Sometimes you have those sliding door moments. You turn left instead of right, you happen to read a job advert that opens up a career path you hadn’t considered or you throw a ball for the dog and someone else’s dog picks it up - leading to nights of unrestrained passion. Allegedly.
I suppose you could say this happened for me in the mid-seventies. Not the dog thing, the sliding door moment. Imagine, if you will, it’s 1975. It’s early May, the 3rd to be precise, and it’s Cup Final day. I’m coming up to my eighth birthday at the end of the month and have not yet really taken too much interest in football.I had recently been asked by a friend at school if I wanted to play for a team his Dad was managing, so, because he was a mate I said yes. I didn’t really know much about football then, but it sounded like a blast. But that’s beside the point. Back to Cup Final day.
For me it had started out as a normal Saturday. No school and time to play in the garden. Then, however, the fates conspired and the sliding door moment presented itself. Dad asked if I wanted to watch the final. What is this strange thing of which you speak? I asked. He explained so, of course, I said yes.
To the build up. Dad was born in Fulham in 1935 so that was his team. We chatted for a while before the game and he told me about going to see them in the fifties where he saw players like Johnny Haynes, George Cohen, Alan Mullery, Ron Greenwood, Bobby Robson and Jimmy Hill. The names meant nothing till later days and access to old film of them gave me a greater insight.
We sat down to watch and the teams come out. “So if you support Fulham”, I said, or words to that effect, "I’ll support West Ham".
And there you are. That’s how the sliding door opened and I trotted through. The teams walked out and I thought: "That kit’s much nicer than Fulham's." Back then there was no advertising on the front, or names on the back. Just an expanse of colour - and what a beautiful, deep rich colour it was.
Onto the game. I have to admit I don’t remember a significant amount about it and maybe some memories are furnished further by watching videos on YouTube. What I do specifically remember though, is the second goal.
We’d just scored the first, Taylor knocking the ball through the legs of Peter Mellor after what, I thought, wasn’t too difficult a shot to handle from Billy Jennings. The goal though had elicited groans from the west London side of the family.
A few minutes passed and Billy Bonds picked up the ball on the right, gliding forward into Fulham's defensive third. I remember the '4' on his back and his socks rolled down to his ankles. The saucy minx.
Anyway, he knocked the ball inside and it eventually came to Pat Holland. A deft ball to Graham Paddon took out three Fulham defenders. Paddon struck the ball - only he knows whether it was a shot or cross.
Fulham 'keeper Peter Mellor - who must have just Brylcreemed his hair, which left his hands greasy - managed to spill the ball into the path of Alan Taylor who, showing his goalscoring instincts popped the ball in.
2–0. It was at this point that I decided to do the dance of joy.
And that was it. West Ham had won. Maybe it was just Dad, or maybe the generation he came from, but the way people reacted to loss back then seemed different. It was: "Oh well, a good enjoyable game of football. We lost, but never mind”.
It was also at this point that I faced my first footballing quandary, one I suspect many Hammers of my particular vintage had to face. Who was my favourite player out of Trevor Brooking and Billy Bonds?
There was so much to admire from both of these players but there was something about Brooking, his vision and movement that inspired me to try and copy that when I played. Did I succeed? Of course not - but if you’re going to try to achieve something, aim as high as you can.
So how come I remember this much? Well, as I mentioned I’ve no doubt seeing videos and other highlights has had an influence and there's also no doubt in my mind that seeing these sparks other memories as well.
For me though, the main reason is that it was the first time I'd watched a game with Dad. I can’t quite reconcile that it will be fifty years ago next May the 3rd. Unbelievable.
And that comrades, is how I started out as a Hammer. Some may say I was a glory hunter, though I would point at the 40-odd years after 1980 bearing witness to the opposite. Also, I wouldn’t have known what that was back then.
If you’re going to blame anyone, blame the old man who happened to ask if I wanted to watch the game who happened to be Fulham who happened to be playing West Ham. Funny how fate falls.
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