Easter was Nick Easter's brother, but maybe it's the same Easter ... but that's another story ....]
Back to KCJS Under 9s. We got mauled. Anticipation turned into crushing disappointment. I hardly touched the ball. Because at that stage KCJS, though bigger, were hardly the finished article, we escaped with a 1-1 draw, but it felt like a loss. This is big time football then, I thought. I'm not sure I'm cut out for this.
On to the return leg. A few changes to the Colet Court line-up. The hapless Wilder was replaced - think there was a Bridge in there. Maybe that was it. A huge - huge! - home crowd watching us. I remember so throroughly I even remember my dream the night before, that in my dream KCJS were wearing pink, not red, that we had David Gower on our team, that we had a Red Number 9 bus as our goalkeeper (years before Mourinho got in on that act!) and that we won 3-1 with two goals by me with crosses supplied by Gower. Thanks Gower. Now get back to Australia for the Ashes!
But the game, it was in danger of being the same crushing disappointment as the away leg. We were beleaguered, and Alibhai (who'd scored the away equaliser) was full of it and squandering what possession we did get with some pure hogging (in years to come, my nickname would be McHoggy, so this is in not a sin for which I can overly berate him). Groombridge told him what's what at halftime "Get the ball wide, Alibhai, we've got some good players out there". Me, I was in quiet, sulky almost-tears, for the first of so many times in my sporting career which carries on even to the odd game of cricket I play now. "Oh, I should have the ball, I should be batting higher, I should be bowling, I should be picked, it's all SO UNFAIR!!!!" How did I ever manage to play any team sports?
So the second half, I'll not pretend I remember any of it except the one moment, the one glorious moment, where I found myself in the right place for the ball to bounce off my knee, on to an opposition player, back on to me, back to him, and then to loop off me, and - oh joy of joys! - into the net.
1-1 it finished. Honours even. The hero was I. What riches were to be showered upon me? I was allowed to go to lunch a few minutes late, and once there, I fully expected to be served first, but Jonathan Gregson, in as droll a fashion as an eight year old can muster, said "Yes, yes, you're our hero, you saved the day, we get it ..." I still remember the words like a dagger to my heart. Why, how, why does everyone not care deeply about sport??? It's a question I'm still asking to this day.
I'm going back to my first competitive sports matches, a football double-header for Colet Court Under-9s vs King's College Junior School, Wimbledon Under 9s. The big one. The derby of derbies.
I remember the sheer thrill of being picked for the team by our esteemed coach, Dave Groombridge (notoriously in the Guinness Book of Records for letting in the fastest hat-trick ever as goalkeeper for Leyton Orient) with his relentless side-footing practise and famous catchphrases (all of which I seem, infamously, to have forgotten, apart from "Play the way you're facing!" which somehow doesn't seem like an evocative catchphrase, just a common football instruction. Oh well).
I was confident I'd be picked despite mistakenly telling him I was left-footed, so keen was I to be so, but mistakes were made in that first selection. I pretty much remember the team - Bozoghmehr - Kesner - Knill - Bonavero - Wilder (Wilder! What madness is this?) - Band - Peters - Clark - McGaughey - Alibhai - Pounder. The classic 4-2-4 formation. Of those, only two of three would remain footballers of any worth within a couple of years, but it's hard to pick between 8 year olds, so I'll let Mr Groombridge off.
Anyway, first was the away game, the anticipation was vast, a coach trip from Barnes to Wimbledon (heady!) and then the first version of that terrible concept that would haunt my sporting youth. "Bigger boys, they're bigger boys! It's not fair ..." They were. We shat it.
[At this point, I was going to interject one of my other "bigger boys, they're bigger boys" stories, about losing 56-0 to Dulwich Under 11s at rugby when I was just 9 (oddly promoted to the team of the year above) and their team containing future England Number 8 Nick Easter, but research has confused me, as it turns out Nick Easter is exactly my age, which would make him the Easter I competed against regularly (he was not so huge then) and make him the fast bowling Easter in one of the darkest chapters in the McGaughey sporting history, the "I don't want to open the batting, I'm on terrible form, does anyone else want to open, what is wrong with you people? I can either open or go 11, right I'll go 11 then, James Matthews is hiding in the toilets and I'm a disgrace to the school? story - I'd somehow thought that Easter was Nick Easter's brother, but maybe it's the same Easter ... but that's another story ....]
Back to KCJS Under 9s. We got mauled. Anticipation turned into crushing disappointment. I hardly touched the ball. Because at that stage KCJS, though bigger, were hardly the finished article, we escaped with a 1-1 draw, but it felt like a loss. This is big time football then, I thought. I'm not sure I'm cut out for this.
On to the return leg. A few changes to the Colet Court line-up. The hapless Wilder was replaced - think there was a Bridge in there. Maybe that was it. A huge - huge! - home crowd watching us. I remember so throroughly I even remember my dream the night before, that in my dream KCJS were wearing pink, not red, that we had David Gower on our team, that we had a Red Number 9 bus as our goalkeeper (years before Mourinho got in on that act!) and that we won 3-1 with two goals by me with crosses supplied by Gower. Thanks Gower. Now get back to Australia for the Ashes!
But the game, it was in danger of being the same crushing disappointment as the away leg. We were beleaguered, and Alibhai (who'd scored the away equaliser) was full of it and squandering what possession we did get with some pure hogging (in years to come, my nickname would be McHoggy, so this is in not a sin for which I can overly berate him). Groombridge told him what's what at halftime "Get the ball wide, Alibhai, we've got some good players out there". Me, I was in quiet, sulky almost-tears, for the first of so many times in my sporting career which carries on even to the odd game of cricket I play now. "Oh, I should have the ball, I should be batting higher, I should be bowling, I should be picked, it's all SO UNFAIR!!!!" How did I ever manage to play any team sports?
So the second half, I'll not pretend I remember any of it except the one moment, the one glorious moment, where I found myself in the right place for the ball to bounce off my knee, on to an opposition player, back on to me, back to him, and then to loop off me, and - oh joy of joys! - into the net.
1-1 it finished. Honours even. The hero was I. What riches were to be showered upon me? I was allowed to go to lunch a few minutes late, and once there, I fully expected to be served first, but Jonathan Gregson, in as droll a fashion as an eight year old can muster, said "Yes, yes, you're our hero, you saved the day, we get it ..." I still remember the words like a dagger to my heart. Why, how, why does everyone not care deeply about sport??? It's a question I'm still asking to this day.
Hilarious!
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