Always Next Season

The first televised FA Cup Final occurred in 1938 and it was a lacklustre affair. After 29 minutes of extra-time with no goals, BBC commentator Thomas Woodrooffe said, “if there’s a goal now, I’ll eat my hat.” Thousands were already on their way towards the exits, when Preston’s inside-right was brought down and the referee pointed towards the penalty spot. Wembley stadium was silent when George Mutch set the ball in place with aplomb and retreated a few steps. He raised his head, picked his mark and darting forward, hoofed the ball, which took the paint off the bar, screamed into the middle of the goal and ran down the back of the net. 

   It was eighty-five years ago when young Robin ‘Bobbly’ Robertson heard the thunderous roar of Preston North End’s supporters. He was sitting on his father’s shoulders when Mutch scored against Huddersfield Town and became the hero of the day. As a result of that last-minute goal, Mutch cemented North End’s place in soccer history and they were accepted amongst the top flight of contenders. Pundits in the British Press christened them “The Invincibles” and zealous fans cheered them on at Preston’s Deepdale Stadium, presuming their glory would continue to flourish. Legend has it that Thomas Woodrooffe ate a hat as promised, although it was a trilby-shaped cake made from marzipan.

* * *

Alas, fairy tales are often cautionary stories in disguise and as the forties became the fifties, the fans had little to show for their enthusiasm. There were no more cups to display. Regardless, the club’s directors expanded Deepdale Stadium’s capacity for hope of a revival, but as the sixties melted into the seventies, it was obvious the team of the moment had had their time in the sun. Preston never repeated that early success, and only the most loyal fans returned year after year to support their struggling team. 

   Meanwhile, during the eighties, leagues of accountants transformed the once ‘beautiful game’ into a financial contest fought in boardrooms between affluent investors and frenzied owners, both eager to profit from their investments and increase their shareholder’s dividends. Alas, once-proud Preston failed to attract any generous benefactors, and slipped into a fiscal quagmire. With precious little remaining of their mighty reputation, they did well to remain afloat as a middle-ranking team in the second-division.

* * *

Robin, or ‘Bobbly’ as he was known, is the last of his seven contemporaries to witness that legendry season of 1938; it was like a dream of a half-remembered and distant land evaporating into vapour. He often talked about how they all gathered outside the Deepdale Stadium to receive their triumphant team when they returned from Wembley. Everyone cheered when the squad appeared in an open-top bus and applauded the captain, Tommy Smith, when he raised the glorious silverware aloft. 

   “Look!” Jimmy Walker said. “It’s glinting like the crown jewels.” 

   “It’s like they pinched it from the Tower of London,” said his brother. 

   “Nah!” Mark Butcher said, chewing gum. “It’s back where it belongs.”

* * *

As a youngster, Bobbly accompanied his father and Uncle Harry to Preston’s home matches every fortnight during the season. They rarely attended away fixtures because Bobbly’s father despised football fans en masse and detested their unruly behaviour. On the rare occasions he’d ventured to away matches, he’d seen drunken fights, police arrests and violence, and it’d put him off for life. He was so averse to getting dragged into challenging situations that he never wore any of the scarves his wife bought him, claiming they made his neck itch.

* * *

As a lifelong supporter, Bobbly shared all North End’s ups and downs - mainly nosedives of late - and stayed loyal throughout. Barbara, his wife, referred to Preston North End as ‘the third party’. Barbara had the patience of a saint and a wry sense of humour. She tolerated his love of football and the endless Saturdays waiting for his return, followed by hours of television coverage from the day’s other matches. Exactly how close she’d come to cite ‘the club’ as a third party in court, only she knew. Barbara joked about being a soccer widow, only it wasn’t that funny, really. She’d shown an interest in his obsession, but he'd always discouraged her from attending matches. When it came to his sacred Saturday afternoon’s pleasure, it was non-negotiable. Bobbly’s excuse when Deepdale invested in permanent fixed-seating was that it was too crowded, and he feared for her safety. Given the Hillsborough tragedy in the nineties, he had a point. Of course, it was better than the arrangement in the old days. Once you were inside the original stadium, it was almost impossible to get to the toilet and often fans would urinate where they stood, which was fairly foul.    

   “I hear that Deepdale has got new seats,” she announced one Saturday. 

   “I’m not sure that’s true, dear.”

   In fact, it was well known that most clubs installed discrete seating decades ago.   

   Barbara wasn’t one for quitting and said, “I hear they’ve also got separate ladies’ and gents’ toilets?” 

   Bobbly produced even more reasons for her not to attend until she got the message. Maybe she’d got used to the peace and quiet? I recall seeing the two of them watching international matches during the world cup and giggling as Barbara got involved with the game. She’d kick and yelp in front of the TV during matches on Saturday nights while Bobbly rolled his eyes and sighed. I reckon Bobbly’s reason for not including his wife in trips to Deepdale was out of embarrassment. I’m sure he couldn’t bear the thought of her histrionics beside him at the club. ‘Bloody embarrassing,’ he’d said to his grandson. ‘We can’t be having her showing us up like that.’

* * *

It can’t be fun at a certain age to know that all one’s friends are disappearing. The whole process is made more obvious now they’ve got numbered seats in the stadium. ‘I see Jimmy Walker’s not with us…’ 

‘Oh,’ Bill would say. ‘You mean number 311?’ 

‘I suppose so. I haven’t seen him since---’ 

‘He’s left the stadium, I’m afraid. A week ago.’ 

‘That’s a shock. But better than a slow demise?’ 

They both agreed there was nothing worse.

* * *

The supporters are a different breed nowadays. They spend all their time speculating about who’s going to win and how they’d be better off placing a bet on both sides, so at least they win something. The fans behave like another species and the entire make-up of the stadium has altered too. It’s ordered and regulated with seating, but the seats are too close together. It’s funny how the old stands were so cramped for space, but somehow there was an illusion of movement. Maybe it’s because you were standing up and everyone surged in unison. United and together with one thought in mind.

   “But I don’t get why women-folk are encouraged. I mean, where will it end?” 

   “That would never have happened years ago.” 

   “Women weren’t interested, and it was a man’s world, tightly packed, uncomfortable and smelling of sweat and urine.” 

   “Not like today.” 

   Hot potatoes in their jacket pockets, pissing down people’s backs because they couldn’t get from the stands to toilets. Yes, things were different. The matches were competitive, but there was a friendly edge to proceedings. There was a reluctant and begrudging respect for the opposition. Nowadays, the fans are aggressive and violent towards the visiting supporters; both physically and verbally, and always looking for a fight.

   Bobbly’s ten contemporaries once had a wager on who would see the club promoted. In his latter years, Bobbly said that after they reached the Premiership, he’d ‘happily shuffle off his mortal coil with pride’.

   Well, here we are. It’s the last game of the season and Bobbly is the last of the old lads who joined for life. Mark Butcher passed away two years ago and Bobbly is still present in mind and body. It’s a tense match, but it ends in defeat. ‘Not unexpected,’ Bobbly said afterwards. ‘They always run out of steam at the tail end of the season. No stamina this lot, not like the old days.’

   Once more, the club won’t get promoted to the Premiership. However, on the bright side, Bobby will live to fight another day because ‘There’s always next season’.

   “It used to be a place for dads to take their sons,” Bobbly said, shaking his head. “Now the tickets are too pricey and they’re paying the players too much.” He folded his match-day program as he prepared to leave.

   “We have a special announcement, everyone….”

   A silence descends on the ground as the tannoy continues.

   “The family and friends of Mister Bobbly Robertson would like to wish our oldest surviving club member a happy ninetieth birthday…”

   “What’s that? Bobbly asked me.

   “On the screen, look, Grandpa…”

   The fans all stand up and cheer on request, clapping as they do so.

   “Oh, my gosh,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “Is this your handiwork, lad?”

   “Happy Birthday, Grandpa.”

   “Many Happy Returns, Bobbly!” says the tannoy as applause filled the ground.

Bobbly shrugged and wiped a tear from his eye as pictures from his youth appeared on the huge plasma screen above the visitors’ stand. 

   “A bit of dust caught in my eye,” he says. “Probably all that clapping.”

   After the applause diminished, Bobbly remained in his seat. He refused to join the chaotic stampede departing the stadium. It’s as if he was savouring the echoes of hundreds of matches from yesteryear. Faces and names he’d never forget and all those beautiful games.

The End