Post by ambersalamander on Sept 10, 2014 13:18:12 GMT
Every non-league club has its characters of distinction. Perhaps big clubs also have these rather wonderful people who are "a bit different" but they get lost in the crowd. But in non-league, they are everywhere and larger than life. You will know at least one personally. They help to give non-league football its flavour and they are all heroes.
Many years ago, we played Lewes away. I forget whether it was a league or cup match, but it doesn't matter. During the secong half, our big striker took a knock during a heavy challenge and was stretchered off. He turned out to be fine though, and sitting on the bench with his teammates by the time the game ended. As we were leaving the ground, an elderly Yorkshireman approached us, doom writ large on his wide-eyed face.
"Your number nine!" he declared in a voice of portentious, quavering dread. "'E's finished!" He accompanied the final word with a sharp, sweeping hand gesture for emphasis.
"We hope not," we said. "Think he's OK though."
"'E's not! Oh 'e's not! 'E's gone off in 'n amb'lance! 'is career's over! 'E's finished!"
We looked at one another in confusion. "He looked fine a minute ago..." my friend ventured.
"NO!" interrupted our hero. "'Is leg's cracked open from 'ere [he indicated his patella] t'ere [his ankle]! 'E'll never play again! 'E's finished!"
"But he's fine," I pointed out. "There he is, look. He's still sitting on the bench, chatting to the others. And he's laughing."
Our man immediately changed tack.
"Your number five!"
"Yes?"
"E's finished! 'E's comin' t'play fer Lewes! You'll never see 'im again! Finished!"
"That's a bit rude to your club, saying someone's finished because they're coming to play for you..."
At that point, Yorkie scuttled off to accost more away fans and relay his messages of doom. Several of my pals later told me he'd said exactly the same things to them. They weren't true, fortunately.
A few years later, fairly recently, we were at Lewes again. "You'll never guess who's here!" someone said. It was he.
As we passed him, he swivelled around and fixed us with those bulging eyes of doom. "Your centr'aaf!" he announced. "'E's bin suspended fer six weeks fer talkin' back to t'referee!"
"Really?"
"You know your manager?"
"...Yes?"
"I spoke to 'im. 'E's bin sent to t'stands! 'E's not allowed back for t'rest of t'season!"
"Umm, why's that?"
"'E were 'avin' a go at t'ref! 'E'll be in trouble fer that, y'know!"
And nor were these things true.
Last night, we visited Whitehawk for a league game. Whitehawk is beautifully tinpot, way above the usual standards of the Conference South. In the bar at half time, my friend texted me to say he'd spotted none other than our old Lewes friend. I went to investigate and found the man himself addressing some of our fans, who were shrinking back in apparent fear.We happened to pass him later on our way out of the ground.
"Hey!" he called. "You know your player what got sent off on Saturday?"
For someone usually so wide of the mark, he was surprisingly accurate in this instance.
"Yes? You mean our number 8?"
"That's 'im! 'E's bin suspended fer three months!"
"Really?"
"Oh yes! 'E's got a summons from the FA! E'll 'aff ter pay a fine. Three, four 'undred pound! 'E's in big trouble! They might ban 'im fer life!"
The sending-off in question, by the way, was for two not unjustified but not particularly severe yellow card offences.
My friend said, "Wel, maybe they should ban players for life if they do REALLY bad things."
"Yes! That's right! They'll ban 'im for life! You wait!"
"Well, let's see."
"And you know your number four?"
"indeed we do." Michael Spillane had had an excellent game.
Our hero puffed himself up to his full height to deliver his final flourish. "He's FINISHED!"
Without any further explanation, he turned away and hobbled over to a car where two chaps were calling out "Come on Yorkie, hurry up! We've got to go!"
It is people like him who make non-league football what it is.
Many years ago, we played Lewes away. I forget whether it was a league or cup match, but it doesn't matter. During the secong half, our big striker took a knock during a heavy challenge and was stretchered off. He turned out to be fine though, and sitting on the bench with his teammates by the time the game ended. As we were leaving the ground, an elderly Yorkshireman approached us, doom writ large on his wide-eyed face.
"Your number nine!" he declared in a voice of portentious, quavering dread. "'E's finished!" He accompanied the final word with a sharp, sweeping hand gesture for emphasis.
"We hope not," we said. "Think he's OK though."
"'E's not! Oh 'e's not! 'E's gone off in 'n amb'lance! 'is career's over! 'E's finished!"
We looked at one another in confusion. "He looked fine a minute ago..." my friend ventured.
"NO!" interrupted our hero. "'Is leg's cracked open from 'ere [he indicated his patella] t'ere [his ankle]! 'E'll never play again! 'E's finished!"
"But he's fine," I pointed out. "There he is, look. He's still sitting on the bench, chatting to the others. And he's laughing."
Our man immediately changed tack.
"Your number five!"
"Yes?"
"E's finished! 'E's comin' t'play fer Lewes! You'll never see 'im again! Finished!"
"That's a bit rude to your club, saying someone's finished because they're coming to play for you..."
At that point, Yorkie scuttled off to accost more away fans and relay his messages of doom. Several of my pals later told me he'd said exactly the same things to them. They weren't true, fortunately.
A few years later, fairly recently, we were at Lewes again. "You'll never guess who's here!" someone said. It was he.
As we passed him, he swivelled around and fixed us with those bulging eyes of doom. "Your centr'aaf!" he announced. "'E's bin suspended fer six weeks fer talkin' back to t'referee!"
"Really?"
"You know your manager?"
"...Yes?"
"I spoke to 'im. 'E's bin sent to t'stands! 'E's not allowed back for t'rest of t'season!"
"Umm, why's that?"
"'E were 'avin' a go at t'ref! 'E'll be in trouble fer that, y'know!"
And nor were these things true.
Last night, we visited Whitehawk for a league game. Whitehawk is beautifully tinpot, way above the usual standards of the Conference South. In the bar at half time, my friend texted me to say he'd spotted none other than our old Lewes friend. I went to investigate and found the man himself addressing some of our fans, who were shrinking back in apparent fear.We happened to pass him later on our way out of the ground.
"Hey!" he called. "You know your player what got sent off on Saturday?"
For someone usually so wide of the mark, he was surprisingly accurate in this instance.
"Yes? You mean our number 8?"
"That's 'im! 'E's bin suspended fer three months!"
"Really?"
"Oh yes! 'E's got a summons from the FA! E'll 'aff ter pay a fine. Three, four 'undred pound! 'E's in big trouble! They might ban 'im fer life!"
The sending-off in question, by the way, was for two not unjustified but not particularly severe yellow card offences.
My friend said, "Wel, maybe they should ban players for life if they do REALLY bad things."
"Yes! That's right! They'll ban 'im for life! You wait!"
"Well, let's see."
"And you know your number four?"
"indeed we do." Michael Spillane had had an excellent game.
Our hero puffed himself up to his full height to deliver his final flourish. "He's FINISHED!"
Without any further explanation, he turned away and hobbled over to a car where two chaps were calling out "Come on Yorkie, hurry up! We've got to go!"
It is people like him who make non-league football what it is.