DROYLSDEN 1 BARROW 3 HFS Loans League Premier Division 14 November 1992 by Graham Murphy
An extra pair of socks, vest, long johns, second jumper, gloves, animal skin stuffed with hay, and flask of tea. Having had my nuts frozen off in the FA Cup replay at Southport I wasn't going to make the same mistake for the trip to Droylsden. It was another bitterly cold day and even with all this extra junk, my hands, feet and other extremities were still numb by the end of the game. I arrived in time, but more by good luck than good judgement. The directions to Droylsden's ground in the Non-League Directory read 'Four miles east of Manchester via A662 Ashton New Road. Behind Butcher's Arms Hotel.' Now these are supposed to be simple directions, but they are anything but. If they were simple then you would expect the Butcher's Arms to be situated on the Ashton New Road. Well, it isn't... you can't even see it from Ashton New Road, for Cowps sake! These particular directions may be simple for the pilots of aeroplanes as they descend the incoming flight path towards Manchester Airport, but for us humble mortals with our feet planted firmly on the ground, or actually in a car going up Ashton New Road at ten to three, they are about as much use as a birth control device in a nunnery. A glimpse of eight floodlight posts hiding behind an office building indicated the presence of a football ground as surely as a red light announces the possibility of expensive pleasures and the risk of unsocial diseases, or possibly the fact that someone has run out of plain light bulbs. But there was no way in. On three sides the ground is completely penned in by houses with no access possible and of course Murphy's Law dictated that we tried these three sides first. It looked like an abandoned football ground until we got round to the fourth side, and there between the Butcher's Arms and a filling station are two turnstiles. Blink and you miss them. Inside the ground, and there is a small stand and three steps of terracing around three sides. One goal is too close to the gardens of the surrounding semis to allow room for any terracing. The game was great. Tigger gets better by the week, and Doc, Jabber and he had the Droylsden defence on the rack. Ken McKenna was back and raring to go, and even Barrow's defence withstood the customary second half onslaught. But after the 3-1 win (Jabber, Tigger and McKenna scored), Paul Rowlands came over to us as we all cheered the lads off the pitch. And I mean right over, not just to the penalty area of the goal behind which we'd cheered the side on in the second half, but right up to the boundary wall. He started shaking hands. "Thanks lads." "Hey, that's all right Rollo, we won again and you played great." "Thanks lads, but that was my last game for Barrow." The general hubbub died down until you could hear a pin drop. "I've played my last game for Barrow... sorry lads, but I've had an offer I couldn't refuse to go to Bangor City as player-manager." We stayed silent as the news sank in. Then a chorus of "Good luck Rollo!" and "Thanks Rollo, all the best!" He gave us his boots, socks and shinpads, posed with us for the photographer, then ran off, barefoot in the freezing cold to whatever the future has in store for him. "So long lads," he yelled. "See you, Rollo. Good luck!" Despite the victory, we all felt a little sad as we made our way home. Issue 015 - March 1993