In the last few days, a piece of my past turned up completely unexpectedly. The members of my football team at University from 1988-90 suddenly all got in touch with each other.
I studied English Literature at Warwick University, and each year around 40 teams got thrown together among the 6000 or so students, competing for the Sunday League. It was the trend to to have an unusual name, and teams thought up titles such as "the Jimmy Hill Fan Club" (named after a famous TV football host), "HDFL" (short for "Habitually Drunk Fat & Lairy"), and "Squidge Not Squodge" (the less said about whose origins the better...)
Our team was called - for reasons I have long forgotten - "The Gentlemen of Warwick". Probably it was because, unlike the leading players of Squidge Not Squodge, we were not in the habit of swigging from a Vodka bottle at half-time. It was a complete breakthrough in my footballing life, since we actually used to win most of the time.
I was a pretty reasonable football player as I grew up. I was quite quick, could tackle, and on the school playground I scored a lot of goals, though for some reason I always got put in defence in proper games. Despite being an OK player, it seemed I was destined to play in crap teams. Yes, I know I should shoulder some responsibility too. But beatings of between 5-0 and 15-0 were standard, no matter if it was a school team, Sunday league, or Cub Scouts. I think my Mum hated having to ask me about the score when I trudged in, covered in mud. In one amazing game, my school team had held on to a 1-0 deficit until half time - despite playing up the considerable slope and into the wind (such things made a big difference at 12 years old). Surely we could win this one? And yet, somehow, we managed to lose 15-1!
In my first year at Warwick, I joined a Sunday league team and when they asked where I played, I replied "Centre Forward - nowhere else". Luckily that was what they needed, and I finally got the chance to score some goals. Then I got in touch with a new team in the second year, the Gentlemen of Warwick, and things went well from the start. We won an early season six-a-side tournament, and I scored the winning 2 goals in the final to get my first ever winners medal. The other players couldn't believe I had never won anything before! I still have that tiny, cheap bit of metal, it really meant a lot to me to be a winner.
One evening, fueled by cheap booze in the Union bar, we decided that we all needed a nickname. The ones I can remember are the skillful "Twinkle Toes", "Roaster" because he could run fast, and "Bomber", because he was Centre Forward and was named after the German Goal Machine Gerd Müller, whose nickname was "Der Bomber". And that was how I got my first ever nickname - for I was indeed christened "Bomber Beckett" (although therer was some confusion with my second name, thought to be Baxter, which led to me temporarily having the extended title of "Bomber Baxterini"). It felt really good to be walking across the campus and hear someone shout from across the road "Oi, Bomber!"
In the first season, after working out how to get Twinkle Toes, Roaster and Bomber to combine properly, we got to the semi-finals of the tournament. Somehow, I always had the feeling that we were missing something in the team, and I was also missing something - an open goal in the semi-final after 10 minutes when we were already 1-0 up! And that was when I came up against Andy Trew. He was one of those defenders who just seemed to play like he was on TV - knew exactly where to be and when, slammed into you when he tackled and scared the hell out of you with massive shouts of "Andy's Ball" when it was in the air. He played me out of the game, and we lost 2-1. I don't regret much in my life, but I do regret that bloody missed open goal!
The final year came round, and great news came - thanks to some clever transfer business, Andy Trew was joining our team (probably Phil, the captain, bought him a couple of pints of Newcastle Brown...). This, together with the revelation of Peter "The Cat" Wright transforming from a decent Right Back into a fantastic goalkeeper seemingly overnight, put a backbone of grit and agility into the team. It gave us the confidence that we could really win this year.
I studied English Literature at Warwick University, and each year around 40 teams got thrown together among the 6000 or so students, competing for the Sunday League. It was the trend to to have an unusual name, and teams thought up titles such as "the Jimmy Hill Fan Club" (named after a famous TV football host), "HDFL" (short for "Habitually Drunk Fat & Lairy"), and "Squidge Not Squodge" (the less said about whose origins the better...)
Our team was called - for reasons I have long forgotten - "The Gentlemen of Warwick". Probably it was because, unlike the leading players of Squidge Not Squodge, we were not in the habit of swigging from a Vodka bottle at half-time. It was a complete breakthrough in my footballing life, since we actually used to win most of the time.
I was a pretty reasonable football player as I grew up. I was quite quick, could tackle, and on the school playground I scored a lot of goals, though for some reason I always got put in defence in proper games. Despite being an OK player, it seemed I was destined to play in crap teams. Yes, I know I should shoulder some responsibility too. But beatings of between 5-0 and 15-0 were standard, no matter if it was a school team, Sunday league, or Cub Scouts. I think my Mum hated having to ask me about the score when I trudged in, covered in mud. In one amazing game, my school team had held on to a 1-0 deficit until half time - despite playing up the considerable slope and into the wind (such things made a big difference at 12 years old). Surely we could win this one? And yet, somehow, we managed to lose 15-1!
In my first year at Warwick, I joined a Sunday league team and when they asked where I played, I replied "Centre Forward - nowhere else". Luckily that was what they needed, and I finally got the chance to score some goals. Then I got in touch with a new team in the second year, the Gentlemen of Warwick, and things went well from the start. We won an early season six-a-side tournament, and I scored the winning 2 goals in the final to get my first ever winners medal. The other players couldn't believe I had never won anything before! I still have that tiny, cheap bit of metal, it really meant a lot to me to be a winner.
One evening, fueled by cheap booze in the Union bar, we decided that we all needed a nickname. The ones I can remember are the skillful "Twinkle Toes", "Roaster" because he could run fast, and "Bomber", because he was Centre Forward and was named after the German Goal Machine Gerd Müller, whose nickname was "Der Bomber". And that was how I got my first ever nickname - for I was indeed christened "Bomber Beckett" (although therer was some confusion with my second name, thought to be Baxter, which led to me temporarily having the extended title of "Bomber Baxterini"). It felt really good to be walking across the campus and hear someone shout from across the road "Oi, Bomber!"
In the first season, after working out how to get Twinkle Toes, Roaster and Bomber to combine properly, we got to the semi-finals of the tournament. Somehow, I always had the feeling that we were missing something in the team, and I was also missing something - an open goal in the semi-final after 10 minutes when we were already 1-0 up! And that was when I came up against Andy Trew. He was one of those defenders who just seemed to play like he was on TV - knew exactly where to be and when, slammed into you when he tackled and scared the hell out of you with massive shouts of "Andy's Ball" when it was in the air. He played me out of the game, and we lost 2-1. I don't regret much in my life, but I do regret that bloody missed open goal!
The final year came round, and great news came - thanks to some clever transfer business, Andy Trew was joining our team (probably Phil, the captain, bought him a couple of pints of Newcastle Brown...). This, together with the revelation of Peter "The Cat" Wright transforming from a decent Right Back into a fantastic goalkeeper seemingly overnight, put a backbone of grit and agility into the team. It gave us the confidence that we could really win this year.
My own lasting memory - my second best ever footballing memory apart from being at Barcelona in '99 when Manchester United won the Champions League - was scoring the winning goal in the final season's Quarter Final. It was very tight, 1-1 in the closing and a game where you just ran like hell, hoped to get one clear chance and prayed you didn't miss it. I got that chance with about 8 minutes to go and whacked it into the far left corner. Goal!!! Cue pitch invasion and buckets of cider in the bar later that evening.
My biggest disappointment came in the semi-final, when I got myself injured through stupidity. One lad on the other side had kicked everything he was near for the whole of the first half, and when there was a 50-50 ball just before half-time, I saw he was going for it. I steamed in, no thought for the ball and one single aim - kick him hard. I missed, and twisted my ankle really badly. Bugger! Adrenalin kept me going as we won through to the final, but as soon as the game stopped, the swelling started.
The following day I was on crutches and the doctor said "forget the final in four days time, you need some weeks before you play again". Of course, I ignored him. I spent four days with ice on the ankle and started the game, but I couldn't really run properly and only lasted until early in the second half. I do regret it because it was the biggest game I ever played in, and I wish I had been fit. But we won and took the prestigious Sunday League title! It was followed by quite a celebration. I seem to recall us dancing the Can-Can on the stage in the Union MarketPlace at some stage during the evening.
The final act of the Gentlemen was to have an awards evening. I am proud to say I was recognised with the Goal of the Season for my Quarter Final winner - the prize being an old, well-used gym shoe from Vegan, with "Goal of the Season" written along the side in felt-tipped pen. I remember filling it with lager and drinking it at some stage during the evening. I woke up with the taste of old rubber shoe still in my mouth - disgusting, but I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
And then we all went our separate ways and time passed. 18 years have passed, to be precise. Then one day last year, I happened to see a message on the University website from Peter "The Cat" Wright and wrote to him. Soon after, he posted some pictures of the old team on Facebook, which triggered a couple of other contacts. Suddenly, more have got in touch with each other, and now there is serious talk of a reunion. It's great to see the names and emails going backwards and forwards, and I look forward to the reunion a lot. It's just great.
I have been wondering a basic question - why now? Why not 5 years ago, or 12 years ago, or on a 10 year anniversary? Is it just that things like Facebook make this easier? Is it some kind of Zeitgeist, that we are all around the 40 year-old mark and it's a moment for reflections on the past? No answer will come, but certainly the magic of the Internet is a factor here. What a great thing to happen.
It's nice to be a Gentleman once more.
