KEV and ME
A million old soldiers will fade away, but a dream - and Kevin Proctor - goes on forever. Still apparently indestructible despite Cowps knows how many broken legs, other fractures and concussions, Barrow's answer to Captain Scarlet tells us he'll be back doing the business next season. Yee-esss, that's what we wanted to hear! But then of course - Kev 'n' me; we go way back. Oh no, there's nothing you can tell me about Kevin Proctor - great pals we are (Eh? I've never heard him mention you. Ed.). Er, well yes - but we were in the same class in various schools for about twelve years so if you want a bit of background on our Kev who else would you get to write it? (I could think of a few. Ed.) Yep, I remember those football games we played every break in the yard of the old Victoria Junior School. What seemed like hundreds of kids chasing a tennis ball up and down a playground with a slope Everest expeditions used to come and practice on. The teams were invariably School Team v. The Rest and Kevin and me were always on opposite sides. I was too crap ever to be considered for the school team although it seemed Kevin was in the side from day one. Well, that's an exaggeration, but he did make it in his second year, a magnificent achievement considering the rest of the team comprised third and fourth years. The day after his debut I still remember Kevin shyly approaching the legendary Mr. Smith who had him announce to the class that he scored two goals. ("Well done, Proctor - you can go home at five to four tonight!") So the promise of a successful football future showed early and by our final year Kevin was firmly established in the team. That was the year I sat next to him in class. Always getting me into trouble, he was. One incident in particular sticks in my mind. Living down near Romney Road, Kevin would have been one of the first to learn those four letter words we all acquire in our vocabularies sooner or later. He was writing one of them in a mirror image on a piece of paper very heavily in blue biro and then pressing the paper on the back of his hand. Being an impressionable sort of child I thought this was mightily cool and did exactly the same. Not being over endowed with original thought, I even used the same word. Anyway, about a week before this we had been given bright new desks and were told that they were going to be inspected for damage at the end of the year. But I pressed too hard and the impression of my four letter word could be seen clearly in the still soft wood of the desk. I lived in terror for the rest of the term, certain old Lett would spot this obscenity and drag me off screaming to the head for the cane or worse. I can't remember Kevin's reaction. He probably laughed. He'd shown a bit of sense and leant on a book. They must have been tough there because they sure made you learn. Ah yes; Herbert Smith's classes on double differentiation. So Kev, me and about twenty others passed the eleven plus and wound up at the Grammar School. I suppose there we grew apart. Different interests, I guess. Not that one of us was a swot and the other wasn't. I don't think Kev will mind me saying this but both of us had about as much acquaintance with academia as an Iraqi diplomat has with the concept of honesty. Neither did we stay on to finish 'A' levels. But there was always a certain snobbish element at the school in those days which considered it an affliction worse than leprosy to leave in the fifth form and go in the shipyard. And though some of those who adopted that attitude may have gone on to become successful doctors, lawyers and undermanagers at WH Smith, Kev can always say to them: "How many of you have played at Wembley and have an FA Trophy winners medal to prove it?" Not many. But as Joe McFuddle would say, I divest. And the rest, as you all know, is history. When I come to think of it, of the locals of about my age who played for Barrow at one time or another: the Jon Balms, Pip Keens, Mark Hubbolds all had reputations as hard men off the field. Kev's the only one whose reputation is for on the field toughness (and fairness - only one sending off in his career last year at Slough and that's still a mystery to rival the Marie Celeste) and he's the only one who's still there. I don't know what that proves, but it must count for something! Anyway, a final message: see you at Colchester, Kevin. Bet you wish you could be out there; givin' 'em some beans for us! Issue 011 - April 1992