UPTON WARREN WILDLIFE, 8TH JUNE 2026...

 

PENALTY NIGHTMARES... (My life taking penalties in soccer games...)

 Penalty Nightmares…

I was playing at left-half for my primary school team Hillstone, as a Year 5 pupil in a very strong outfit. I had scored twice, both volleys, both from 35 yards and both against the league leaders, Brownmead School, whom we defeated 5-2 at home, to replace them at the summit. We had already drawn 2-2 at their pitch. 

In Year 6, we again had a fine team but I had failed to score a single goal, despite being chosen for the Saltley area soccer team in the Birmingham Schools’ District competition. Both my school team and the representative team wore green shirts, with white sleeves and black numbers and I played at left-back for Saltley.

I recall the final school game of the season, at home to St Anthony’s and we led 7-0. We were awarded a penalty late in the game and the football teacher, Mr Barber, asked me to take it. The nerves I felt were overwhelming and I was painfully shy anyway, but I stepped forward gamely and rapped a hard, low left-footed drive towards the centre of goal but the ‘keeper, who had done well to keep the score down to seven, fell to his left and the ball cannoned off his flailing right foot to safety. 

I was devastated and felt tears welling up inside but I recall saying “Well done…” to the goalie. My mind was full of foreboding, for I knew that my dad would be disgusted with me. He was. And he didn’t let me forget it…

HILLSTONE TEAM, MIDDLE ROW, RIGHT...

Oddly, in the staff versus lads game, the ‘keeper was our rather masculine class teacher and P.E. trained Miss Cattell, who warned me not to score against her. Subsequently I raced through in the latter stages and cracked the ball past her with a wry smile.

Sadly, attending a grammar school meant only Rugby Union for the next seven years, for there was no local Sunday football for lads in those days. I missed my football badly, I was an only child and received no real support from a father who seemed to be working all the time. 

I did however appear in one Sunday morning adult game with my dad when I was 15. He made a goal and I scored the other with my right foot in a 5-2 defeat. 

At Teacher Training College in Reading, where I was studying P.E., five of us played in a knockout 5-a-side tournament on campus and we fielded a good ‘keeper, plus what was considered the best outfield group in the competition. Our opening round opponents paraded a weak team but had included a ringer, the Southern Universities goalie, who played superbly and kept the score to 0-0, meaning sudden-death penalties to settle the tie. 

We had our first spot-kick saved, the opponents missed theirs too but no-one wanted to take our second kick, so it was left to me, with no choice but to shoot. I stepped forward and the ‘keeper flicked my hard, rising penalty over his crossbar with a dive left. Our ‘keeper, John Follett, a Millwall fan, was unable to save the opponents’ second kick and we had been beaten. I had failed from the ‘spot’ again…

After college, I played Sunday soccer for a number of years, yet wasn’t ever asked to take a penalty, although I often dreamed that I was taking one. The outcome was always the same. As I approached the ball awkwardly, my body simply wouldn’t position itself at the correct angle, nor would my left instep strike the ball properly and the whole action seemed to take place in slow motion, so that the kick failed even to reach the goal-line and I usually awoke then, shaking. I was a footballing somnambulist…

MERE GREEN...

SAINTS...

One cold, damp, muddy Sunday morning, the team I was playing for was being hammered by strong opposition and I was skipper, probably because I was the only fit person, who hadn’t been out drinking during the previous evening, had not puked before the game, or filled the stinking changing-room toilet with the remnants of a late-night curry. 

I was wearing new boots though, which were not comfortable and despite playing at left-back, I took each kick-off with the striker, saying something like: “Plan Z this time?” We were 9-0 down by the time we were surprisingly awarded a penalty in the closing seconds of the match but everyone looked at everybody else in my team and then everybody else began slouching towards the half-way line. 

So it was that I trudged forward stealthily in my ill-fitting boots, placed the ball upon the muddy penalty-spot and turned to take a run-up. But then my mind became haunted and plagued by those awful slow-motion nightmares, sending a tingling feeling running down from my thighs to my calves. I remember shaking. 

The official whistled, I ran forward unthinking and struck a firm drive low to the ‘keeper’s left and although he dived that way, the ball sped into the bottom right corner of the net. The final whistle blew to signal a 9-1 defeat, no-one congratulated me and the others went off to the pub…

BIRMINGHAM MUSEUM TEAM. 2ND FROM RIGHT, FRONT ROW...

I never missed another penalty but those dreams still haunt me today, where I cannot get my body in the correct position to strike the ball, I fail utterly to strike it well enough and the ball, in slow-motion, doesn’t even reach the goal at all. 

What a sad person...

HITLER'S ARM... (My poem about watching Aston Villa win 1-2 at Birmingham City in November 2007...)

 Hitler’s Arm…

(Birmingham City 1-2 Aston Villa, November 2007…) 

A bellowing began at my left ear

And Hitler’s arm angled 

Across my vision,

Towards mindless Blue,

A kaleidoscope of faces.

The enemy, the despicable,

In a circus built on cheer and fear.

A billowing flag draped over my head

And barking insanity echoed

Across my hearing,

Towards imitating Blue,

A congregation of faces.

The hated, the insufferable,

In a purgatory built on loathing and dread.

A buffeting ensued at Villa’s success

And that clawing arm hooked

Across my neck,

Towards tranquil Blue,

A sorrow of faces.

The defeated, the seething,

In a hell built on ire and excess…

Pete Ray...

Blues 1 Villa 2, November 2007 and a chap standing next to me, high on something, doubtless. 

He initiated much of the chanting, the majority of which was yelled in as disgusting language as he could dredge up. 

He missed much of the game due to his mission of verbally abusing people who actually couldn’t even see him… 

He pointed at random characters and was motioning that he would like to see them outside and punch their freakin’ eyes out... 

 When Villa scored their goals, the chap hooked an arm around my neck as he bounced, with his left arm punching air, which was daunting because my son had grabbed the right side of me too and was 

attempting to bounce ME up and down… 

My 12 stones of weight anchored me fortunately and I became a pivot for the temporarily insane. 

At the final whistle and after the chap had returned to a more humdrum existence, I shook his hand and 

declared, “Nice to have met you, mate…” 

He lamely failed to handle that… 

LYCE IN THE REFEREE'S HAIR... (Refereeing a lads' game some years ago...)

 Lyce in the Referee's Hair…

25 years ago my son Jamie's Under 10 team, Shirley Town Colts, played in a cup-tie on a cold January day against Chelmsley Ravens. 

Chelmsley Wood estate was built as an overspill area for the areas of Birmingham which were to be rebuilt after World War II. I guess the estate has always suffered from an infamous reputation, however. 

Shirley Town had drawn the away league encounter 2-2, on Chelmsley Town's ground before Christmas and because this cup-tie was at home, I was to be the referee. We had lost our skilful forward Joel just previous to the turn of the year, poached by rivals Shenley Radford, where Jamie was soon to finish up as a player too. We were therefore lightweight in attack and it was always going to be a tough and close game. 

The Ravens' manager was a Brummie, loud and long-haired who referred to a throw-in as a 'chuck’. His eleven-player squad included a huge, ten year old goalie called 'Edge: ('Hedgehog', I presume), plus a short lad called Stumpy, also Squirrel, Woody, Robbo, Jonno and Lyce. (Don't ask…) 

Lyce was the captain and was, I would say, hard. When fouled in a pre-season friendly, his manager had advised him to forget about the incident but “…kick him back later...” 

Oddly, there was little problem in refereeing the match during a well contested first-half, with just one warning for Lyce when he scythed an opponent down from behind, some ten seconds after I had already blown for a free-kick against his team. 

Shirley had also missed a penalty, the shot going wide, unsurprisingly, for 'Edge seemingly filled the small goal-frame, offering precious few gaps to aim at… 

0-0 then and the tension rose as Shirley's impotent strike force once again failed to score in the second-half. Fortunately Jamie's handling, as the ‘keeper was good and the game remained scoreless. 

Then, some 10 minutes from full-time, Lyce committed a very ugly foul and I was forced to speak to him again. I told him that one more incident would force me to have him substituted by his manager. I spoke pleasantly and appealed to his good nature to calm down. He had none… 

He retorted, “He was pushing me!”  I bellowed at him for this piece of unnecessary belligerence. The whole ground fell into an eerie silence and my daughter Lucy apparently whispered to a parent, “You can tell he's a teacher, can't you?” 

The Ravens' manager became desperate then, with remarks like, “Get in there Squirrel, you poof!” and “Don't just chuck it, you tart!” He even yelled, “If he pushes you in the area again, go down like you've been shot!” At that point, I turned to him and called, “Yes, but I know what he's going to do now, don't I?” 

Incredibly, I was criticised because the Ravens manager thought that one of our players might have been encroaching at a couple of corners, which had been subsequently blocked. 

Snide comments were aimed at my back, just loud enough for me to hear, but I stuck to my task of refereeing with good humour and fairness, through gritted teeth, until the game ended scoreless. Extra-time meant the possibility of a 'golden goal'. 

Lyce was systematically sent over to me to apologise, but I told him quite simply that if he fouled an opponent once more, there would be no substitution, for he would be sent off. 

I was severely irritated within but battled to show calm as the skippers tossed up again. Lyce won the call and elected to kick off, Shirley Town's captain, Tom decided to kick in the direction which meant that the lowering sun would be in 'Edge's eyes.

Then the Ravens' manager cut in. “I told him to kick that way!” he protested but I explained that Lyce had chosen to kick off. The guy proceeded to make such an embarrassing song and dance about the situation, that incredibly, the intimidated Tom changed his mind and decided to kick the opposite way, resulting in Jamie having the glaring sun in his eyes, as he had already endured for the second-half of the match. 

I was appalled and quizzed Tom but he shrugged that he didn't want any trouble and I adhered to his change of heart. Within three minutes, Ravens won a corner, our blocking player near the flag was inexplicably moved by our manager into the goalmouth, allowing for an easy delivery and a superb header rattled the crossbar as Jamie leapt and the rebound was scrambled into goal to give the Ravens a 'golden goal' winner. 

I was stunned and disgusted. I believe that the chap who runs the whole Chelmsley club witnessed the scenes and was very unhappy with the behaviour of the adults on the sidelines. Apologies were offered but too late. 

Ravens thus progressed to round three and Shirley Town's players left the ground feeling confused and distraught. 

Chelmsley had received Lycence to intimidate… 

The above article appeared in the Plymouth Argyle v Halifax Town game programme in January 2001, for in those days I wrote a regular piece for the Pilgrims’ match-day magazine…

Happy days…