PORTRAIT of a LEG END
After the phenomenal success of the first issue of Give 'Em Beans!, I asked if there was going to be a second issue. "Sure. Of course we're doing another issue. We'll be going weekly soon," replied the ridiculously optimistic Beanhead. "Great," I said. "Do you want an article about Mr A (name changed to protect the guilty and ourselves from any actions for defamation)?" "Yeah. Fantastic. Brill. Who's Mr A anyway?" As far as I knew, Mr A was a legendary figure from Barrow's past. The statistics bear out the Beanhead's blank state - a miserable thirteen goals in 46 games in the mid-sixties is hardly the stuff of legend. Especially as he was supposed to be a centre forward (archaic pre-1970's term for 'striker'). But of course, as with most legendary figures, the bare statistics don't tell the whole story. Mr A was a 'glamour boy'. The phrase may seem a bit odd to anyone introduced to the game during the dull eighties. However in the George Best/ Beatles era, every team had to have its own glamour boy. The role of the glamour boy was simply to look good. I suppose it was an effort to attract women to the game as thousands of young girls wet their knickers every second Saturday at Old Trafford. Apart from George himself though, the inclusion of the glamour boy in each side effectively reduced the game to ten-a-side. The response from the traditional older male fans was to shout "Where's your handbag?" throughout the game. Of course with A the question was unnecessary. He carried his handbag with him at all times because it contained his make up kit, brush and comb. When the ball came over, he could be seen next to the Evening Mail photographer - getting ready to have his photo taken just in case the ball hit him and accidentally went in. Fortunately the Mail photographer was involved in team talks so he knew where to stand for corners. He was able to place old A in just the right position like an oversized Subbuteo player. As an impressionable young fan, I thought it was wonderful. I was of course wrong. He was crap. They might as well have played A in goals and let Lionel Duffin try and play centre forward at least he tried to get near the ball (and there was no danger of handball. Ed.). Eventually the management saw sense, relegated A to the reserves and presumably advised him to try selling insurance. You could only tell how bad he really was if you actually went to see him play in the reserves. At the time, I attended all the reserve games along with a couple of hundred other people with no real hobbies. I often wondered what I was doing watching the has-beens and never-will-bes against Horwich RMI, Bacup Borough, Rossendale and the like. I suppose I wanted to get full value out of my thirteen shillings season ticket (younger fans can ask an old codger what that is in real money). In all honesty, I saw better games in the park. But one incident made it all worthwhile. I haven't a clue who it was against, but it was in the second half (I know that because I was in the stand. A few of us used to sneak in at half time when the old chap on the gate went for his brew and bag of crisps.). As the game reached a climax, the reserves got a rare penalty. Naturally the glamour boy would take it. Unfortunately he hadn't kicked a ball for a few years and he waited for the ball to hit him and fly into the net. When the ref explained that he would have to kick it, he ran up to the ball, took a huge swing and watched as the funny little round thing trickled towards the keeper. It was so badly hit that the keeper would have had time to nip to the snack bar for a Kit Kat, eat it, brush his teeth and return to the goal line before the ball got there. Even a goalie bad enough to play in the Lancashire Combination couldn't miss it unless he fell asleep. The crowd was stunned. A was even more stunned. How dare this poxy goalie have the nerve to save his penalty? There was only one thing to do to save his honour. He walked slowly towards the keeper, swung his fist and, to everyone's surprise, hit him in the face. If only he could be as accurate with his dainty feet! The goalie was flat out on his back and A simply turned round and walked off the field. Maybe he should have played for Arsenal. Ed's note: Since this article first appeared we have received information that the player whose penalty was saved in the reserve match was not Mr A at all (another reason for protecting his identity), but a very well respected and fondly remembered player, who, for the purposes of this piece, we shall call Mr H. Handsome Dick Brown Issue 002 - March 1990