I don’t know whether St Bernadette’s — the church in the background — was busy on this Sunday morning, possibly it was. Hough End Playing Fields across the road certainly was, although this picture doesn’t capture the fact that at least half-a-dozen sports matches of various kinds were taking place around me at this point. I like the combination of the bright orange shirt and the slight dullness and tattiness of the background.
Heading to Sunday morning football in Bradford was better than hanging around at home doing nothing. With this shot I guess I was just hoping the symmetries came out OK. On reflction I say that the imbalance of the black windows at the top, vis-a-vis the dranpipes below, is not my problem. Anyway, why should I be the one pointing out the imperfections?
Please don’t ask which one of these people is Ally. Although I admit it took me a while to get the point of the identity (Ally = Allerton = Northallerton Town FC). Yes, I am aggrieved by the green bin, but it is what it is.
Both the weekend’s photos are from the football; two contrasting experiences. Here, the positive one at Padiham FC, an enjoyable game in a congenial stadium, one with character and distinctiveness. This mural has been painted since we last visited here two years ago, and, I think, its effectiveness can be judged by the fact that you do have to look twice to realise Joe, in his dark coat and grey woolly hat, is not actually part of it.
3pm on a Saturday, and all around the country, a certain proportion of the players and spectators stand for a minute of tribute to someone or other. Here at Brighouse Town (the guys in orange), it was to commemorate a recently deceased former goalkeeper, it seems. Not that anyone had heard of the guy until this moment but all the same, it is good to take a minute now and again to stand and collectively create silence, a commodity that is not always easy to acquire.
This afternoon I saw L S Lowry’s famous painting, Going to the Match, which is currently on display in Bury Art Gallery. Then I went to Bury FC’s ground, Gigg Lane, where 2,790 people decided they wanted to Go to the Match. For a ninth-division game, this is pretty good, and I think Lowry might have approved.
The gentleman in the hat, pondering the action, is Steve Gritt, coach of Hornchurch FC. Though this story is, I am sure, of only the vaguest interest to most people, the reason I depict him on here today is that back in 1997 Mr. Gritt was appointed manager of Brighton & Hove Albion FC (a.k.a. ‘my lot’), when they were 11 points adrift at the bottom of the entire Football League and facing relegation and oblivion. A few months later, however, he had achieved the seemingly impossible, and Brighton survived with an (in)famous 1-1 draw at Hereford, who went down instead. 27 years later and the Albion are playing their eighth season in the Premier League. Not that Steve Gritt had anything much more to do with that part of the tale (he left the club in 1998) but all Brighton fans certainly owe him our thanks.
And so, realising that he was the coach of the club I had randomly come to see, I waited to shake his hand and give him that thanks as he came off the pitch. And I was pleased I had had the opportunity, and took it. OK, random stalker moment over, moving on…
With Joe now living in Dundee we have determined that Newcastle is the halfway point between us, geographically. Hence, this weekend, built around an evening out but also (it being me) a trip to a football match and a chance to laze around in the sunshine on the grassy acres of Heaton Stannington FC (a ground which thoroughly deserves the awards it has received for its beer, by the way).
Of course, the title of this blog has non-geographical implications too, as with all parents and their children. And if you saw pictures of me when I was Joe’s age (21) — this shot, particularly, is like looking at a magical mirror that projects one back in time. That’s me, in the summer of 1991, right there. Only with bigger feet.
Followers of this blog will be aware that I go to quite a few football matches — tonight being my 53rd of 2024 so far — but I try not to let the theme dominate these daily posts. However, Hurst Cross is a fine example of the genre and worth depicting. It’s been continuously in use by Ashton United since 1884 and so is one of the oldest extant grounds in the world, and a perfectly decent place to spend a Thursday evening, if you ask me.
The younger members of the small crowd at AFC Bentley v AFC Phoenix disport themselves in an aesthetically pleasing manner over the little main stand. It would have been very easy for this one to have been cluttered up by a number of things — signs on the back wall, or dangling wires, maybe — but other than at the bottom right corner, these things are not present (and I did consider cropping further, but then the standing couple would have been too near the edge). I doubt any of them particularly cared that the visiting team won on the day, they were just enjoying the sunshine, as was I.
Being 42 