THE LEGEND: ROBIN HOLDER, MIDFIELDER/GOALKEEPER...

The Remarkable Robin Holder

In Sunday football, I preferred to play as an attacking full-back, or as a sweeper but I was most often used as a left-sided midfielder/winger and it was in that capacity that I was 'introduced' to Robin Holder. I was playing for Mere Green FC and we used the Moor Lane Sports Ground in Birmingham, owned by the Lucas Company, for whom I played summer cricket on the same piece of land, which possessed superb drainage. Dutch fans were allowed to camp there during the Euro’ ’96 soccer championships, turning dismal Brum into a bright orange summer.

We were playing against Saints FC, for whom I would sign at the beginning of the following season and we were away from home, on one of those huge areas of nearly-grass, upon which a good number of football pitches had been marked out. Robin, a squat, solid, scowling, balding, bearded fellow was keeping goal for Saints, whose normal custodian was absent and he was simply unhappy, uncooperative and uncouth. His approach to football could be described by one word: evil. 

I chased an inaccurate through-ball into Saints' penalty-area, inside-left channel and the 'keeper advanced to collect the ball. This was my introduction to Robin. As this rugged bundle, bulging in a yellow jersey, one reason perhaps why England goalies stopped wearing them, reached the ball first, around the penalty-spot, he scooped up the ball but spotted me, must have taken an instant dislike to me, lowered his vast expanse of forehead and dived at me, like a human torpedo, butting me directly on the right hip. I looked down at this boar-like creature scrambling about on the ground and aimed a pitying, quizzical look at his vacant eyes. The referee chose to ignore the incident to my utter and quizzical surprise.

Saints then gained a penalty-kick as the half wore on and Robin was vociferous in his insistence to be allowed to take it, which he wasn't and of course the spot-kick was duly and inexplicably missed. Robin bellowed some indistinguishable abuse at the failure of the penalty-taker, at team-mates in general and of course the world. Consequently, when another through-ball was played for me to run onto and was again too heavy, again Robin advanced to collect the errant pass. This time, one of my team-mates was closer in attendance and sure enough, Robin repeated his missile attack and head-butted my colleague in the stomach. Pole-axed, my team-mate of course won the penalty award and Robin let out a typical tirade of abuse at the rather retiring, ashen-faced referee, which exploded something like this:

"F***ing hell, ref, you must be f***ing joking; he  f***ing well ran into my f***ing head… F*** off…” He leaned on a goalpost, seething, red-faced, eyes bull-crazy, still mumbling and was soon easily beaten by the penalty-kick. His reaction was to curse and abuse his team-mates: "That's the f***ing way to take a f***ing penalty, you f***ing load of f***ing b***tards…"

After the break, I nipped in front of him to flick a header from a right-wing centre over his advancing obesity and scored. He threw his gloves to the turf, refused to play on as goalie and had to be replaced by a tall defender. I shot a low 20 yard shot past the new ‘keeper, some minutes from the end to complete a 5-2 victory. And I actually signed for this weird team…

In the return game at our excellent Moor Lane ground, we won again but Robin was sent off for violent conduct, in his midfield role! When I signed for Saints, mainly due to the fact that the guys who ran and played for the team were mainly fellas I remembered from my Grammar School days, Robin and his mate Jack were the exceptions, who proved the rule of fair play. Jack would arrive on a motor-bike and he, like Robin, spoke in a fast, nearly unintelligible Brummie accent but my nephews Mart and Paul, who also joined Saints, would sit in dressing-rooms with me, pre-game, astonished at the ‘conversations’ these two had, with Jack still wearing his helmet. Both would unload the previous night’s beer and curry mix into the generally Spartan lavatory before anyone else could get in to urinate and the smell was usually horrific, generally unbearable. Then they would chat, which went something like this from Robin:

"F***ing cold this f***ing morning, isn't it?  F***ing hell, can't f***ing keep my f***ing hands f***ing warm..."

Jack would nod, they would both laugh at something and we would just look on, incredulous. Now these memorable words were spoken in mumble-form, like the rush of a gale from between his buttocks but because we were able to study 'Mumbleform' during the next few seasons, we sometimes understood what he had almost said… Maybe.

So it was that when Mart, Paul and their mate Broll went abroad for the first time together, it was decided that Robin should meet them at Birmingham Airport when they returned. Not the real Robin, obviously, but a life-sized model of him… Steve, who also appeared sometimes for Saints, but also played for Wolverhampton Casuals Reserves in the West Midlands league, was dating my niece Michelle and they came over to my house one evening for the making of what looked remarkably like a Guy Fawkes ready for the fire on November 5^th. We borrowed a Saints kit and produced the strange figure pictured with this article. I had also had a demi-perm on my very straight hair while the lads had been away, so not only were they faced by their ‘uncle’ with an undoubtedly hilarious hairstyle, but there was Robin too, propped up between the sculptors.  Needless to say, the lads were in bits when they appeared, all bronzed (as Mart would admit, “I can have a handsome week now…”) but they could barely contain themselves…

Demi-perm Mowdog, centre, with the deadly Robin...

Robin was a good player to have on your side, for he would take out the danger of a skilful midfielder, literally… He would usually be cautioned, regularly dismissed, leaving Saints to fight with only ten men, but we were so used to it, we were able to compensate for his loss. He lived near me too and I often wonder what happened to him…