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THE SATURDAY MEN

 

The film of this name was a short, black and white documentary made circa 1962 , about West Bromwich Albion football club. It was made as an insight into the players who proudly wore their shirt. Their lifestyles and dressing room camaraderie were briefly outlined. With a few exceptions they were not the 'stars' of the first division or international players. Yet they played their hearts out at the 'Hawthorns' and were nicknamed 'The Baggies' probably after predecessors voluminous shorts. I remember watching the film as a wide eyed boy of eleven who thought professional footballers, even the 'ordinary' ones were Gods. I bore absolutely no allegiance to West Brom, but the film stuck in my mind and I have never forgotten it. One of its stars - Derek Kevan, an England international centre forward - later played for my club, Manchester City. Derek always removed his dentures before the game and looked quite gummy as he took the field. This alone would separate him from today's 'icons' and superstars who always look immaculate, or designer dishevelled.

These mono-chromed young men of the early sixties took modest rewards from the game. The maximum wage had just disappeared and I'd expect they were paid about three times as much as top factory hands of the day on piecework.

I read last week of one Ashley Cole, late of Arsenal F.C. now of Chelsea and his annoyance at only being paid £60,000 per week by his former club. Cole is a full back. A very good full back. Yet full backs do not win games and rarely score goals. They are defensive players and not natural entertainers. The man seems to have no sense of perspective. Greedy, selfish and shallow. He might think the £40,000 watch on his wrist could denote class. Sorry Ashley, you would not recognise class if it dumped you in a puddle on yer backside.

Modern football has long since outgrown sport and is now an inter-global business. Murdoch's Satellite broadcasting has seen to that. Simply, he bought the overall entity that, at the very top of the pyramid is the 'beautiful game' . He has pocketed it, and now holds its destiny in his hands. At Premier league and Premiership club level sharp men in sharper suits have hi-jacked what was, for admirers of 'the Saturday men' a game for all, for the masses.. True , attendances were in slow decline, and the game had been blighted by a hooliganista of testosterone charged numbskulls. When Murdoch's money kicked in and the game was revolutionised, not completely for the better.

A whole new army of armchair fans tapped into the new fashion for foreigners, all of them drawn to UKFC and the designer names that famous clubs had become. Footballers wages leapt beyond the dreams of avarice as all of the top twenty clubs tried to hang onto the shirt tails of the big players of the Premier league.

Suddenly, over a four or five year period it became fashionable to be a football fan. Almost everyone in the media had F.C, allegiances and were falling over themselves to declare them. Cast ones mind back to F.A. Cup final morning in years gone by and the pre-match interviews. We'd often be surprised when a celebrity was revealed to support a particular club. We had no idea. Now it is common knowledge, because football is cool. Weekly spats between managers - often conducted in pigeon English - sustain the interest for those fascinated by the antics of the new 'royalty' who bring continental bickering to replace the gentlemanly behaviour of legends like Sir Matt Busby , Joe Mercer , Shankly & Stein and Bill Nicholson to name but five . Nowadays Jose & Arsene play mind games over the airwaves as half the nation seems to listen agog. For goodness sake, why? Because football is cool. Rather than wet, and muddy.

So 'cool' that a new breed of foreign buyer has emerged. Millionaires, and billionaires cherry picking the top clubs, people like Roman Abramovic, and I know he's an extreme example have invested in playthings to boost their egos. Aston Villa, Manchester United, Heart of Midlothian, Stoke City have all gone this way. Clubs which are part of the fabric of their local communities. Uniquely local and often embedded within communities.

With coffers swelling further from the sales of replica shirts - it seems even middle aged men with beer bellies want to ape their more athletic heroes - Meanwhile, admission prices were creeping up in the endless race for more receipts, more money. Spontaneous attendance of top games is a thing of the past. Plans for tickets have to be drawn up weeks or at least days in advance, even if the ground is nowhere near full.

The game of the masses, had, by the turn of the millennium become the game for the comfortably off. A new gender of fan too, as many more women started to see the attraction of first class football. In the aftermath of Hillsborough, and all seater stadiums now the norm, five foot something females can actually see the action.

Clubs had already submitted their shirts to sponsorship and 'gone logo.'
As the sponsors tend to sign short term deals the changes generate a constant and steady revenue stream from the fans. I'm too old to wear a replica football shirt but were I a young man I could not countenance a shirt with 'Thomas Cook' or 'First Advice' sewn onto the front, much less pay forty quid to wear one. I'd rather don a string vest in public. I suppose I would go retro, and buy a shirt from earlier times.

To suit the whims of the broadcasters kick off times are now wide and varied. From Sunday night to Saturday morning and anywhere in between. Nobody consults Albert Finney, let alone Tom. There seems to be games every day of the week. Sadly, the nation now no longer tunes in en-masse to 'Grandstand' on Saturday teatimes to check their coupons as the telly printer tapped out the days results.

I know I sound like a traditional old trumper but soccer has sold its soul and it hurts because I loved the game , how I loved it. I recall the sights, the smells, the sweat, the legs glistening with liniment as twenty two local lads (of these islands, anyway) took to the field. Shirts emblazoned with just a number from one to eleven with perhaps a club badge across the fast beating heart of its proud wearer.

Some of these players had arrived at the stadium on the bus, and would enjoy a pint afterwards, often rubbing shoulders with the people who paid their wages.

Today, the self obsessed mercenaries who have infiltrated our national game, thereby reducing the prospects for English born players, go home in their Ferrari's and Mercedes to gated mansions. They move in circles where prices outshine values and where ostentation rules. They owe much, yet care little for the owners of the bums on the seats, it often seems. How often have we heard an expensive signing to Walton Blunderers, or some such local institution pledge future allegiance dependant on success., measured in 'Champions League' qualification? This attitude cannot do much for team spirit, surely.

Furthermore, attendant bad publicity after group sex sessions, 'roastings' and excessive gambling have further tainted the image of the modern professional player. The rewards outweigh the contribution, and it is high time a sense of reality was injected into footballers lives.

Take the shining example of Wayne Rooney, a home grown talent but yet to fully deliver his much vaunted potential. Wayne 'wrote' an autobiography at the grand old age of twenty. I have no idea if he included a chapter on back street brothels or massive gambling debts. He probably did, the masses, robbed of their game now seem fascinated by the trials and tribulations of such public figures. The book will sell by the truckload. Shame is a commodity running short in society generally, and in football (and politics) in particular.

On the 90th anniversary of the start of the Battle of the Somme I witnessed lachrymose footballers blubbering tears as they were knocked out of the World Cup, after a different kind of shoot out. These were not faux tears but the real thing. I wondered at the time just why they were crying? Self pity perhaps at the loss of sainthood , or a few more million pounds, or in anticipation of the condemnation of a national press which had hyped the more gullible fans into believing they could actually win the competition.

Surely they could not have been crying for just losing the game. I cannot imagine any of the 'Saturday Men' reacting in such a way in 1960. Much less Stanley, of the Accrington Pals emptying their tear ducts for such a piffling reason.

There IS a fight back against corporatism . Supporters are organising themselves and are buying back several of the lower league clubs. The roots are resurgent. I wish F.C. United , the breakaway protest at Malcolm Glazer and his takeover at Old Trafford the very best of luck.

The Saturday Men and their peers will remain in my memories forever, as they played a huge part in my youth. I hope sincerely that today's youngsters, those whose parents can afford to get them into stadiums from Luton to Liverpool will treasure similar memories. For despite the moral vacuum and the obscene amounts of money sloshing around the top of the pyramid, football can still be the beautiful game.

Yet, for me, it's not as beautiful as it was, nor as wholesome as those far off days when 'The Saturday Men' inhabited the Hawthorns.

Stars in stripes. Where are they now?

 

Landmarker's earlier social commentaries can be found HERE....>>>>

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