The fact that I now like to think of myself as a football purist, however, sits a little incongruously with that background.
For most of the 70s, Fratton Park was home to a series of has-beens and ne’er would-bes. All we asked as Pompey fans was that they gave 100 per cent – or 110 per cent if you’re a football pundit – week in, week out. We knew the majority of them weren’t very talented; the redolent ‘tippy-tappy’ football of Barcelona in 2011 was some years off – even if the players had the ability, the pitches would have seen to that; and effort and commitment were the only prerequisites for a Pompey player.
When I compare the players I admire now to those I admired back then – even those from the top level – there is a stark difference between their styles.
Effort and commitment were still the two bywords of Alan Ball’s first spell at Pompey in the mid-late 80s. Yes, his team could play entertaining football, but not in the way Arsenal or Barca do today.
Triangles in those days generally meant the formation of a pointed elbow jabbing into the ribs of an opponent courtesy of Billy Gilbert, Kevin Dillon or skipper Mick Kennedy, a midfielder who saw more suspensions than Isambard Kingdom Brunel and Albert Pierrepoint combined.
I loved Scully; he was my sort of player. Committed to the point of being borderline filthy he could also play a bit as well: in other words, an ideal Alan Ball player. He would never have made a career in the 21st century. The scissor-tackle – first leg takes the ball while the second follows through in a scything motion – was his speciality. The ball ended up in row F while the player writhed in agony on the cinder track – or was it the other way around?
Scully: my hero (Sadly the only image I could find of him on the net...
That tackle is now frowned upon, and, as reluctant as I am to admit it, rightly so. Football has moved on in style and in spirit. I’d much rather see my team now demonstrate their superiority by getting the ball down and knocking it around than winning a 22-man brawl which almost inevitably kicked off whenever one of the aforementioned trio were involved.
As I alluded to previously, Ball’s team could play decent football. It would generally adhere to the following pattern: kick somebody and win ball; pass to somebody else; pass wide to wingers; sprint down the flanks; cross ball to create either a) havoc; b) a goalscoring opportunity; or c) a melee resulting in a 22-man punch-up.
They were great times. We were promoted to the first division – then the country’s top flight – at the end of the 86/87 season, and although we went back down again after just one season, the likes of Kennedy, Dillon, Gilbert, Mick Tait, Noel Blake and Paul Hardyman left their mark on the division and many of its so-called superstars.
They may have been better footballers but our lads could hold their own in any 22-man brawl – you can see there’s a theme here.
This progression of mine from idolising Mick Kennedy to eulogising over Xavi, Iniesta et al, comes, I suppose, from maturity as well as an exposure to high-quality football on TV every night of the week. In the mid-eighties I was still a testosterone-fuelled young man who was happy to see aggression triumph providing my team was the aggressor.
Now I’m a Horlicks-fuelled middle-aged man who wants his nights in on the sofa to be as fulfilling as possible – at least when it comes to football. I demand to be entertained – and with the possible exceptions of El Hadji Duouf, Marc van Bommel, Joey Barton and John Terry – I don’t wish to see people get lumps kicked out of them. Yes, including those wearing the red and white of Southampton – it’s all part of the mellowing process.
This transition has been so gradual that I had not really noticed it until two things happened in the space of 48 hours. First I had a Facebook friend invitation from somebody with whom I would stand on Fratton’s north terrace back in the 80s, when I was a member of the self-titled ‘boater boys’.
We prided ourselves on our ‘witty banter’ – it was all relative – and this particular fella would always keep our feet on the ground with his heartfelt and erudite catchphrase: “Break ’is ****ing leg!” It was symbolic of the times. He would admit he was no Noel Coward.
Like me I imagine he will have moved on and is not quite so free with his invitation to violence in 2011.
The second instance happened when my young colleague, Lee – 20 years my junior and treated as the son I never wanted – commented that all the attributes I praised Kennedy for in conversation, were just the sort of things I despise now in opponents when I fawn over Arsenal and Barcelona’s football.
He has a point. But given Pompey’s current plight I might well be tempted to eschew the ‘tippy-tappy’ stuff in favour of some good old brawn if it brought sufficient points to keep us in the Championship. I’m nothing if not fickle…
