Things That Trigger The Memory!

Funny, how the trapdoor of my memory is sprung by incidents of the moment. Yesterday evening, taking a stroll in my nearby park, I happened on a game of football between two youth teams. They were hard at it in the heat, whilst a fair amount of spectators lined the touchlines, drinking their ice-cold drinks and eating ice cream, whilst at the same time belching out lots of vociferous encouragement. Something happened that reached into the back pocket of my memory.

One of the teams was awarded a free kick just outside of the penalty area and it was taken by a young player built like a butcher’s dog and with the demeanour of the village hangman. This young bullock took a long run at the ball, and viciously thumped it straight at the wall of defenders lined up 10 yards away. The velocity of the shot was sufficient to cause the wall to break and scatter! All that is, except one young kid who not only remained where he was supposed to be, but suddenly flung himself headlong at the approaching missile.

When the top of his head connected with the ball, the impact must have been like two inter-city trains colliding head-on. Surprisingly, the youngster with the kamikaze tendencies who had headed the ball away survived – even prospered. The ball hurtled away from his head, over the halfway line, and the centre forward, who had been enjoying a break while picking his nose and scratching his scrotum, nipped through to bang the ball into the net at the opposite end, much to the delight of lots of spectators on the touchline!

“This boy does it regular” said a man standing quite close to me. “Can’t play all that well, but he can really head a ball.” I was back in time 40 years or so ago. During my time at PNE there was a centre half named Tony Singleton who would head canon balls! He had the broadest brow of anyone that I have ever seen, including Beethoven, and it had begun to get pock-marked and hillocked with the early scars of his craft.

Tony was something else. Another one was a kid named “Muscle” Abbott who I played behind at Winchester City in the old Southern League. “Muscle” was a huge, friendly guy, but had a very large unfriendly Mother who prepared her son for life’s highways and byways by regularly thumping him on the head with a small coal shovel. Having survived several years of this treatment from his dear Mother, he developed an immunity to blows on his skull, and in that old Southern League, he gained quite a reputation for being a prestigious header of the ball.

But the best of the lot was a guy who used to play for a Sunday Pub team in Manchester, named The ‘Ammer” during the middle 50’s. “Sparrow” McGinty. I’ve yet to find out why he was nicknamed “Sparrow” because he was built like a brick ****house, had the center half’s broad brow, and the obligatory cross-eyes! What a character. The ‘Ammer used to have a ploy that whenever they conceded a penalty, which could be quite regular back in those days, “Sparrow” would send the goalie away and he would take position on the goalline in the centre of the goal.

It used to perplex the local amateur Referees. Many was the time I heard the poor old Ref saying something like “What are you up to?” “Sparrow” would reply, “I’m going to save this penalty.” “How are you going to do that? You can’t use your hands you know” would say the Ref. “I know that Ref. I’m going to save it with me ’ead” “Sparrow would reply!

This ploy proved far too much for a lot of the penalty takers, who, instead of keeping cool and placing the ball to either side of the goal, would feel challenged to knock “Sparrow’s” head from his shoulders! Many tried, but I honestly never saw any of them succeed. The inevitable result of aiming at a spot just between “Sparrow’s” eyes, was that the ball ended up 50 yards behind the penalty taker.

Off the field, “Sparrow” supplemented his meager income from the timber yard, heading anything for money. For instance, whenever there was a Fair in the area, his mates would all gather at the coconut shy to win one for “Saprrow.” Armed with their coconut, he’d throw it high into the air and then on its descent would head the thing with brutal force. This act inevitably drew a large crowd, and very soon his mates would be going around the punters laying odds that “Sparrow” could head the coconut three times running, and more than that, break it!

He never failed apparently! From what I was told, he was so good at it, that the guy who ran the coconut shy made a serious offer for “Sparrow” to tour with him. All he had to do was stand in for the coconuts and let people throw things at his head, but he declined saying that he had better things to do! It was on those football fields though that he put his marvelous skull to the most effective use. He used that great forehead not simply as a defensive ploy, but often in the attacking role. He was virtually unstoppable in the games that I saw him play in. From dead-ball situations he would make a run, scattering opponents and launch himself like a guided missile at the ball, and he headed goals from some of the most unlikely positions.

I’d not seen “Sparrow” for years, and when I returned from Hong Kong in 1975 I was back in Manchester having a night out with an old mate, supping a few pints. We were walking through the old Piccadilly Gardens on our way to the taxi rank when we saw a crumpled old figure lying on a park bench. It was “Sparrow” drunk as a mule bless him and in his 60’s by then. We picked him up and took him home – at least I took him to the house where he used to live when I was a kid. The back door was open so we just left him there.

My mate, who had led a more sheltered life than me had never met, or heard of “Sparrow” before. “Who was he?” he asked as we made the last few hundred yards home on foot. “He was an old acquaintance, one who gave me lots of pleasure when I was young. His name’s “Sparrow” McGinty” I said. “What’s his claim to fame then?” my friend asked. “You’re not going to believe this, but he used to head coconuts” I replied. “You’ve been away in the sun for too long!” said my mate.

Funny how things trigger your memory isn’t it?