I
have been a little quiet on the blog front of late. I had a piece largely
written on the Kevin McDonald sale, it had a line in it I was rather pleased
with; pondering the negotiating skills of United's hierarchy, Terry Waite and a
radiator. I even suggested that Jose Baxter would be my ideal replacement. Then
something changed in my life. Last week my Nan passed away. She was 94 and had
been diagnosed with a cancerous tumour at Easter.
I could tell
you what a wonderful lady she was, hard-working, a caring and loving mother,
grandmother and great-grandmother, loved by her family and warmly thought of by
anyone she came into contact with; but this is a football blog and, to be fair,
I am sure everyone thinks those kind of things about their Gran. As a fellow
Blade tweeted at the time, "they are special people" - she was not
wrong.
I can write
something here though because football was a common denominator in our lives,
our chats and was a major part of our time together. Married to my late
Grandad, a huge Blades fan, you could say she had little choice in liking football
and following United, but that belies an
upbringing steeped in football.
With one sister
and five brothers plenty of time was spent on the touchline at Handsworth Rec
cheering on siblings, alongside her mother and Aunt Annie - an intimidating
matriarchal threat for any opposing player who was too physical in the
challenge. She told me how Nagger Jones of Woodhouse, a player with quite a
reputation in local football for physical play, was just one to get an
ear-bashing and a warning that saw him curb his tackles for the remainder of
the game and spend a bit of time on the other wing.
That
touchline role was one my Nan took on when I played for the all-conquering
Handsworth Boys' Brigade team up on Pipworth School fields. The unerring bias
of one opposition manager when running the line was just one of those singled
out for "words". When we needed new matchballs, my Nan and her
friends at her crochet class made and sold items to fund two new Mitre Deltas
which she presented before our cup final triumph at Rowlinson.
Other stories
from her youth included how one of her brothers was threatened with being reported by Father
Bernard the teacher at his catholic school for swearing during a match.
Unfortunately a speech impediment meant that calling the opponents "dirty
cheats" sounded more like "dirty shits", which my Great Grandma
forcefully made understood to the priest after the event.
Two brothers,
Alf and Les, went on to play in United's 'A' team. Alf was due to play with the cup final team
to Wembley in 1936, however his
employers were not for allowing him the time off. In the end he contracted Scarlet
Fever two days before the final and he never regained his place before being
called up for the army.
She
frequently attended matches with my Grandad, around their busy working lives.
Many years later this then included taking me to games in my early years, as my
Dad worked Saturdays and could only go midweek. This was an era defined by
Third Division mediocrity - The Haslam Years and (briefly) The Peters Period.
The last match my Grandad attended was on Saturday 2nd May 1981, United at home
to Walsall, fellow relegation candidates. One down in the last minute, a
penalty is awarded to the Blades. A simple equation, score and United stay up.
Regular penalty taker John Matthews bottles the opportunity to take the
penalty; instead Don Givens seals his place in Blades folklore as he fluffs the
penalty and with it United’s hopes of staying up.
I was six,
watching from the stand with my Nan and Grandad I knew it was bad news but I
didn’t really comprehend the severity of it all. My Grandad took it very badly
and for the following few days he struggled to conceal his upset and
frustration, he never believed he would ever see his beloved Blades in the
Fourth Division. He never did, he suffered a heart attack shortly after.
After my
Grandad died, Nan found the going tough and later said that it was me and my
brother that ensured she had a smile on her face and kept her going. She didn't
attend many matches but what happened every Saturday in the early to mid-1980's
was set in stone. I would wander the three houses up the road to Nan's house
mid-morning. Help her in the garden or potter around the house. Lunch was Fried
Egg and Chips with tomato sauce (rarely anything else) with one eye on World of
Sport on the TV in the corner of the room.
We would
watch On the Ball, me studying carefully the kits of lower league or Scottish
clubs rarely seen in Shoot! Or Match so I could recreate them later. (Reams of
paper I wasted as a kid trying to draw club kits!) Then we would choose our
horses for each race of the Saturday Six (or Seven as it sometimes was); always
Sea Pigeon for me if it was racing, or generally those with a jockey in red and
white stripes.
Then the
radio was put on for the afternoon football and that would provide the
background noise as we joined grapple fans for the latest bouts of wrestling
from a Civic Hall somewhere in the North of England, the radio volume turned up
as they went for an update from Bramall Lane, or whichever ground the Blades
were visiting that day. We sat hanging on every word of the reports and, if the
Blades were behind, hoping that, Radio Sheffield Sports presenter Robert
Jackson's "lucky" brass band music - always played just before twenty
to five - would get the goal United might be looking for.
It wasn't
just United; Nan would sit and watch any football that was on the television,
or other sports that took her fancy. During the Mexico 86 World Cup I was
allowed to stay up late to watch the England group games, but with my Dad in
work early the next day, I headed up the road and stayed up with my Nan
cheering on Bobby Robson's boys.
Together we
sat sullen as England lost to Portugal, and then struggled against Morocco. We
winced as Bryan Robson (then one of my football heroes, although that was later
to change) walked off clutching his shoulder and despaired at the petulance and
stupidity of Ray Wilkins. Thank goodness we could enjoy the 3-0 victory over
Poland and marvel at Gary Lineker's hat trick.
In the late
80's my dad started to take Saturday afternoon's off and so we started to be
regulars at Bramall Lane, getting season tickets for the Kop. Odd times we
would take her, if the weather was fine and a spare seat became available
around us. Sat between us, with linked arms, my dad and I could lift her to her
feet as the Kop rose from their seats expectant at another Blades attack so she
didn't miss the action.
If it was at
a televised match, you can guarantee my post match dissection would involve a
call "home" to my parents' house and an invitation of "your
Nan's here, do you want a chat?" Though she didn't attend many games after
my Grandad passed away, she kicked every ball every Saturday afternoon and
midweek night that the Blades were in action. Speaking to me after she would
say she was tire d from the mental and physical exertions of just listening.
Her radio was
permanently tuned into Radio Sheffield and in recent years she hung on the
opinion of my childhood hero Keith Edwards, the Blades' match summariser. She
trusted Keith; he told it how he saw it, warts and all. Many will disagree with
his views, but for my Nan that was what she went off, until me or my Dad
offered our own thoughts.
Her last
visit to Bramall Lane was on Saturday 10th January 2009. Through the Blades
Superdraw I had won a "VIP. Day" at an upcoming match. There was only
ever one very important person I wanted to take and a few months shy of her
ninetieth birthday we persuaded my Nan to make, what we all kind of knew at the
time, was her last visit to the Lane.
In the modern
world of celebrity the term VIP is used and abused, but that day Mick Rooker
and his colleague Pete Stone treated my Nan like the Queen. It was a bitterly
cold and icy day, the type of day that would normally see my Nan safely cooped
up in front of her gas fire - is there anywhere on earth warmer than being sat
next to the hearth in your grandparent's living room? Yet, despite the freezing
temperatures outside she loved every moment, from the stadium tour, to a walk
on the pitch, the meal, the drinks and then the match.
During the
stadium tour and across the dinner table reminiscences were shared and there
was plenty of good conversation. Memories of watching great players like Jimmy
Hagan, Joe Shaw, Mick Jones, Tony Currie and Alan Woodward. I had been in
hospitality and on tours before, my enjoyment that day came from my Nan's
enjoyment.
The wonder
and smile on her face as she gazed around the ground, much changed over
time, lost in her memories of how it
was, will stick with me. That look of enjoyment never left her face all day and
although the match wasn't a classic, a 1-0 win for United over Norwich sent us
home with an added warm glow, along with the prize we won in the pre-match
quiz.
One of the
last times we properly spoke to each other, before her medication and sedation
left her tired and peaceful, was when I visited her in St Luke's Hospice after
watching United's one all draw with Colchester United - four days before she
passed away. I walked on to the ward and she was propped up in bed, my Mum and
Dad stood either side and her TV was on, which was a rarity in the time she was
there. They had been watching Final Score and so knew the result without me
saying anything. She asked me how they had played. I said "Pretty rubbish
really." "Urgh! Don't tell me anymore…." she replied, shaking
her head gently.
Just like
that game, for much of her life her team under-performed, but at least they won
a major trophy in her lifetime; something I cannot see happening for my
generation. She also watched players of the quality I can only dream of seeing
in red and white stripes at Bramall Lane. We had a common interest and that was
great - "What's going on at Bramall Lane" would often be her opening
sentence. She always liked listening when I called Praise or Grumble -
"they let you talk, they know you are talking sense" - and encouraged
me with my football writing. I will always be grateful for having so much time
with her.
I apologise
for the self-indulgence of this post. Of course there was so much more to my
Nan than just football, but it played such a significant part of our lives and
surfaces often in my memories of time spent with her. Maybe a few of you will
enjoy some of the nostalgia of this piece, for me it is quite a cathartic
experience. In recent years my Mum got many of my Nan's memories and stories on
tape and written down. I hadn't done that, yet it is these memories we should
cling to when we lose a loved one and I don't want to lose them. This is one
way of ensuring I don't.
Thank you for
reading.
