Despite the cold weather, a young eleven year old was up and out of bed much earlier than usual this Saturday morning. It was March 1967 and an eighteen month dream was to be realised today. Or would it? The young lad had been disappointed six months prior. His dad was not into football and did not realise that turning up at 2.55pm for a 3pm kick off against Liverpool was only going to mean one thing. Locked out! To be taken to watch a game at Wanstead Flats on the way home was no consolation.
Other games were promised but there was always something that cropped up on the day of the match. Looking back I can’t blame my dad. He was a hard worker doing two jobs including a courier run for Littlewoods Pools on Saturday mornings. He was a step dad who had taken over five kids for the love of my mum, and she also did two jobs to help pay the bills. My requests to see my beloved West Ham play at Upton Park were becoming constant and I am sure it was another demand they just didn’t need.
So, was today to be any different? What obstacle would present itself later in the morning to again shatter my dream? If we reached the stage of “lift off” from our home would we be running late and get locked out again? When my dad arrived home at 2pm and said “get ya scarf Winkle” (that was a nickname only my dad used for me), the jubilation was off the Richter scale!
It was a surreal experience back in those days for a young nipper. We were at the back of the lower West Stand and the only way I could see was to get on the shoulders of my dad. All the senses were intoxicating. The smoke from cigarettes drifted across the waves of people from everywhere. The smell of hot dogs and monkey nuts is not exactly a culinary delight but it meant we were at Upton Park. The noise from the chants behind the North Bank was only drowned by the raucous cheer as the teams came out. “There he is, there he is” I pointed out. “That’s Bobby Moore dad”. The one thing that still sticks out in my mind today is how big everything seemed to me that day. As adults I don’t think we remember just how big everything looks when you are a child, especially when thrown into an arena such as this.
The Hammers won 3-2 that day and I still remember a Burnley defender turning his back on a Geoff Hurst thunderbolt. He got knocked out and the trainer ran on with a bucket, sponge and some smelling salts. The young boy that was me, was hooked that day and he made his own way to the ground for several years after whilst his parents thought he was playing around the corner. The North Bank was his home for many years to come.
That was my first game and I am sure all of you reading this can remember your first too?