Back in the year of our Lord 1970, I was spending the summer holidays in Rotterdam with my mum and my grandmother (known as Oma). Not much went on. Most days, I would play football with the local boys on the grassy areas in between the three storey apartments, where Oma lived. And every day, I would wander the cobbled streets to the main road, Goudesingel, to watch the trams rumble and clang their way by. Once a week, we would attend the Blaak market (not black market, don’t worry) on Binnenrotte for the weekly shop from where I could watch the express trains rattle and hum high above, on metal arches, starting their journeys across the Netherlands. I could speak Dutch fluidly, but inexplicably no one ever bothered to teach me to read and write it, so the six weeks could pass extremely slowly. Then, one day my mother’s brother, my only uncle, Koos, short for Jacobus, arrived for a brief social call and asked if I would like to go to a football match with him.
Already a teenager, I had never before been to a football match, aside from watching my local amateur team Brislington – Briz, as they were known – play at Victory Park. My mother, a lone parent, had no interest in football so actually going to a game was something that never crossed my mind. My father, who did have a vague interest in football, had emigrated to Canada many years before and anyway had separated from my mother perhaps a decade before so there was no role model, so I was left to my own devices when it came to pretty well anything. Aside from 1966 when my father had tickets for the World Cup Final between England and West Germany at Wembley Stadium and wanted me to travel alone to London in order to go with him, that is. The nine-year-old me was far too scared to travel alone and I declined to attend the greatest day in England’s footballing history. Now, Uncle Koos gave me the chance of going to my first game.
Feyenoord were European Champions, having defeated Celtic 2-1 at the San Siro in Milan, a game I had watched on our tiny crackling black and white television. The goals were scored by the legendary defender and captain Rinus Israël and their Danish centre forward Ove Kindvall. I concluded long before the end that Feyenoord were my team and, with the help of my mother, I wrote to various players, including my favourite player Willem van Hanegem, for signed photos. They send them, too.
The European Cup was displayed in a pop-up shop on the Coolsingel, a wide street near the Lijnbaan shopping area, in the shadow of the town hall (Stadhuis). My mum took me there during the summer of 1970 and I was photographed with it. (The photo, like many personal items including my signed player photos, were lost when I was forced to leave my first wife due to her physical and verbal violence, but that’s another story.) And now, I had the chance of actually going to a game.
Uncle Koos drove us to the game and we parked what felt was miles away from De Kuip, Feyenoord’s home ground. We were situated in the top tier of one end and had an amazing view. Feyenoord played FC Utrecht and won, I think, 4-1. I was mesmerised by the likes of van Hanegem, Wim Jansen, Rinus Israel, Coen Moulijn, Theo Laseroms and Ove Kindvall. As they did against Celtic, Feyenoord played Utrecht completely off the park and I was smitten.
While my hero was, and remains, van Hanegem, I was taken by the brilliance of Ove Kindvall, the Swedish striker. He wasn’t tall but my God he could play, scoring 129 goals in 144 games. Memories of my childhood and youth are sparse, but that day is etched upon my mind and while Bristol Rovers, after a brief dalliance with Bristol City, became my team, Feyenoord were, in football terms, my first love.
Ove Kindvall died yesterday and while I am hardly bereft at the news, I am a little saddened. Another link with the past gone forever, now no more than a memory. Uncle Koos only ever took me to one game but that was enough. I got to see Ove Kindvall and what’s more I can remember him playing, even though it was 55 years ago.
I last saw Feyenoord play at De Kuip in 2023 and the clubs legends are everywhere, by way of photos, paintings and the odd statue. I made a point of walking around the stadium before the game to take it all in. And, as I expected, Kindvall was among them. Of course he was. A proper club legend, a true great.
That day in 1970 is etched upon my mind and, as with my deep love for the city itself, I feel I am being drawn back every few years to the land of my mother. All my Dutch relatives are dead and gone so there is no one left to visit and I have never found it necessary to seek out and visit graves and the like belonging to people who aren’t here anymore. I can’t see the point. It’s not as if they’re going to magically reappear, is it? But the places still remain and so do the memories. And given I have so few memories of a generally dark and miserable upbringing, I am grateful to the likes of Ove Kindvall for the few happy ones.
His death got me looking back today, something I seldom do, despite appearances to the contrary. Rest in peace, Ove. And thank you for the memories.
