FLASHBACK: RETFORD UNITED 2-1 STOCKSBRIDGE PARK STEELS... LIGHTHEARTED ARTICLE BY THE MOWDOG...

Sunny September, Stomping Stocksbridge, Surly Scoundrel and A Man In Black

2008...

The Retford entrance...

I was aware that the Cannon Park facilities were sparing but I wasn’t expecting such a fine grandstand. I was drawn to it, instinctively, veering away from a likely ‘Groundhopper’, who was mulling over the acquisition of a Retford scarf because he apparently “…had to…” Fine. I noted the ‘Hospitality Suite’ too; a dull, green hut.

Why Cannon Park?

Ah, the Crimean War cannon, that's why...

Huts appear to be stock buildings at non-league level, reminding me of the Primary School ‘permanent temporaries’ of the 1970s and 1980s. Oh, there was a silo, too. Or a tank? Maybe it contained the secret diggings of an incumbent badger, or maybe it was a costume for Mick Godber, appearing nightly as the ‘Tin Man’ in ‘The Wizard of Oz’ at the Retford Little Theatre?

The silo...
Mick's costume.

The Bodging takes a turn at the wheel...

I sat with my badger, The Bodging, to breathe in the North Notts air on a warm September afternoon, with tractors and combine harvesters in full throttle and I mused on how England used to be before B and Q, Wilkinson’s and the closures of collieries. 

Cannon Park, as was...

Neat...

Fine weather...

Net view...

Grandstand...

The spooky door opens...

Both squads were warming up; Stocksbridge Park Steels looked eager to prepare for the fray but Retford appeared to be less organised. Coach Tooth, now at Stton Coldfield Town, of course, seemed more profane than purposeful, leading the motley and cursing crew in a series of knee and heel lifts, followed by piggy-backs. Fortunately, Mick Godber was probably still straining to tie his bootlaces at this time and unsuspecting colleagues were therefore not subjected to the equivalent of bulk cement landing heavily upon their slender frames. The Badgers certainly created a great deal of noise and sputum, accompanied by the strained croup of snoring sows with sinusitis as the projectiles were loaded in throats. 

Nice sign...

In danger of becoming known as the 'Deckchairs', Retford settled on The Badgers.
Thankfully...

There's a man on the hill...

Lining up...

Godber jogged onto the field and found the lifting of heels and thighs just a little demanding and simply, well, kind of, jogged, I guess… Then he stopped and used his role of ‘Assistant’ to ‘discuss’ things and therefore not be physical, avoiding the embarrassment of piggyback-partner demolition. Coach Tooth’s next direct and technical preparation was bellowed out and was translated as: “Have a stretch and let’s get the fuckin’ balls out…”

The legendary Mick Godber (9), goes through a wicked warm-up regime...

More strenuous Godber exercises...

I liked the random, abject Union flag from Stocksbridge; the St George’s cross yellow, not red, with ‘Steels’ emblazoned across the horizontal band and some of their followers sat near me in the ‘stand. The Bodging hid in my bag. I thought, “J’ai un blaireau dans mon sac…” I am fairly certain that the people were friends and/or relatives of Lovell and Sidebottom from the visitors’ line-up. I mused on the length and condition of Retford’s reserve goalkeeper’s hair, making him appear like he had just been led away from fixing the ball-cock of someone’s lavatory, or was auditioning for the part of Shaggy in Scooby Doo’s new Gothic movie. He sported lank hair, long shorts, gloves like those giant hands waved by fans at an American basketball game and the facial expression of a Victorian hay-forker.

Simpkins, right, doesn't look like an estate-agent...

Mick swigs a pint...

There was a sign to the side of the stand, instructing people not to stand on the bank! Bank? This was a yard of tufted verge… And there was a gate. It was ajar… I wanted to enter the Secret Garden beyond. Was this the legendary Mr McGregor’s garden, of Beatrix Potter fame? Intrigued, I had peered through, earlier; it was a wreck of weed and thorn, foliage and nettle, as far as I could ascertain; a veritable badger’s adventure playground… I had covered The Bodging’s eyes and felt comfortable that he was dans mon sac…

The Bodging est dans le sac...

And then he arrived. A bald Steels fan with large head,  gaping mouth, an absence of neck and a souped up loudspeaker for a conversational tone. He sat next to a friend, who soon abandoned the newcomer to stand, yes, on the bank… My new neighbour spread his buttocks across two chairs and rolled cigarettes, which were surprisingly not bothersome and he laughingly exclaimed to a young woman during a polite discussion, “That’s you buggered then…” after learning of her pregnancy. That was funny then, obviously…  As a gold bracelet shook on his right wrist, the creature began to boom his encouragement at the Stocksbridge players, like, “Hoof it! That’ll do!” 

The tannoy system was vaguely reminiscent of the dulcet tones of a school’s summer fete compere, using a megaphone. We were told that after a fast reading of the personnel, he would repeat the teams more slowly, probably at Godber pace, just before kick-off, but in the meantime, they would be posted on the floor, outside the bar, no doubt to be closely scrutinised by an exiting crumpling drunkard. We also learned that Godber was sponsored by the Jellybeans Company. You just couldn’t make it up, could you?

My neighbour was in full voice by this time. “He’s a bleeding arsehole, isn’t he, that ref?” then aimed this comment at Retford Coach Tooth, “Sit down you dumpling…” The Steels’ coach must have thought that bellowing was fair game and so he screamed at his defence, “Keep the fuckin’ thing in play!”

After the break, my neighbour was still galloping down food, when a Retford defender blasted a clearance towards him, maybe having marked him out as a fine and possibly unmissable target and the player was justly admonished, “Mind my chips!” When Retford equalised, the Steels fan shook and yelled, “He had that much space, he could’ve pitched a tent!”

Retford’s female physio’ carried a red carrier bag to the dugout. I have no further comment. The Steels’ coach was nearly apoplectic by the midpoint of the second-half, turned towards the grandstand and took an almighty kick at the surrounding fence, lamenting, “Fuck me, PASS it!”

Some youngsters, possibly ball-boys, were kicking a ball around behind an end wall and it had looped over onto the pitch a couple of times already but when Retford’s ‘keeper spotted their ball on the pitch again, he raced left out of his goal and bladdered it into touch, nearly taking the head off a supporter, forcing his female partner, in charge of a pushchair, to take similar evasive action. Power, it lacked none. 

When Godber decided to take the Stocksbridge ‘keeper out of the game, basically by falling upon him, strait-jackets were needed for the Steels’ coaching staff and scuffles broke out between players as a couple of tackles became juicier and the referee, acting like he was cool on dope or something, just chatted to offenders, like in good citizenship procedures at Primary Schools. The visitors replaced their goalkeeper with a novice, who had to acquire the limping first-choice’s jersey and Retford went for the kill. The injured custodian was applauded by the Steels fans but he ignored them, cursed, swore and began kicking something inside the dugout…

Mick the Matchwinner...

My neighbour was confident that Stocksbridge were going to win or draw, “I can feel it in me bones!” Godber then failed to pass right, the ball bobbled at his feet, he kept trotting and slotted a lovely winning goal, just as five minutes of added-time began. Silence from my neighbour. The game was up. But a man in black had seen enough. He climbed over a number of seats to exit and I mused on his presence. I reckon he was the officials’ assessor and he wore a dark suit, with dark glasses. When the referee reached the height of his charming ability to totally piss everybody off and abuse was darting at him from many directions, I turned to the guy and raised my eyebrows. He barely managed a wry smile. 

The Bodging stayed in his bag, although he nearly escaped into Sherwood Forest when I stopped to urinate on my return journey to Solihull. 

But his team had won…