I were thinkin' of them's that had an influence on me life like. As a bairn I was shunted from pillar ter post the left ta mercies of soom religious sisters from hell. This were the early nineteen sixties when Newcastle were a grim old place, boot the river busier than it is today and the watta then were filthy and full of bits floating past that were not healthy ter think too long on what they might once have been. Television, when yer got to see it, were from a box the size of a pigeon loft (weel rabbit hootch then) with pictures grainy black and white and sound like through baked bean cans held together by a bit of wire. Boot football were King and for Footba Associating coop finals, a Saturday in May at the end of the season, everything came to a stop. The sun always shone - even in Newcastle. However partisan, yer watched and I remember yer admired the skills even if it were not yer team. Even if it were the one down the road like. May were allus warm in the memory-like yer could escape a bit of the Arctic air if it sat still long enough not ter blow on owt. And the early sixties were a golden era of the Tottenham Hotspurs, a double winning team one year and then the following year were the appearance of a player that for soom unknown reason fused me seven year old brain into hero worship...yon Jimmy Greaves.  |
| Cor Lumy tha cockney spuggy can 'alf play! |
Truth is, although Geordie ta the core (weel wid Belgo DNA-me dad was a Gent!) I loved Jimmy Greaves, even more than Wor Jackie an later the Big Al. Aye, there were summat about Greavsey that pulled a seven year old heart inta daft magic aboot football. He were right canny, twisting' and turning on a threepenny bit, sharp as a Sheffield blade, overhead scissors kicks and all. Not a big fella, boot strong. A silver shada lighting oop the flickering buzzing screen and where he scored, with nonchalance, goals that were joost impossible. He were the king and gaffer of the 1960s ten yard box and picking space cleaner than the Artful Dodger lifting silken snot rags from defences left sitting on their bums in a muddy heap.
Then as an eleven year old me brother, the intellectual, took me ter White Hart Lane fer a treat. 10 September 1966, watched by 56, 294 folk and me! That summer England had won the World Cup. Billy Nick's Spurs were oop against a very good Busby era Manchester United side. It were that packed, bairns were sitting pitch-side and were on field ter mob Spurs when they scored. Nobby Stiles cracked a smile and little children ran screaming ter their mammies. He tackled like a concrete mixer. Bow legged, he had a fierce temper an' had her be restrained By Dennis Law from clattering some of his own defenders. Then there was George Best, Terry Venables, Alan Mullery and Pat Jennings and our Geordie, Bobby Charlton. Aye and Kinnear - a better player than manager! Boot I were there to see me all-time footballing hero, one and the only, Jimmy Greaves.
An' blurry Nora, he scored a banana goal joost fer me like. (Direct, swung in from corner inta top of net). Boot he didnae! He did score the winner from open play. Funny tricks memory has. As I still believe it were Bobby Charlton all raging bull, bursting' outta midfield and letting loose from thirty yards with a cannonball shot that did serious damage to the thick rope netting of the Spurs goal. Record book says it were Dennis Law who scored the lone reds goal. A messy, opportunist header. Boot Charlton came close minutes later ter making it 2-0 with a thunderbolt. Spurs one down at half-time.
Aah saw it from the pylon holding oop the floodlights, took oop there by helpful folk who didn't want a bairn ter miss out. I were pissing and s***ting meself with excitement; while expiring in a fug of Woodbine, ale fumes and pie farts. I canna remember who clogged in first goal fer yon Cockerels. Mr Gilzean perhaps. George Best the pest could ha won the game boot it ended 2-1. Spurs goals both in the last ten minutes!
In ma memory box of the day, Mr Greaves coudda have netted a few more goals. He made a right pest of hiself, making the six yard box his turf. Slippier than a jar of brylcream, he twisted and turned like a dervish in white and blue, through walls of sweaty and mud streaked red shirts an white shorts. Shooting from impossible angles, "Hah! Pure physics!" shouted the intellectual. Always on goal, always toed out or header away in desperation. Once, he stopped dead still, foot on ball and looked at the defence mooch like a fox eying up a line of chickens. Dead classy! What I had only seen on yon television screen were nowt compared ter atmosphere on that day. A packed ground. Toilet rolls chucked onto pitch, rattles clattering and the passion of the fans. The roar is still there in me awld ears 50 years on!
So his autobiography "Greavsie*" is not a bad read. Although a rehash of the 1979 "This Ones On Me." That one starts "My name is Jimmy Greaves...I am a professional footballer. And I am an alcoholic." The contents are matched by a raw honesty that has reduced to summat smoother in "Greavsie." There is a presence of a ghost writer but it does not get in way of Mr Greaves telling his tale. Mind, he coudda told his footballing and life story in cliches (sooch as the mooch repeated "Its a funny awld game!") an with telephone directories of statistics- only a modest 15 pages at end of ta book- boot I would still be his fan. But he dursnt. This is an entertaining and fascinating read going down memory lane to a time when football were bigger than life! Take this opening paragraph.
"All these years on I can still hear them. When the ball hit the back of the net the terraces, quiet a moment before erupted. As if on cue 50,000 supporters lifted themselves three inches off the ground and arms raised, mouths wide open to the heavens, filled the air with a roar that could be heard across the rooftops of north London. Sometimes they were so tightly packed together there wasn't a fag paper's width between them. on such occasions, in winter, after heavy rain you could see great clouds of steam rising off their backs and billowing up towards a battleship grey shy. It must have been bloody uncomfortable, but no matter how cold or wet it was their spirits never dampened. They loved to see me scoring goals. Me? I didn't like it. I loved it."
An one nipper fell off pylon. Aye, yer joost need ter add smell. Wet wool of scarfs, coats and cardigans, fags, farts, ale and sweat. The churned oop grass and mud, the brylcream and old spice. The soundtrack of rattles going like berserker crackers. The murmers, the moments of complete silence, the groans the swelling roar rattling the tin of the covered stands and throats bursting inta song. The banter from the Saturday terrace experts "Come on Greavsie put the sodding ball in the net- stop mucking abowt!" The crack, results from other games coming from small transistor radios. Yer had a good laugh, groaned at some scores and got on with enjoying the match.
In his autobiographies I learnt stoof aboot Mr Greaves and the players of his era I did not know or had long forgotten. He were born in the London's East End and played most of his career fer London clubs. Never living that far from where he'd been born or grown oop. He were a child prodigy fer banging in goals. He also has a wry sense of humour and a lot of insight recalling his early days. Like the deafening clangers of adults in fifties in way they spoke down ter nippers with contradictions and statements that made nae sense. He were always comfortable in his own skin. His da worked fer London Transport. Jimmy remembered a happy childhood with the then normal East End summer holiday of family hop picking in Kent. He even enjoyed school. There were not much self-doubt in his early years. Summat about keeping things simple boot he quickly rose up ranks of school teams to representative and amateur teams while barley inta teenage years. Then being picked oop by Chelsea and making his debut in First Division at age of seventeen. Boot not afore wreaking havoc in reserve side. In two games; first scoring seven goals, the next eight. He scored as he would in every debut he made.
He tells the usual sad story of football prodigies, he thought were better than him as youth team players but who faded away inta obscurity. He has sum classic insights inta Football Association an its class driven stupidity and sense of entitlement. On an England tour ter Americas, on plane ter Peru the FA telling cabin crew not ter serve players canapés as it would be like feeding strawberries ter donkeys. An selection letters of that era addressed him as 'Greaves' and included a long list of do's and don'ts. Keeping the peasants in their place and a bit like how the Nottingham fast bowler and former miner Harold Larwood was treated by the cricket board in 1933 following the Bodyline series against Australia.
He can't help boot let in the creeping nostalgia for thems glory days. The names still playing when he started out included: Tom Finney, Nat Lofthouse, Ron Flowers, Billy Wright, the colossus that were Stanley Matthews and of course Wor Jackie! (Milburn fer them that were asleep). Days when the same players turned out week after week, when there were no substitutes used in a game. Footballers turned their trade in mud, blood, straw - on pitches so waterlogged they were like treacherous treacle. With sleet sleeting down and one or two sets of kit washed after every game. Nowt fancy. After game, they cleaned oop in a shared bath, smoking fags and downing bottles of ale or small flasks of spirits. Pre match dinner (before 3pm kick off on Saturday- as it were a legacy of time when the working folk finished work lunchtime on Saturday) consisted of steak and spuds, boiled, mashed or fried into door stop - chips - or all three. Followed by sticky puddings, custard and large coops of industrial strength tea made drinkable by tablespoons of sugar. Ter not play an injury had ter be serious. Nae groin strains although Mr Greaves observed it were boils that brought down many a hard football man. Not hicks, boot big massive eruptions in unpleasant places - them kind of boils. Aye, an brass were hard to come by and some of the legends, old war horses, were ripped off blind by their clubs and the FA. Summat ter thank Jimmy Hill for, the player's trade unionist who in the early sixties git them a decent wage. Johnny Haynes on one hundred quid a week. Seems daft now when yer think what footballers at top flight earn today.
At twenty-one Jimmy Greaves were the youngest player to score a hundred goals in First Division. Aye, and I did not know he were tapped by Newcastle United in early sixties, they offered him a thousand to sign on and a job as car salesman. Boot wor Jimmy and missus were not keen on moving oop ter north east ter play for club with limited ambition and only journeymen players. (Shades of Alan Pardew era). So instead he went ter Italy-having become jaundiced with Chelsea's lack of ambition and vision, to AC Milan. And the beautiful life of expensive hotels, big money and even bigger fines for doing all sorts of things wrong- but it were more not understanding the inner workings of the Italian game tha did his head in. Although there were Dennis Law at Torino at this time, it were a miserable four months. He stilled banged in the goals boot. For Jimmy G - taking the working class lad outta London was only going to end badly. He was also married with bairns- they were in England and the Greaves's had lost a bairn which was summat that cut the Greaves's ter the deep. Fortune came knocking in shape of Bill Nicholson.
Aye yon Jimmy were a natural fit to Tottenham Hotspurs and Billy Nick. The previous season they had won the double (league and coop) and there was enough about Jimmy Greaves fer Spurs ter pay good brass to extract him from AC Milan. 99,999 pounds. Although coming inta a successful team mid season were not easy. He had ter earn respect of the likes of Danny Blanchflower and other established international players. He did so by scoring goals. Lots of goals. Clever, creative goals. Billy Nick were rebuilding the glory team around the likes of Dave Mackay. A tough competitor signed from Hearts in Scotland who Mr Greaves described as hard, boot fair. However, footballer legends reckoned that if a player were tackled (not tapped-boot bone crunching, gristle dislodging tackled) by Mr Mackay the drill were: check yer nuts, then yer fingers and toes - ter see if they still moved; find air lost from yer lungs; put yer false teeth back in and then get oop ter see if yer could still walk and tell which way yer needed ter go ter attack Spurs goal. Nae substitutes, the example Jimmy G gave were Jack Charlton picking oop a serious injury early in an England international game, left ter hobble around pitch like pit pony looking fer a carrot fer rest of match. Aye, the cockerels a glory team. Bill Brown, Ron Henry, Jon White, Maurice Norman, Cliff Jones and Bobby Smith.
Then there were the great injoostice of 1966 World Coop fer Mr Greaves. Clattered by France in a dour world coop game in early stages that England won 2-0 boot leaving his leg gashed. Although fit by final he were not picked! The gadgee that replaced him? Geoff who? Ok, the jammy hammer scored a final hat-trick, boot our Jimmy should have been out on that field. It were what he lived for. I still think it were down ter the retentive sphincter of one Alfred Ramsey, England manager esquire. The arch conservative manager and the non conformist free spirit of Jimmy Greaves. A battle of wills only one could win - the manager. Mr Greaves is mooch more even handed. England won world coop without him. Geoff Hurst scored a hat-trick in the final and that is history. England's only great tournament win. I remember watching the games on television in Hemel Hempstead in what seemed to be a hot summer. We loved the flair of Portugal and Eusebio. The emergence of the unknowns of North Korea, small fleet footed men, giving a number of teams a scare. There were plenty of biffo on and off the ball (Uruguay and Argentine) and play acting (Italy). Aye, England beat Portugal 2-1 in semis which were game of tournament in my mind. I was still in me puddle of post pubescent ignorance boot me and the gang all agreed Jimmy Greaves was sold down the river. Even the most partisan thought West Germany should have taken the final, but England's journeymen and the likes of Messers Moore, Banks and Charlton hadn't read the script. 4-2 it were and nae Jimmy Greaves!
Although he had a couple of good seasons following the 1966 World Cup, Jimmy Greaves was never consistently as good a player. An earlier brush with hepatitis caught oop with him. Aye, and grog and age. From 1969 there was a slow decline. He were never going to get Ramsey's consideration for the 1970 World Cup in Mexico. (Although he travelled there as a rally car driver). He gave away his international career ter concentrate on Spurs boot as he admits himself his zip were gone. Then another poor decision ter accept a transfer ter West Ham that brought Martin Peters the other way. Billy Nick had also sold Dave Mackay and Alan Gilzean and bought in Martin Chivers. Jimmy G admits he might have saved his footballing career had he taken oop the offer from Brian Clough ter join Dave Mackay at Derby County. But there were worse days ahead and footballing only part of the problem.
Mr Greaves does not hesitate ter look at himself in the mirror when it comes to his alcoholism. it is a sad and degrading read of the disintegration of a fine man, husband and father. He lost his marriage, his kids, his business ability and ended oop in a bed-sit drinking himself inta oblivion. It were AA that pulled him out and taught him depth of character and gave him back goals to achieve outside of playing football. Mr Greaves states clearly it were not football, not playing in World Cup, not ending his career as a footballer joost over thirty that caused him ter drink. It were him, his choice and him who had to deal with and face the consequences of doing so. Aye, this is where "This Ones On Me" is more honest. The drinking problem seems part of the football culture 'the quiet drink' syndrome after the game. The loss of a bairn and going to Turin made drink more the crutch used to get by. Somewhere he lost his being comfortable as hiself. Yer read what sounds like depression, stress from grief and being shafted by his refusal to conform with the powers that be. He uses a comparison with Hughie Gallacher, a genius Scottish footballer of an earlier era and one who Jimmy Greaves was seen as from the same mould. 101 goals in 194 appearances in the number 9 shirt for Newcastle United. Hughie the harder man by far, boot neither quite became the footballers they could have been. Part poor choices, part roll of the dice. Hughie Gallacher was a life long drinker, who claimed grog was not a problem. He finished his career at Gateshead-happy to be an adopted Geordie; then following a family tragedy ended his life still relatively young, in his fifties, under a train. An unnecessary tragedy of a man still deeply loved by Newcastle fans.
Along with finally taking AA seriously and not drinking, it were writing football column for a rag that started to pull Jimmy Greaves oop. He was able to reconnect with his wife and his family and 'start again' and it dus not appear he ever let them down once he went sober. He forged a second career in television covering mainly football and other sports-like the deeply amusing interview with Mike Tyson in the middle of the boondocks of middle America. They swopped boxing history facts, Tyson impressed with Greavsies' knowledge of the early days of pugilism. And there was the long lasting 'The Saint and Greavsie' television piss take but also serious insight into some of the contradictions in sport and particularly football.
He had along the way some interesting reflections and insights into what rotted the core of football. Such as the sudden increase in admission prices to grounds and the commercialisation of every aspect of the game. A barrage balloon called Mike Ashley-ok, he durst not mention the twat by name but the prototype owner running football like a retail store. The loss of all out attack to must win at any cost - the Arsenal of the mid-late sixties who perfected the off side trap from their own goal-line and therefore won games by a single goal having bored the opposition into a stupor, they scored by mounting a leisurely counter attack often mistaken for them movin' oop field in an extended off side exercise. Matches which Mr Greaves described as exciting as watching a tea towel dry on a radiator. Likewise, England's steadfast refusal to adapt to modern tactics. "I say Johnny Foreigner seems to playing football. Its joost not Cricket!" Or utilise creative players like Stan Bowles, Tony Currie and Rodney Marsh. Players people paid ter see because they were so unpredictable. Watching Tony Currie as a young lad turning out for Watford. He toyed with teams like an overly gifted cheshire cat entertaining eleven mice on a pitch of mud and straw. Frustrating team mates by his inability her pass, other than on a silken one-two. Languid but deadly in same breath. Wayne Rooney - don't make me laugh!
Mind, I reflected on what Greavsie might have been without the grog. Big Al had little of Jimmy Greaves's natural talent boot worked hard with what he had and in my mind was the better player in terms of consistency and achievement. Big Al's was a different magic, yer would niver ha called him a wizard! Boot Greaves was pure magic. Big Al was the heart of oak, Jimmy - the alchemist. Banging in goals was his reason for living out on paddock of dreams. It ended with a whimper and that is a blurry tragedy. That he redeemed hiself post footballer is to his and his family's credit. All power ter yer Mr Greaves!
Aye, I were right sad ter hear Mr Greaves had been felled by a stroke. And this could not be blamed on him heading a ball like concrete leather as he cheerfully admitted he rarely headed the ball, never a need when he had those deadly feet, those scissor kicks. Aye he were King of the goal poachers, the right blurry nuisance ter goalkeepers oop and down the land. The Beatles had "Twist and Shout". Jimmy had "Twist, Turn and Shoot!" I thank you Mr Greaves for the memories, fer the decency of you that comes through yer autobiographies, the laughs they contains and yer honesty in "This One's On Me" telling it like it was. I hope in yer mind yer can still hear the roar of the crowd at White Hart Lane when yer set them on fire...dancing through defences like a hot knife through butter, the net rippling in a breeze of anticipation as the ball defying the known laws of physics trickles across the white painted line...and above the roar, birds soar on another golden afternoon under the burnished cockerel.
I were sad ter hear in March 2020 he were admitted ter hospital for tests. I wish yer and yer family the best. A fan.
"Greavsie - The Autobiography" Jimmy Greaves Time Warner Books 2003
"This One's On Me" Jimmy Greaves and Norman Giller Coronet Books 1979
Aye and photos (except Viz un-wall in Sydenham) taken from these two books all credit to the snappers concerned!
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| Single handily takin' on scousers balls already on way ter back of net |
"All these years on I can still hear them. When the ball hit the back of the net the terraces, quiet a moment before erupted. As if on cue 50,000 supporters lifted themselves three inches off the ground and arms raised, mouths wide open to the heavens, filled the air with a roar that could be heard across the rooftops of north London. Sometimes they were so tightly packed together there wasn't a fag paper's width between them. on such occasions, in winter, after heavy rain you could see great clouds of steam rising off their backs and billowing up towards a battleship grey shy. It must have been bloody uncomfortable, but no matter how cold or wet it was their spirits never dampened. They loved to see me scoring goals. Me? I didn't like it. I loved it."
An one nipper fell off pylon. Aye, yer joost need ter add smell. Wet wool of scarfs, coats and cardigans, fags, farts, ale and sweat. The churned oop grass and mud, the brylcream and old spice. The soundtrack of rattles going like berserker crackers. The murmers, the moments of complete silence, the groans the swelling roar rattling the tin of the covered stands and throats bursting inta song. The banter from the Saturday terrace experts "Come on Greavsie put the sodding ball in the net- stop mucking abowt!" The crack, results from other games coming from small transistor radios. Yer had a good laugh, groaned at some scores and got on with enjoying the match.
In his autobiographies I learnt stoof aboot Mr Greaves and the players of his era I did not know or had long forgotten. He were born in the London's East End and played most of his career fer London clubs. Never living that far from where he'd been born or grown oop. He were a child prodigy fer banging in goals. He also has a wry sense of humour and a lot of insight recalling his early days. Like the deafening clangers of adults in fifties in way they spoke down ter nippers with contradictions and statements that made nae sense. He were always comfortable in his own skin. His da worked fer London Transport. Jimmy remembered a happy childhood with the then normal East End summer holiday of family hop picking in Kent. He even enjoyed school. There were not much self-doubt in his early years. Summat about keeping things simple boot he quickly rose up ranks of school teams to representative and amateur teams while barley inta teenage years. Then being picked oop by Chelsea and making his debut in First Division at age of seventeen. Boot not afore wreaking havoc in reserve side. In two games; first scoring seven goals, the next eight. He scored as he would in every debut he made.
He tells the usual sad story of football prodigies, he thought were better than him as youth team players but who faded away inta obscurity. He has sum classic insights inta Football Association an its class driven stupidity and sense of entitlement. On an England tour ter Americas, on plane ter Peru the FA telling cabin crew not ter serve players canapés as it would be like feeding strawberries ter donkeys. An selection letters of that era addressed him as 'Greaves' and included a long list of do's and don'ts. Keeping the peasants in their place and a bit like how the Nottingham fast bowler and former miner Harold Larwood was treated by the cricket board in 1933 following the Bodyline series against Australia.
He can't help boot let in the creeping nostalgia for thems glory days. The names still playing when he started out included: Tom Finney, Nat Lofthouse, Ron Flowers, Billy Wright, the colossus that were Stanley Matthews and of course Wor Jackie! (Milburn fer them that were asleep). Days when the same players turned out week after week, when there were no substitutes used in a game. Footballers turned their trade in mud, blood, straw - on pitches so waterlogged they were like treacherous treacle. With sleet sleeting down and one or two sets of kit washed after every game. Nowt fancy. After game, they cleaned oop in a shared bath, smoking fags and downing bottles of ale or small flasks of spirits. Pre match dinner (before 3pm kick off on Saturday- as it were a legacy of time when the working folk finished work lunchtime on Saturday) consisted of steak and spuds, boiled, mashed or fried into door stop - chips - or all three. Followed by sticky puddings, custard and large coops of industrial strength tea made drinkable by tablespoons of sugar. Ter not play an injury had ter be serious. Nae groin strains although Mr Greaves observed it were boils that brought down many a hard football man. Not hicks, boot big massive eruptions in unpleasant places - them kind of boils. Aye, an brass were hard to come by and some of the legends, old war horses, were ripped off blind by their clubs and the FA. Summat ter thank Jimmy Hill for, the player's trade unionist who in the early sixties git them a decent wage. Johnny Haynes on one hundred quid a week. Seems daft now when yer think what footballers at top flight earn today.
At twenty-one Jimmy Greaves were the youngest player to score a hundred goals in First Division. Aye, and I did not know he were tapped by Newcastle United in early sixties, they offered him a thousand to sign on and a job as car salesman. Boot wor Jimmy and missus were not keen on moving oop ter north east ter play for club with limited ambition and only journeymen players. (Shades of Alan Pardew era). So instead he went ter Italy-having become jaundiced with Chelsea's lack of ambition and vision, to AC Milan. And the beautiful life of expensive hotels, big money and even bigger fines for doing all sorts of things wrong- but it were more not understanding the inner workings of the Italian game tha did his head in. Although there were Dennis Law at Torino at this time, it were a miserable four months. He stilled banged in the goals boot. For Jimmy G - taking the working class lad outta London was only going to end badly. He was also married with bairns- they were in England and the Greaves's had lost a bairn which was summat that cut the Greaves's ter the deep. Fortune came knocking in shape of Bill Nicholson.
 |
| With his bairns |
Aye yon Jimmy were a natural fit to Tottenham Hotspurs and Billy Nick. The previous season they had won the double (league and coop) and there was enough about Jimmy Greaves fer Spurs ter pay good brass to extract him from AC Milan. 99,999 pounds. Although coming inta a successful team mid season were not easy. He had ter earn respect of the likes of Danny Blanchflower and other established international players. He did so by scoring goals. Lots of goals. Clever, creative goals. Billy Nick were rebuilding the glory team around the likes of Dave Mackay. A tough competitor signed from Hearts in Scotland who Mr Greaves described as hard, boot fair. However, footballer legends reckoned that if a player were tackled (not tapped-boot bone crunching, gristle dislodging tackled) by Mr Mackay the drill were: check yer nuts, then yer fingers and toes - ter see if they still moved; find air lost from yer lungs; put yer false teeth back in and then get oop ter see if yer could still walk and tell which way yer needed ter go ter attack Spurs goal. Nae substitutes, the example Jimmy G gave were Jack Charlton picking oop a serious injury early in an England international game, left ter hobble around pitch like pit pony looking fer a carrot fer rest of match. Aye, the cockerels a glory team. Bill Brown, Ron Henry, Jon White, Maurice Norman, Cliff Jones and Bobby Smith.
Then there were the great injoostice of 1966 World Coop fer Mr Greaves. Clattered by France in a dour world coop game in early stages that England won 2-0 boot leaving his leg gashed. Although fit by final he were not picked! The gadgee that replaced him? Geoff who? Ok, the jammy hammer scored a final hat-trick, boot our Jimmy should have been out on that field. It were what he lived for. I still think it were down ter the retentive sphincter of one Alfred Ramsey, England manager esquire. The arch conservative manager and the non conformist free spirit of Jimmy Greaves. A battle of wills only one could win - the manager. Mr Greaves is mooch more even handed. England won world coop without him. Geoff Hurst scored a hat-trick in the final and that is history. England's only great tournament win. I remember watching the games on television in Hemel Hempstead in what seemed to be a hot summer. We loved the flair of Portugal and Eusebio. The emergence of the unknowns of North Korea, small fleet footed men, giving a number of teams a scare. There were plenty of biffo on and off the ball (Uruguay and Argentine) and play acting (Italy). Aye, England beat Portugal 2-1 in semis which were game of tournament in my mind. I was still in me puddle of post pubescent ignorance boot me and the gang all agreed Jimmy Greaves was sold down the river. Even the most partisan thought West Germany should have taken the final, but England's journeymen and the likes of Messers Moore, Banks and Charlton hadn't read the script. 4-2 it were and nae Jimmy Greaves!
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| THE INJURY!!! Against France and the end of a dream |
Although he had a couple of good seasons following the 1966 World Cup, Jimmy Greaves was never consistently as good a player. An earlier brush with hepatitis caught oop with him. Aye, and grog and age. From 1969 there was a slow decline. He were never going to get Ramsey's consideration for the 1970 World Cup in Mexico. (Although he travelled there as a rally car driver). He gave away his international career ter concentrate on Spurs boot as he admits himself his zip were gone. Then another poor decision ter accept a transfer ter West Ham that brought Martin Peters the other way. Billy Nick had also sold Dave Mackay and Alan Gilzean and bought in Martin Chivers. Jimmy G admits he might have saved his footballing career had he taken oop the offer from Brian Clough ter join Dave Mackay at Derby County. But there were worse days ahead and footballing only part of the problem.
Mr Greaves does not hesitate ter look at himself in the mirror when it comes to his alcoholism. it is a sad and degrading read of the disintegration of a fine man, husband and father. He lost his marriage, his kids, his business ability and ended oop in a bed-sit drinking himself inta oblivion. It were AA that pulled him out and taught him depth of character and gave him back goals to achieve outside of playing football. Mr Greaves states clearly it were not football, not playing in World Cup, not ending his career as a footballer joost over thirty that caused him ter drink. It were him, his choice and him who had to deal with and face the consequences of doing so. Aye, this is where "This Ones On Me" is more honest. The drinking problem seems part of the football culture 'the quiet drink' syndrome after the game. The loss of a bairn and going to Turin made drink more the crutch used to get by. Somewhere he lost his being comfortable as hiself. Yer read what sounds like depression, stress from grief and being shafted by his refusal to conform with the powers that be. He uses a comparison with Hughie Gallacher, a genius Scottish footballer of an earlier era and one who Jimmy Greaves was seen as from the same mould. 101 goals in 194 appearances in the number 9 shirt for Newcastle United. Hughie the harder man by far, boot neither quite became the footballers they could have been. Part poor choices, part roll of the dice. Hughie Gallacher was a life long drinker, who claimed grog was not a problem. He finished his career at Gateshead-happy to be an adopted Geordie; then following a family tragedy ended his life still relatively young, in his fifties, under a train. An unnecessary tragedy of a man still deeply loved by Newcastle fans.
Along with finally taking AA seriously and not drinking, it were writing football column for a rag that started to pull Jimmy Greaves oop. He was able to reconnect with his wife and his family and 'start again' and it dus not appear he ever let them down once he went sober. He forged a second career in television covering mainly football and other sports-like the deeply amusing interview with Mike Tyson in the middle of the boondocks of middle America. They swopped boxing history facts, Tyson impressed with Greavsies' knowledge of the early days of pugilism. And there was the long lasting 'The Saint and Greavsie' television piss take but also serious insight into some of the contradictions in sport and particularly football.
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| The scissors kick...shame about ball though |
He had along the way some interesting reflections and insights into what rotted the core of football. Such as the sudden increase in admission prices to grounds and the commercialisation of every aspect of the game. A barrage balloon called Mike Ashley-ok, he durst not mention the twat by name but the prototype owner running football like a retail store. The loss of all out attack to must win at any cost - the Arsenal of the mid-late sixties who perfected the off side trap from their own goal-line and therefore won games by a single goal having bored the opposition into a stupor, they scored by mounting a leisurely counter attack often mistaken for them movin' oop field in an extended off side exercise. Matches which Mr Greaves described as exciting as watching a tea towel dry on a radiator. Likewise, England's steadfast refusal to adapt to modern tactics. "I say Johnny Foreigner seems to playing football. Its joost not Cricket!" Or utilise creative players like Stan Bowles, Tony Currie and Rodney Marsh. Players people paid ter see because they were so unpredictable. Watching Tony Currie as a young lad turning out for Watford. He toyed with teams like an overly gifted cheshire cat entertaining eleven mice on a pitch of mud and straw. Frustrating team mates by his inability her pass, other than on a silken one-two. Languid but deadly in same breath. Wayne Rooney - don't make me laugh!
Mind, I reflected on what Greavsie might have been without the grog. Big Al had little of Jimmy Greaves's natural talent boot worked hard with what he had and in my mind was the better player in terms of consistency and achievement. Big Al's was a different magic, yer would niver ha called him a wizard! Boot Greaves was pure magic. Big Al was the heart of oak, Jimmy - the alchemist. Banging in goals was his reason for living out on paddock of dreams. It ended with a whimper and that is a blurry tragedy. That he redeemed hiself post footballer is to his and his family's credit. All power ter yer Mr Greaves!
Aye, I were right sad ter hear Mr Greaves had been felled by a stroke. And this could not be blamed on him heading a ball like concrete leather as he cheerfully admitted he rarely headed the ball, never a need when he had those deadly feet, those scissor kicks. Aye he were King of the goal poachers, the right blurry nuisance ter goalkeepers oop and down the land. The Beatles had "Twist and Shout". Jimmy had "Twist, Turn and Shoot!" I thank you Mr Greaves for the memories, fer the decency of you that comes through yer autobiographies, the laughs they contains and yer honesty in "This One's On Me" telling it like it was. I hope in yer mind yer can still hear the roar of the crowd at White Hart Lane when yer set them on fire...dancing through defences like a hot knife through butter, the net rippling in a breeze of anticipation as the ball defying the known laws of physics trickles across the white painted line...and above the roar, birds soar on another golden afternoon under the burnished cockerel.
I were sad ter hear in March 2020 he were admitted ter hospital for tests. I wish yer and yer family the best. A fan.
"This One's On Me" Jimmy Greaves and Norman Giller Coronet Books 1979
Aye and photos (except Viz un-wall in Sydenham) taken from these two books all credit to the snappers concerned!
