WordSmith: My first sports column, sort of...
“I’m just back from a weekend in Manchester, I love the place,” said an old friend I recently met. Sadly, I don’t know the city anymore; even though it has an intrinsic part of me – I will forever sound Mancunian.
When I look back at the city of my birth, it’s through a retrospective veil of appreciation I didn’t appreciate at the time. As a kid, I didn’t know I lived at the core of creativity and Pop-Culture.
The artist “…painted Salford’s smoky tops on cardboard boxes from the shops.” I was born in the heart of L.S. Lowry land, Salford. Looking at Lowry’s paintings now, I see myself in his matchstick kids, ambling those grey old streets.
Our kitchen window looked onto the front door of SALFORD LADS CLUB, a place immortalised in THE SMITH’S iconic album: The Queen is Dead. The club is situated at the cobbled end of the real-life CORONATION STREET (yes – that street’s real, and the drama on it was every bit as spicy as the fictional soap).
My World-Cup was watching Miss-World with my sister, Maria. We’d watch it together, curled up on the sofa with our pencils and makeshift scoreboards; steadfastly ignoring our brother’s protestations of, “Switch this rubbish over!”
When it came to proper sport, we lived within striking distance of a behemoth: OLD TRAFFORD. Mam worked in a pub next to the grounds in Stretford. After school, I’d pop in for the house key; if lucky, I’d be treated to a Coke. Match days were mad busy; I’d spend the day in the library while my peers thronged the crowds hoping to grab a glimpse of their heroes (I told myself I was being loyal to dad, a devout Man City fan).
One mid-week day, I sprinted from school and into the pub to escape the cold. Delighted to see it wasn’t busy, I rushed for Mam and a Coke. But Mam was all-a-tizzy. She put a finger to her mouth to indicate silence and waved me over. She handed me a pen, piece of paper and pulled me in, “Georgy Best’s in the lounge, run in and get his autograph – be quick and quiet,” she whispered, pushing me towards the target.
I’d never been in the lounge before and, as the door swung shut behind me, I recall being awed by its opulence. My awe didn’t last long; anxiety clawed at me – I was on a covert Mam-Mission. Hearing low-level mumblings, I walked towards a booth. I paused, then stealth like, manoeuvred my way round to face the mumbles. What greeted me was a jaw-dropping sight: wheat-hued hair swept across caramel coloured skin, which highlighted symmetrically dazzling teeth – Miss-World was smiling: AT ME! I was transfixed, totally unaware of anyone else in the room as I handed her pen and paper.
It was with a sense of foreboding I handed Mam the results of my mission. Her face crumpled with the paper as she threw it in the bin, “Shur, he’ll be with another Miss-World next week!” she exclaimed, clipping me round the ear. Mam’s ear-clips stung, I didn’t wait for a second one.
Blur V Oasis
My second encounter with George Best was less stingy more singy. Brit-Pop was in full swing, culminating in the great Blur V Oasis battle of the bands. The Gallagher brothers were the epitome of laid-back-muso cool; and by association I found equity in my Manchester accent. I was an art-director in an ad-agency off the King’s Road in Chelsea; in presentations I’d ham up my northern sound to give my ideas an edge that BLURred the opposition.
Friday lunch-times we’d all decamp to The Phene Arms pub to begin our weekend.
The pub was George’s local, he was forever in attendance. I wasn’t on bantering terms with him, but he always responded to my, “Alright mate,” with a smile and a nod. One afternoon my colleague challenged him to a game of pool; she beat him. He was most gracious in defeat.
Back home in Cavan this column pulled me towards one of Dad’s prized possessions on top of the wardrobe. I took down his Man City signed football.
Looking at all the autographs gave me a melancholy moment. I had several opportunities to score a winning signature – and I missed them all.
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