Nearly Reach the Sky (25 page)

If only that bloke hadn’t shambled off again; you might turn around after all and astonish him with your encyclopaedic knowledge of floodlighting at Upton Park, which you picked up from the brilliant book your wife got you for your birthday. (You must remember to see if the author has written anything else and ask for it at Christmas.)

You could recount, for a start, the fact that West Ham first played under lights at Upton Park in April 1953 when we beat Tottenham 2–1 in a friendly. At that stage, floodlighting was still considered too unreliable for League games.

The lights did famously fail more than forty years later but that was down to skulduggery rather than technical problems. We had
just come back from 2–0 down against Palace to equalise in the sixtieth minute when the ground was plunged into darkness. No one could find a shilling for the meter, which meant the game had to be abandoned and a crooked betting syndicate based in the Far East who had gone for the draw cleaned up. (Don’t be tempted to try this yourself. UK bookmakers do not pay out on games that are called off – unless you’ve actually backed them to be abandoned, in which case you are liable to find yourself talking to the Serious Fraud Office under caution.)

You could also dazzle the bloke behind with your new-found knowledge that Arnold Hills, the man who made West Ham possible, experimented with floodlighting when he founded Thames Ironworks FC back in 1895. The first night game took place nine days before Christmas. Apparently there were ten lights, each said to have the power of 2,000 candles, and the ball was dipped in a bucket of whitewash beforehand. Come to think of it, you’ll dip that guy’s balls in a bucket of whitewash if he kicks the back of your seat again when he gets back from the gents.

You savour that thought as you think back to some of those classic encounters under the floodlights at Upton Park. Back in the ’70s and ’80s you had some fantastic games against European sides with exotic names like Ararat Yerevan, Dinamo Tbilisi and Politehnica Timisoara. More recently there was that 4–0 thrashing of Man Utd in the snow when Jonathan Spector played like Pelé. And there was the 2–0 victory in the second leg of the play-off semi-final against Ipswich that took us to the Millennium Stadium – God, the ground was rocking that night.

Then you recall an evening that helps to explain why the bond between you and West Ham will never be broken.

Your parents-in-law lived a five-minute walk from the ground and you often went to games from there. Your mother-in-law wasn’t as young as she used to be, so you offered to cook the evening meal she insisted you ate before going to football. You did a shepherd’s pie – one of her favourites. She wasn’t an easy woman to please and looked suspiciously at some of the things you threw into the mix. But she loved it! You got a hug and were told that you were a mate. Compliments from your mum-in-law just didn’t come any higher than that! As you dodged the traffic crossing the Barking Road on the way to the game it was as if you were a winner already. When Stuart Slater went on to inspire a sixth-round FA Cup victory against Everton, the bloke in the seat next to you forgot the usual English conventions about how total strangers are supposed to behave towards one another and you got your second hug of the evening in celebration of the winning goal. He bent your glasses, but you didn’t mind. Life doesn’t get much better than that…

My favourite game under lights? Sorry, I was miles away there. Nice of you to ask. Actually, it was a League Cup tie against the all-conquering Liverpool. It was many years ago now but I can still picture the goals as if the game were played yesterday. More interestingly, perhaps, I recall the feeling of total confidence that we would win. Without wishing to wax too lyrical here, it enveloped me like a warm blanket on a chilly November evening.

This was Liverpool, right? They were the reigning champions. And back in those days the big boys didn’t put out weakened teams in Cup games – they wanted to win. In the League we were deep in relegation trouble. Even so, well before we took our seats in the West Stand I just knew we were going to triumph that night. It wasn’t hope – it was absolute certainty. A rare sensation
for any West Ham supporter, I admit. But it’s a fantastic feeling when it happens.

My optimism was well founded. With Alan Devonshire playing brilliantly on the flank and Liam Brady demonstrating all his old skill in midfield, we took the Scousers apart. The first goal was truly sensational. I was in line with Paul Ince when he hit the volley from the edge of the box – if he’d leapt much higher he would have been considered a danger to passing aircraft – and then struck the ball as sweetly as any ball has been struck before or since. Minutes later we were two up – Ince again, this time with his head. The boy was clearly destined to be a West Ham legend. It was obvious to anyone with eyes to see that only by doing something sensationally stupid would he be denied his rightful place in the pantheon of Upton Park greats. (Oh, I don’t know what exactly – being photographed in another club’s shirt perhaps? But who’d be enough of a prat to do that?)

Kenny Dalglish’s team pulled one back from the penalty spot but my faith waivered not one jot, scintilla or iota. (To be honest, I’m not sure what that adds up to in real money – but, take my word for it, I kept the faith.) Then in the second half we restored our two-goal lead courtesy of Liverpool’s international defender Steve Staunton, who deftly headed an aimless David Kelly cross into his own net. And as the red wall formed while Tony Gale lined up a free kick, I was utterly sure this would be the crowning glory of a fabulous performance. Up … over … and in. 4–1. What a truly magical night!

Anyway, I liked the idea of playing all our games under lights so much I did a spot of research to see if the floodlit effect did to our League form what it did in Cup games. I’m sorry to say my findings were not encouraging.

In our Saturday–Tuesday grind of the Championship in 2011/12, we had five home games that kicked off at 7.45 – and we didn’t win a single one of them. Four draws and a defeat against Ipswich produced a miserable return from a possible fifteen points. On top of that there were two games in the twilight zone. The 5.20 starts saw us beat Derby 3–1 and draw 3–3 with Birmingham in a real roller coaster of an affair. Those old fashioned three o’clock kickoffs, however, were really good for us. Played eleven; won eight; lost two; drew one. Goals for: twenty-six. Goals against: thirteen. Points: twenty-five.

Since being back in the Premier League we have won a few and lost a few, none more painfully than when Tottenham came from behind to snatch victory in the dying seconds with a wonder goal from Gareth Bale … which left me wondering why I continue to put myself through this sort of torture after all these years.

Yet who needs ice-cold statistics when your heart tells you something different? Every Hammer knows that floodlights lift Upton Park out of the gloom and transform it into a theatre, where we’re entitled to expect a happy ending.

Sadly, of course, there can be no joyous finale for the Boleyn Ground itself. The final curtain will come down all too soon, and that will be that. From then on the drama that is West Ham United will be played out elsewhere. We are told the Olympic Stadium will provide the perfect stage for a club that is on the verge of greatness but I’m not buying a ticket for that particular piece of fiction.

We’re going to Stratford, not Stratford-upon-Avon. And the key difference between a football match and a Shakespearean play is that the crowd at a game are not merely spectators – we are actually part of the ever-changing plot. Without us, or at least our
active and vociferous participation, what happens on the pitch is – to borrow a few words from Macbeth – ‘a tale told by an idiot … signifying nothing.’ Worse still, it’s missing the sound and fury that makes it all worthwhile.

The OS is an impressive-looking arena (I bet the floodlights are second to none). No doubt, on occasions, it will be packed with bubble-blowing supporters who will sing their hearts out as they dream dreams and scheme schemes. But I can’t believe a stadium like that will ever be able to generate the passion and the involvement of the people who have made the club what it is in the same way as the Boleyn Ground.

Yes, in property terms we’re trading up to posher premises, although I wonder at what cost to us as supporters? East Ham, meanwhile, will have a few new flats and a statue where it once had a heart. I fear for its future, as I fear for ours.

Still, there’s no rewriting the script now. As supporters we have pledged to follow West Ham over land and sea – which, I guess, includes a couple of miles on the 104 bus to Stratford. There is one thing I’d ask, though. Will the last person to leave Upton Park please turn out the lights?

Thank you.

H
AVING WRITTEN THIS
book I now feel like a total fraud. It was inspired by my very good friend Angela – who reminded me how I felt about all things claret and blue when I was having a moan about the move to the Olympic Stadium and wondering if that would be a step too far for me. ‘But you love West Ham,’ she said simply. She’s right – I do. However, I now realise I didn’t know nearly as much about the club I have followed for fifty years as I thought. That’s why I am so grateful to all those people who have helped me with my research.

Thanks in particular must go to Steve Marsh, the encyclopaedic brain behind the theyflysohigh website, and two historians: John Simkin, who I quote at length, and Charles Korr, whose official history –
West Ham United
– is essential reading for anyone with the faintest interest in the club. Steve is also one of the contributors
to John Farley’s westhamstats website, which has been invaluable. I’d like to thank John and the rest of the team as well: John Northcutt, Roy Shoesmith, Jack Helliar, John Helliar, Tony Hogg, Tony Brown, Fred Loveday, Andrew Loveday and Steve Bacon. If there are mistakes in this book they are down to me, not them.

Likewise, I’m grateful to Geoff Hurst, Jeff Powell and Graham Murray for all the information I have gleaned from their excellent publications:
1966 and All That, Bobby Moore: The Definitive Biography
and
The ‘Bubbles’ Legend
, respectively.

I’d like to thank Tony Gale for taking the time to talk to me, and
The Guardian
(particularly Richard Nelsson) for all the help with cuttings and copyright.

I also owe a debt of gratitude to friends, family and colleagues who have let me share their stories with the rest of the world. And thanks, too, to the West Ham supporters among whom it has been my privilege to number myself for half a century. If you recognise yourself, I hope I have done you justice.

My son Geoff deserves a special mention for putting up with my many grumbles about West Ham for his entire life. Katie, my daughter, must be thanked for putting up with all other grumbles. And finally I want to say thank you to Di, my beautiful wife. Without her, nothing would make sense. COYI!

The new edition of the bestselling biography.

Bobby Moore was the embodiment of all that was great about English football. Captaining England to glory in 1966 and West Ham to victory in several major tournaments, he was loved and respected throughout the world as football’s golden boy.

This definitive and authorised biography illuminates the extraordinary story of a sporting hero, from exciting accounts of his World Cup triumph to candid memories of his friendships with Beckenbauer, Eusébio and Pelé. It also reveals the inside story of a life beyond football, updated to include fascinating new material on Moore’s enduring legacy in the years following his tragically premature death.

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He has never scored a goal, lifted a trophy, worn the captain’s armband or even played for the club, but Steve Bacon is considered a genuine Hammers legend.

As West Ham United’s official photographer for more than thirty years, Steve has become a cult hero at Upton Park – he has appeared on Sky’s
Soccer AM
, featured in a fanzine comic strip and even had a burger named after him. From his privileged position as part of the club’s backroom team, Steve has enjoyed unlimited access behind the scenes and established close friendships with many managers and players. John Lyall, Lou Macari, Billy Bonds, Harry Redknapp, Glenn Roeder, Alan Pardew, Alan Curbishley, Gianfranco Zola, Avram Grant and Sam Allardyce have all found themselves the focus of Bacon’s candid camera, while Trevor Brooking, Tony Cottee, Frank McAvennie, Julian Dicks, Rio Ferdinand, Frank Lampard, Paolo Di Canio and Scott Parker are just a few of the star players who have welcomed him into their world. Packed with terrific tales, amusing anecdotes and controversial characters, and illustrated with the very best of Steve’s photographs,
There’s Only One Stevie Bacon
offers an intriguing insight into life at the Boleyn Ground and one that no West Ham United fan will want to miss.

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This book will appeal to all lovers of the beautiful game who believe in sportsmanship, entertainment and doing things right.

It is the story of a lifelong football fan, who landed his dream job when he was asked to become his team’s stadium announcer. Broadcaster Jeremy Nicholas turned down the job initially as he didn’t want to give up his season ticket and his right to shout at the players but, after dreaming about it three nights in a row, he agreed. When he was sacked after ten years in the job at West Ham, he felt like he’d been chucked by a girlfriend he’d loved all his life. This is an insider’s view of a club that’s never far from the headlines, despite not buying any silver polish since 1980. You don’t have to be a comedian to be a West Ham fan, but it helps. Humour has never been far away in his career as a TV and radio presenter and after-dinner speaker, and Jeremy’s book is crammed full of hilarious anecdotes from his life in football and broadcasting.

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