..at the end of a sporting contest, both teams used to give each three hearty cheers and move on. This doesn’t seem to happen so much any more. Which is a shame.
Back in the old days…
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Musings on the byways of popular culture
Have you watched the ‘Bronze medal’ game? Not only a superb game of football that only lacked jumpers for goalposts – in every other way it reminded me strongly of the countless scratch-side, play until it got dark, final score in double figures games I played in Freedom Fields Park as a lad. And at the end all were smiling, shaking hands, exchanging hugs and clapping each other on the back in a sporting fashion that warmed the cockles. Argentina were not involved.
Defences were not involved either. Was a very enjoyable game, but more like a pre season friendly than a BATTLE FOR MIGHTY BRONZE!
Like I said, it was more like a park game. Defence? Bugger that, just try to get one between the other lot’s posts (I mean jumpers). That’s my kind of footie.
Man, Argentina really took the “sporting” out of sport in that final, didn’t they? It’s part and parcel of Latin American futbol. They have a term for gaining an advantage with deception and cunning (some might call it shitehousing, not for me to say) – picardía – but stuff like Messi’s antics with Cucurella were a bit low.
Maybe in the posh sports, but football has always had its share of tear ups. It’s historically been part of the game – in fact, there’s probably less of it these days, if anything, as contact is more strictly officiated.
To give but a couple of examples: when Brazil met Czechoslovakia in the World Cup quarter final in 1938 the game was so ill tempered that no less than three players were sent off by half time. The ref lost control of the match so profoundly he was never allowed to referee an international match again; there were constant off the ball skirmishes, several broken limbs and multiple players literally had their careers ended through injury.
The “Battle of Bordeaux” lead to public outcry, with French and international press sensationalising the event as a “dark day” for football, with descriptions of “madness” and “carnage” dominating coverage and amplifying concerns over escalating physicality.
And then there’s this, the Battle of Santiago from 1962 – still the high water mark of World Cup violence. Fair to say neither side clapped the other off at the end before retiring to the drawing room for brandy and cigars.
Oh totally, but it’s in full view of numberless cameras now, you’d think they’d think twi…. sorry, as you were.
To be fair I’ve been stupid in games with no cameras, or indeed spectators. It must be infinitely harder to rein in your competitive instincts on a world stage.
I used to lose my mind during meaningless kickabouts. I am a mild mannered chap until I start doing competitive sport.
Meaningless? MEANINGLESS??? Good God, how can say that?
Ours would start mid-morning, six or so a side. Some days that rose to twenty a side, other days a bit more As lunch (dinner in them days) approached and with the score at 30-27 we drifted off one or two at a time – the game never actually stopped. Some kids would go off fishing or to throw stones through warehouse windows or set fire to the piles of driftwood on the nearby beach but the game continued no matter how many players were left . Supper time was a brief interruption but most returned within half an hour to be joined by young men (16 -18 years old)on their way home from work and the game got a whole lot more serious. Tackles were crunching, disputes over the height of the imaginary crossbar raged as did arguments over the actual score -“72-68?”
“Nah, 71-70”.
As the late summer sun descended perhaps a dozen or so were left. Exhausted we trudged our weary way home .
“Same time tomorrow?”
“Got to do messages for Mum first but sure I’ll be there. Did you see that screamer I scored? Doddie never saw it, just heard it as it flew by.”
“Any idea of the final score?”
“119 – 112, I think”
I was playing once in my local park which was about 2 mins from my home. I would have been about 16, there was an older “tough” guy who was about 18 or 19 who worked in the local steelworks. He used to climb over the fence to leave during work hours in order to play, then climb back in afterwards without having to clock off and on again. It was basically our street against his and he took exception to one of my tackles against one of his team mates, after that he confronted me and I ended up on the floor, he then proceeded to kick me continually in the head as I lay there helpless. My team mates were too scared to do anything. After he had finished kicking me in the head I gingerly got to my feet and walked off, I never played there again.
The Welsh valleys are very violent …
I recently started playing Walking Football as a segue into retirement, it’s mixed, some of the blokes are in their 70’s, quite good fun, and I’m unlikely to get injured I thought. Second week in I got violently threatened by a very aggressive female. Back playing with the kids again now, much safer…
I recently heard three goals scored in walking football described as a ‘geriatric’.
Well played!
Very sorry to hear that, dai. Awful.
Are you sure you weren’t playing rugby?
I almost hate saying this but if your teammates were the Argentinian team, I suspect they would have had your back.
Horrible thing to happen.
Thanks both. I have nursed a grudge for nearly 50 years and thought often of revenge. Bit late for that now.
I played rugby too and nothing that bad happened. However friends played for a local team and they played one notorious team just down the valley, where parents of players would often come on the pitch and join in when there was a punch up.
In certain parts of Plymouth those temporarily off the pitch would throw stones into piles of driftwood and set fire to warehouses.
Random violence was never far away – keep yer heid doon and try not to attract attention
“Any idea of the final score?”
“119 – 112, I think”
You were very professional in Aberdeenshire. Any game with more than ten goals where I was from was ultimately decided by “next goal’s the winner”
See that’s why Scotland is so good at football – we’re professional in everything we do, born winners ..oh
Kickabouts are the highest form of football.
When games become sports, I lose interest. It turns into tribal nonsense, and seems to appeal to rough and / or “muscular Christianity” sorts. In the past, the tribe would have killed me for my lack of team support. I also loathe the “win even if you need to cheat” thing. That isn’t winning the game. It is no surprise to me that President Arsehole cheats at golf. (Out of good manners, i will not comment on middle-class footie fans.) I am happy enough to play a game and lose, as I have had plenty of success in my life from which I derive self-esteem, and it might make the person I am playing with happy. I may well beat you in “Scrabble”, though, so watch out. No wonder I was an “odd boy” at school. I don’t think i was made for these times.
Do I detect the slightest whiff of snobbery in your post?
“Rough” or “muscular christian” forsooth.
I played a number of sports competitively to a good level – county, regional – until I was forced to take up refereeing rugby in 1994. I’ve been doing it since.
Your statement is ridiculously reductive. Across my time I’ve met some incredibly creative, generous, urbane, polished people. I have met some people who don’t fit that description, but they haven’t, as your post suggests, been in the vast majority.
Some of them just wanted to play the sport, enjoy themselves, and have a pint with the opposition; others found their joy through winning and competition. And I don’t think that’s a bad thing.
I am seeking to overcome my own partisanship with viewing sport. I don’t know how I acquired it; schools build it in very early with dividing the children randomly into houses/clans/groups and then having competitions, creating ‘war-cries, presenting winners with trophies. So many great memories from this and sport at the highest level seems to need these imaginary artifacts and constructs. But now, I don’t want to feel anger or schadenfreude. I still want the pleasure of distraction that comes from watching great sport.
Put me off sport for years…
School sorted that out for me. In fact that place took the joy out of everything.
The scene in Kes, where Brian Glover takes the games lesson on the football field was more like a documentary, in fact one of our games teachers had more than a passing resemblance to Glover, sadistic bastard. Miserable times.
I went with friends to see Kes coming back on the bus I got off at my stop. The next day one friend said he’d seen Billy Casper get off the bus. Reader I was that boy,
Brian Glover: “Right, we’re Manchester United, who are you?”
Boy: “Well, we’ll be Spurs, sir, then there’s no clash of colours!”
Excellent.
Who are you Sir ? Bobby Charlton, Denis Law’s in the wash. Brilliant !
I think the hate that is being thrown at Argentina at the moment is a bit overstated. They certainly were cynical and unsporting in the final, and I’m glad that Spain won, but it was hardly Battle of Santiago level was it? And Argentina fans with longish memories may remember that (i) kicking the opposition and only trying to win the game after going behind was pretty much what England did against them in 1986, and (ii) there was a time when a Spanish defender broke the leg of their star player and put the boot he was wearing when he did it in a display cabinet.
Argentina seems to have taken over from Germany as England’s nominated ‘enemy’ team (though obviously with fewer opportunities to exercise that enmity). A YouGov survey certainly suggested so, and that was before the semi-final.
Hardly surprising is it, when you consider that a foul by an Egyptian player moments before they scored against Argentina was not spotted (or was ignored) by the referee until Messi complained to the ref and took pains to point it out, thereby ensuring that the goal was disallowed, and yet an almost identical foul by Messi himself on Spence just before Argentina scored their winner was completely ignored.
Two-tier refereeing or just bad luck, the common factor comes from South America and plays in blue and white stripes.
My recollection of playing football in the 70s, 80s and 90s and of coaching it for the last 20 odd years is that football is much better now than it was then. There is still a lot of room for improvement but it is noticeably better.
Parents are a different matter. In my day, they didn’t come to watch matches so there were very few idiots watching. Not so much today and there is a reasonable minority of badly behaved parents.
Back when my lad played (until he was 17) for a local team, I wore the “Respect” hi-viz. I had very little need to do anything, occasionally asking a parent not to smoke on the touchline, asking the players – as they got older – not to swear.
His team came second in the league but repeatedly won the “cleanest team in the league” award, which I was rather proud of.
They were a good bunch and still all get together now, if only to watch world cup matches in the pub.
On reflection, most parents are good. But the small minority of bad ones do really taint a match. They tend to correlate with a coach that shouts a lot and swears plenty as well.
Yes, there was a team in our league with a shouty coach who was banned. He got physical with our team manager at the end of a match after a player was given a red card, our coach stepped in to break it up, their parents joined the melee. The ref told me to call the cops. Keep off The Fens, boys and girls.
Back in the Dark Ages, us schoolkids made our own way to school football pitches all over the city, either walking or on the bus, fair weather or foul (mostly foul).
Not once on a Saturday morning at 9.30a.m. did I ever see a parent on the touchline.
Looking back, I guess Dads were working and Mums were getting dinner ready for Dads coming home at 1230
I tended not to attend home matches as he could get there himself (and him playing in defence, I wasn’t going to miss him scoring any goals). Transport was required for away matches (a few of us parents used to lift share) so I’d watch if I was the nominated driver.
Then the village team folded when GSCE exams got in the way, and he moved to a neighbouring club, and I was required to drive every week (and to weeknight training – I’d go for a walk for an hour).
When I played as a lad, I would walk to home games and then get picked up, with several of the other players, in the coaches Luton size van. We would roll about in the back having a ball. Forget about seat belts, we didn’t have seats.