PLAYING SOCCER IN BIRMINGHAM FOR MERE GREEN AND SAINTS F.C.

 

PLAYING SOCCER IN BIRMINGHAM FOR MERE GREEN AND SAINTS F.C.

I preferred to play as an attacking full-back really but I was most often used as a left-sided midfielder or winger and it was in that capacity that I was 'introduced' to Robin Holder.

Playing for Mere Green against Saints one Sunday morning, I chased an inaccurate through-ball into Saints' penalty area and the 'keeper advanced to collect the ball. This was Robin. He was around 5’7" small, overweight, balding and squat. His language was quite horrific and his sporting attitude could be summed up in just one word: evil.

As this rugged bundle in yellow jersey picked up the ball, he spotted me, lowered his vast expanse of forehead and dived at me, like a human torpedo, or charging bull and butted me directly on my 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 surprise. 

Saints were awarded a penalty-kick as the half wore on, Robin was vociferous in his insistence to take it but he wasn't allowed to and the spot-kick was inexplicably missed. 

Subsequently another through-ball was played for me to run onto, again it was too heavy and again Robin advanced to collect the errant ball. 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 won the penalty award and Robin let out a typical comment. A non-playing sentence from Robin would sound something like: "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..." However, those memorable words were spoken in mumble form, like a rush of wind, from between his buttocks and I was able to study 'Mumbleform' during the next few seasons and sometimes I understood what he had almost said…

Anyway, on this occasion, Robin bellowed abuse at an undeserving referee, something like "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 thus easily beaten by the ensuing 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 metre shot past the new ‘keeper some minutes from the end to complete a 5-2 victory.

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…

I had some decent times at Mere Green, but the next season I signed for, er, Saints F.C., which was a memorable, if rather odd team to play for… 

It was unusual if Robin was not cautioned in a Saints game, becoming instead a custom and if he hadn’t riled a terrified referee by eighty minutes, he would become desperate and do something very silly.  He was sent off on several occasions too and we always struggled with ten men. He had a friend called Jack who played as the goalkeeper quite often but really, he was too old to play outfield and so donned the ‘keeper’s jersey just to get a game.  

Jack was unique. Not only did he ride a motor-bike, wear a cowboy hat and boots and have a cynical attitude, he could actually hold a conversation with Robin. They broke wind regularly and then dumped their previous night’s curries in the latrines within the horrific changing rooms we froze in. They would tell jokes to each other but although the rest of us tried, we were never able to understand more than a couple of words they said, as they barked laughter at each other. A typical Robin joke would go something like this but at a manic and unintelligible speed:

“F***king hell Jack, why the f*** did the f***ing chicken f***ing cross the f***ing road?”

“F*** off Robin, I f***ing well don’t f***ing know”.

“To f***ing well get to the other f***ing side, Jack…"

“F***ing good one that, Jack, eh? F***ing good . . .!”

The team was run by guy called Ken, a tall Aston Old Edwardian like three or four of us in the team, but he was indecisive.  

“I’d like, I think, you to play, if you don’t mind Pete, perhaps left-midfield today. If that’s OK? Or perhaps you would rather not? What do you think Pete?”  

Very frustrating.

Loved it…

When my ‘nephews-in-law’ were returning from a holiday abroad, I decided that an effigy of Robin should greet them at Birmingham airport and gods, it looked so like him…