It was during the summer of 1984 that a fleet of MOT failures met at the Towns Talk motel, pub and event venue in Bedminster Down, to take a squad of footballers to Cheddar for a pre season friendly. I am not usually good with years, never mind exact dates, but on this baking hot day one of my team mates had with him a copy of the local newspaper, the Bristol Evening Post. It was how you got your news in those days. As well as being an enthusiastic, though limited, player, I was also a Bristol Rovers supporter, attending home matches when my weekend playing commitments allowed it. On the front page of the paper was the shocking news that Rovers winger, Mike ‘Mickey’ Barrett, had been diagnosed with lung cancer after suffering breathing difficulties during pre season training. By September, he was dead. He was 24.
We were rocked by the news. Young people, never mind your footballers, didn’t die of lung cancer at that age. They didn’t die of anything. But there we were. The convoy crawled to Cheddar, arriving at what we were astonished to find was a proper football ground, with an actual stand. Used to the parks pitches of Bristol, this was quite a shock to the system, but not as big a shock as running down an actual tunnel to reach the pitch for the kick off.
As with most parks players, we were not super fit athletes, but we were young. I was not the most skilful player, but I could run all day and in the overwhelming heat, I did run all day, drenched in sweat for the entire game but never once slowing down. I suspect we were not playing Cheddar’s first team, who were in the Western League, and we managed a creditable 3-3 draw. It was quite the experience being clapped off the pitch as we returned down the tunnel to the dressing rooms before tucking into a few pints of cold beer and cider.
One thing that didn’t happen during the game was a stop for hydration. In fact, the only time play stopped was for the usual series of free kicks and set pieces and for both half and full time. We were all what is known in the game as ‘knackered”, but no more than we were after any other game. We were young, we were fit-ish, we didn’t even think of stopping for a glass of water. But then, our game wasn’t being televised and the local leagues didn’t have advertising to sell, like they do in the current World Cup.
Now, if what was in essence a pub team did not need to stop play to top up on water, I am at a loss as to why teams in the World Cup should need to. Football is many things, not least a battle of endurance. And it’s professional participants perform at fitness levels that are unimaginable for ordinary folk. You don’t leave the pitch for a few minutes when it’s pissing with rain, or even snow in the winter, so why should the game be stopped just because it’s hot or, worse still in this World Cup, when it actually isn’t warm and it is pissing with rain? England’s win against Panama was played in driving rain. Hydration was everywhere.
We’re doubtless going to get these wretched interruptions for the rest of the tournament and, I fear, if the authorities get their way, both abroad and at home, football matches will be played in quarters, as in America’s grid iron sport. In which case, I suspect I will end up watching something else. Football is, as much as anything, about momentum and rhythm and even the half-time break can affect both. Bringing in more breaks, at least for me, just ruins the spectacle. If there are issues with playing games in hot countries then my solution is simple: don’t host international tournaments in hot countries.
It’s strange to remember that day in 1984 for two such distinct reasons. The tragedy of the cancer diagnosis of one of my favourite footballers and and then playing football in an actual ground on a boiling hot day. And yet I can remember the day, if not the actual date, like it was yesterday. At least I have the memory of watching Mickey Barrett twisting and turning past bamboozled defenders at Eastville Stadium, also RIP, and being able to run all day, whereas these days I would struggle to run for the bus.
I’m stopping for a hydration break, now. The game’s gone, as they say.
