To honour the fact that Chelsea have recently
become the first team from the capital to win the European Cup, I thought it
pertinent to mark the occasion with a football-based bit of history. I must
admit, this article is not quite
Victorian, having been written in 1902.
It comes from a three-part
anthology entitled ‘Living London’
edited by George R Sims. If you’re unfamiliar with Sims, here is an article I wrote about him a couple of
Christmases ago, to celebrate his poem ‘In
the Workhouse, Christmas Day’
If you have an interest in London history, ‘Living London’ is well worth seeking
out, and, in fact, I have used it as a source on here before, on this this article
article about pawnbroking.
The following article is
entitled ‘Football London’ and was written by Henry Leach:
In Battersea Park |
There is one section of London 's vast population
which doesn't care a jot for football, another which goes simply mad over it, and there is every reason to believe
that the latter is increasing considerably. And these two sections, be it
remembered, are not merely and respectively the old and the young. Whilst there
are ragged urchins kicking paper balls in back alleys in Fulham and Whitechapel,
there are top-hatted, frockcoated gentlemen with grey beards, who sorrow over
the passing of sixty winters, but who yet on this same afternoon are kicking
the boards in front of them on the stand at Queen's Club, so high and so uncontrollable
is their excitement as they watch the fortunes of a great match. Only in the
brief half-time interval, when the players are being refreshed, is the nervous
strain the least bit slackened. A
football ground, after all, is one of the
best places in the World for the observation of raw human nature.
There have been many eras of
London football, and of such stern stuff is the London football enthusiast
made that for a period of adversity, extending over nearly two decades, he
could still keep his mind steadfastly fixed on one great purpose and work
unceasingly for its accomplishment. So in 1901, when Tottenham Hotspur won the
English Cup, the equality of London
with the rest of the football world – not to say its superiority – was
re-established.
Football in London rouses
itself from its summer's sleep less readily than it does in the provinces, where they keep a vigil on the
last night of August that they may the earlier kick the ball when September
dawns. In London
we are not so precipitous, and we recognise the right of King Cricket to
prolong his life for a few more days if he may. Nevertheless, when the autumn comes,
football is in the air, and the great professional clubs lose no time in the commencement of
their business. Even in August, when the sun is hot o'erhead, and when,
according to football law, no matches shall be played under pain of the most grievous penalties –
yes, even in this warm, mellow month, if you come with me down to Woolwich or
to Tottenham I could show you crowds some thousand s strong. And these
would be criticising, praising and condemning, hoping and despairing, but all
of them yelling, as they watch the first practice games of the season in which
old and new players are weighed in the balance and accepted or rejected for the
League team as the case may be. This is a time for nervous excitement for all concerned, and indeed in this
respect there is only one other period which may be properly likened unto this
one upon the threshold of the season's campaign. And that other one is eight months in
advance, in the last days of March and the beginning of April, when the proven stalwarts of the season close together for
the final bout in which the honours at last are the laurels of absolute and
undisputed championship.
It seems to me that few modern pastimes can so conjure up in one's mind
a vision of the games of old as this practice football, when the qualities of
the players are being tested, and when every mind is on the strain as to how
the best possible team shall be selected. Every individual of the crowd round the
rails has an interest in the result. Either he pays his half-guinea for a
season ticket, or his admission money every Saturday, and if the team is not to
his liking he will want to know the reason why. Nominally the committee is the arbiter and
it actually makes the choice of men; but no committee of a professional club in
the metropolitan area or anywhere else would dare to neglect the force of
public opinion to any substantial extent. You see, it takes some thousands a year to run these professional
clubs, and those thousands have to come from the men who are shouting round the
green.
And so it happens that when Sandy
McTavish, the new forward, who has come all the way from Motherwell, Dumbarton,
or the Vale of Leven for four pounds a week, strips himself and bounds into the
ring for practice and for judgment, his feelings on analysis are found to be
much the same as those of the gladiator in the glorious days of Rome. Sandy skims down the wing
like a bird in flight, such are his ease and grace and skill; and at the right
moment – thud! and the ball has whizzed into the net, a splendid and most excellent goal. Sandy
thus has made his mute appeal. The
crowd is appreciative, it, screams its pleasure, the latest Scot is the
greatest hero, and – it is thumbs up for Sandy .
But what if he fumbled and fell, and, perhaps through sheer nervousness, did
nought that was good upon a football field? None would know so well as Sandy that his fate was sealed, and that no mercy
awaited him. There are scolds and murmurs of discontent from beyond the
touch-line, and most cutting of all, there are derisive cheers. Poor miserable Sandy knows full well
that thumbs are down, and a vision of the second team, with a subsequent
ignominious transfer to some other club, comes up in his tortured mind. Yes, for
the human view of it, for the strenuousness, the excitement, the doubt, and the
stirring episodes of London
football, give me the practice games in the early days when the law forbids a
real foe.
And when the season opens,
away bound the professional teams like hounds unleashed, and every camp is
stirred with anxious thoughts. There is Tottenham Hotspur, who vindicated the
South after the period of darkness. Nowhere is there such enthusiasm as at Tottenham, where the bands
play and the spectators roar themselves hoarse when goals are scored, and
betake themselves in some numbers to the football hostelries when all is over
to fight the battle once again.
It is a football fever of
severe form which is abroad at Tottenham. Again, at Plumstead, where the Woolwich
Arsenal play – a club of many achievements and more disappointments. The
followers of the Reels, as they call them from their crimson shirts, are
amongst the most loyal in the land, and Woolwich led the way in the
resuscitation of the South. League clubs came to Plumstead when Tottenham was
little more than a name.
Over at Millwall is the club
of that name, which has likewise had its ups and downs, though they call it by
way of pseudonym the Millwall Lion. In the meantime, whilst these great teams,
and the others which are associated with them in London professionalism, play
the grand football, there are no lesser if younger enthusiasts by the thousand
in the streets and on the commons and in the parks, and their grade of show
ranges from the paper or the rag ball of first mention in this article to the full
paraphernalia of the Number Five leather case and the regulation goal posts and
net. And don't think this is not the most earnest football. If you do, stroll upon some Saturday in the
winter time into Battersea and Regent's Park, and there you will see the
youngsters striving for the honours of victory and for the points of their
minor Leagues. The London County Council makes provision for no fewer than
eight thousand of these football matches in its parks in a single season. And
at our London public
schools great homage is paid to King Football under widely varying conditions.
At one institution – St. Paul 's Cathedral Choir School – it is even played on the
roof, as the illustration shows.
|
And up at another great amateur headquarters, Tufnell Park, you should see a game between the renowned Casuals and the London Caledonians or "Caleys." That is the game to warm the blood of
a football follower. And at that historic spot which is known as the
"Spotted Dog," you will find the great Clapton team disport themselves.
These representatives of amateurism are
indeed great in their past, great in their traditions, even if they are not great
in the eyes of the Leagues.
The other notable and
enduring feature of London football is its Rugby section. It has a story all its own, and the Rugby enthusiast never could see anything in the “socker”
game. It is admitted that “rugger” is a cult, a superior cult, and though it
has its followers by thousands in London ,
it is not the game of the people as is that played under the rival code of laws.
Yet London has always held a glorious place in
the Rugby football world, and the public schools and the 'Varsities supply such
a constant infusion of good new blood, so that when the fame of Richmond and Blackheath fade away, we shall be
listening for the crack of Rugby doom.
And so the eight months'
season with its League games, its cup-ties, its 'Varsity matches, rolls along,
we round the Christmas corner with its football comicalities, and we come in
due course to the greatest day of all the football year, when the final tie
in the English Cup competition is fought
out at the Crystal Palace.
It cannot be an exaggeration
to say that it is one of the sights of the London year when over 100,000 screaming people are standing
upon the slopes of Sydenham, and with quickened pulses watching the progress of
the struggle. How the railway companies get them all there from the city is a
mystery, and it is another, though a lesser one, as to how quite half that crowd has travelled up
from the country towns and cities in the
small hours of the morning. On his arrival, the country Cup-tie visitor,
whether he comes from Manchester, Sheffield, Birmingham, or any other of the great centres, lets all London know of the fact, so much is he
badged and bedecked in the colours of his favourites.
At night, when the greatest
battle has been won and lost, he swarms over the West End
with his pockets full of the many football editions, and a death card of the
losing team in proper black-bordered
“In Memoriam” style tucked away in his pockets as a memento. In both these
paper goods is a great trade done. Football journalism is a profession in
itself, with all its own editors, specialists, and reporters.
I loved the experience and Sergio was an excellent instructor and a lovely guy to fly with.
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