You don't choose West Ham—it chooses you. Following West Ham United is not about how many pieces of silverware the team can win. For true fans, it's a lifelong, sometimes agonizing, passion. In 1964, when soccer legend Bobby Moore held the FA cup aloft for West Ham, Micky Smith was in the crowd, experiencing the unique thrill of seeing his club emerge victorious. In 1967, when Manchester United came to the East End, Micky witnessed the birth of the football hooligan. This is the gripping, inside account of run-ins with the police, rivalry between firms, and events such as Heysel that changed the face of the sport.
You don't choose West Ham—it chooses you. Following West Ham United is not about how many pieces of silverware the team can win. For true fans, it's a lifelong, sometimes agonizing, passion. In 1964, when soccer legend Bobby Moore held the FA cup aloft for West Ham, Micky Smith was in the crowd, experiencing the unique thrill of seeing his club emerge victorious. In 1967, when Manchester United came to the East End, Micky witnessed the birth of the football hooligan. This is the gripping, inside account of run-ins with the police, rivalry between firms, and events such as Heysel that changed the face of the sport.
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Overview
You don't choose West Ham—it chooses you. Following West Ham United is not about how many pieces of silverware the team can win. For true fans, it's a lifelong, sometimes agonizing, passion. In 1964, when soccer legend Bobby Moore held the FA cup aloft for West Ham, Micky Smith was in the crowd, experiencing the unique thrill of seeing his club emerge victorious. In 1967, when Manchester United came to the East End, Micky witnessed the birth of the football hooligan. This is the gripping, inside account of run-ins with the police, rivalry between firms, and events such as Heysel that changed the face of the sport.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781844547807 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Bonnier Books UK |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2010 |
| Pages: | 270 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.70(d) |
Read an Excerpt
For the Claret and Blue
By Micky Smith
John Blake Publishing Ltd
Copyright © 2004 Micky SmithAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84454-780-7
CHAPTER 1
THE AGONY, THE ECSTASY
West Ham United Football Club is an East End of London club, whose fans are amongst the most loyal the country has ever seen. Not the biggest club by a long way, but formed with the workers in the East End in 1895.
Previously called the Thames Ironworks, this small club rose up and not many gave it a chance with company like the Woolwich Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur, the so-called London big teams. How wrong they were.
The first London team to appear at a Wembley Cup final (known as the White Horse final), when the ground was packed to capacity and then some. The game only went ahead when a lone policeman on 'Billy the white horse' managed to keep the overspilling fans off the pitch. Alas, they lost to the mighty Bolton Wanderers – but it was just the start.
The war final was the next time West Ham played in a Cup final – and they won, but it was dismissed by many as a nothing game due to the war.
After that it was a long time till the next appearance, in 1964, when they lifted the FA Cup with the king of English football at the helm – Bobby Moore, who was the England and West Ham captain. With a team of many locally bred footballers they defeated Preston North End 3-2 in a thrilling final. It was the first senior game I went to, and what better way to start following a team.
This was to be one of three in a row. In 1965 the ECWC final was won 2-0 and in 1966 England won the World Cup with two West Ham players scoring the goals and the captain lifting the trophy, something no other England captain has ever done since (a lot of people are pushing for Bobby Moore to be given a posthumous knighthood for this effort).
It was a long time between successes. The year 1975 came around and again there was a trip to Wembley and the Cup was lifted in West Ham's favour. We played again at Wembley in the pre-season Charity Shield match but lost to the then-in-form Derby County. A trip to Heysel in 1976 saw us lose the ECWC final 4-2.
Another five years was to pass before Wembley beckoned again. This time we were in the Second Division and played the much-fancied Arsenal. Given no chance against the so-called mighty Gunners, we won 1-0 with local product Trevor Brooking scoring a rare goal with his head. The Arsenal and the football media were gutted – how could this happen? Why did it happen? Many people didn't understand, but came to learn that, no matter what the odds, West Ham fans of the time would never say die. A giant party was on again down the East End. The Arsenal fans were heard to say it did not matter as they were in a European final a few days later (which they lost – and did they moan!).
So what is it that keeps the West Ham fans loyal for so long against all odds? Over the years the board has treated the fans badly and sold off so many good players. We had a name for playing entertaining football, but I'm afraid that doesn't bring the prizes home all the time.
The closest we came to winning the title in recent times was in the mid-Eighties, but even then the hero, Frank McAvennie, was sold to Celtic. No one knew why. He was hero-worshipped and his goals gave us a shot at winning the title for the first time ever. Shortly afterwards we bought him back, when the club was spiralling towards the lower half of the League. Why did they sell him in the first place? This question had so many wondering in amazement.
CHAPTER 2ONE FAN'S GREAT DAYS
Saturday, May 2 was here. I had not slept the night before, or so it seemed, and I was bursting with excitement. This was the day I was going with my old man and his brothers to Wembley stadium to see West Ham play in the FA Cup final – my first senior game and first ever final.
Normally the old man would not take me to first-team games, only some reserve matches at Upton Park, and then only if I behaved. But this was different. He wanted to go to the semi-final at Hillsborough against the Busby Babes and made a deal with Mum that if we made it through he would take me to the final no matter what. It was on. I remember listening to the squeaky broadcast on the BBC to see if we had won – we had. In the rain and slush we had beaten the Busby Babes 3-1. I was over the moon. I could not hide my pleasure and was out on the street cheering and carrying on. And I was not alone. Most of Burdett Road was doing the same. We were at Wembley, our opponents Preston North End. No problems for us, we were gonna win the Cup.
The old man came home late that night, very late, and I was told to stay in bed. I could not wait till the morning when I could find out all about the game. The highly fancied Manchester United were picked to win the Cup that year and West Ham were given no chance. But young Johnny Sissons, Ron Boyce and Geoff Hurst made sure we went through. Now Wembley was next.
In our house nothing else was talked about but the upcoming final. Loads of kids round our way were also going and those who weren't were jealous of those of us that were – and we rubbed it in something rotten. We played games over in Victoria Park and there were always fights about who was West Ham and who was Preston, then more fights to see who wanted to be their favourite player no matter what.
Anyway, back to the final. On the day I was up at sparrows' fart, Mum wondering why I could not get up as quickly on school days. She was amazed! She would be glad when it was all over and said she could not bear it if we lost. Not just because she was West Ham as well – she said it would be like a funeral parlour round home if we lost.
Dad had tickets, his brother had arranged them, and we were over the moon. The big day came and my dad met up with his mates outside his local, which opened early on the day. As a kid I had to wait outside with the mandatory crisps and lemonade, with instructions that he was not to be disturbed as they were planning the day and would not be long. It seemed ages before they all came out and off we set towards Mile End tube station, my uncles bunging me a few bob on the way. In fact, if I recall rightly I had nearly 30 shillings, a small fortune in those days and an even bigger one for a kid my age. I was chuffed!
At Mile End there were many West Ham fans all dressed up in a variety of claret-and-blue colours, home-knitted jumpers, you name it. Loads were singing 'Bubbles' and as we got aboard the train it seemed to be full of joy as nothing else was mentioned but bringing the Cup home. The semi was talked about, and as a kid your ears tend to flap a bit so I picked up a few things. Being a naïve kid, I never realised until later on in life that they were talking about the crowd trouble that was starting to happen, even back then.
Every stop up to and past Liverpool Street station, more and more West Ham fans were piling on. The carriage was packed. Many had half-bottles of rum or whisky, and one lot had a crate of beer. Everyone was happy as we changed lines to head to Wembley. I could not wait.
The old man gave me instructions for if he lost me in the crowd – I was to get the tube home and wait at his local, he would not be far away – or better still go home and tell Mum he was not far away. He told me how to get home but was shocked when I told him a better way, and quicker. My days of bunking off school and riding the tube all day had its advantages! Being brought up in the East End made you street-wise. God help you if you weren't.
We got out at Wembley amid a massive sea of colour and people greeting us – I was so excited. There were programme sellers, rosette sellers, hat sellers, you name it. My old man bought me a scarf, which I have now entrusted to a mate who I know will look after it – but more about that later. Those silly hats with two colours, like trilbies, were all the rage – and a con according to my old man, who would not buy me one. I had forgotten that I had money, so I bought a big rosette instead, 2/6d I recall. 'Bleeding con!' was the cry from my uncle, who told me you'd only pay 1/6d down Green Street for it. 'Bloody spivs,' he remarked; he even wanted to take it back. I had to wait for what seemed hours outside the Greyhound pub while they went in for a drink, but it wasn't long before they came out, with comments like 'Bloody toffee-nosed prices, this ain't the West End!'
The noise around me was unreal. The sound of the sellers shouting, the mounted police horses clopping along, the cars trying to get through the mass of people. We walked down to the ground and finally got in and I could not believe the size of the stadium and the number of people coming in. West Ham fans were drinking from half-bottles they had sneaked in and it wasn't long before 'Bubbles' went up as the band played their own version and the crowd sang along. This set the tone for the day. Many a West Ham voice could be heard calling out now, mainly having at pop at Preston. Many times the crowd seemed to all laugh at the same time. The atmosphere was great now. There was the sound of breaking glass as another empty half-bottle was finished and dropped on the terracing. The smell of drink was all around, the mandatory peanut shells everywhere and claret and blue all over. It had to be seen to be believed. Little did I know then this was to be the first of many journeys for me to Wembley, but this one was special.
I was raised as a West Ham supporter; all my family were West Ham with the exception of my brother, who for some reason chose Wolves – I still dunno why to this day – but he soon changed after that final. Most of the family would not talk to him about football and many times me and my other brother were called upon to sort out a row with other kids or to back him up as he was always getting the mickey taken out of him. Kids down our way were unforgiving.
The national anthem was played, the royalty met and it was warm-up time. Nearly three o'clock, only a few minutes to go, but it seemed like eternity for me. I remembered my granddad telling me about the 1923 final – how he walked to Wembley that day with the crowds and how the crowd spilled onto the pitch. I tried to imagine it but the whistle blew for kick-off and it was back to the game.
I could not distinguish all the players and had to look at the numbers of both sides to see who was who. At Wembley behind the goals you are a fair way from the pitch and as an eleven-year-old I found it hard to follow. My old man put me in front of a crash barrier right by the upright and I was told to stay there all game as it was safer. I found out what he meant later on. With the sway of fans the pushing and shoving going on was unreal. I remember the crowd going deathly quiet as Preston scored. It was like someone had died. Moans about having played John Lyall's testimonial match days before were going around – people were saying we were tired and that it should never have been played.
If I remember correctly when the half time break came we were 2-1 down. The young Johnny Sissons had scored the first and when Geoff Hurst levelled it up in the second half the West Ham crowd went potty; it was unreal. Hurst had scored in every round and had just done it again. At 2-2 the game was a thriller. I was finding it hard to keep up but then Ron Boyce slipped home the winner and I will never forget the roar of the West Ham faithful. There wasn't long to go and the final whistle blew at last – WE HAD WON THE FA CUP!
People were going mental, hugging and kissing. My old man was nearly crying and I was jumping up and down. A chorus of 'E-I-A-D-E-O WE WON THE CUP' burst out, quickly followed by 'Bubbles'. It was so loud! Bobby Moore lifted the Cup and celebrations were of the extreme. Bobby was named 'footballer of the year' that season. He was loved by all West Ham and you would never hear a bad word spoken about him.
After about an hour the crowd was thinning out. I had lost the old man or he lost me, I dunno. I finally got out of the stadium and headed to the tube. People were still celebrating, dancing around, singing. The Greyhound pub was packed – no good looking for the old man there, I would never find him. I headed home. The tube was full of singing West Ham fans. A few Preston lads were on the carriage I was on. There was no trouble, a bit of gentle banter and hand-shaking mainly. Back at Mile End and outside the station the pubs were packed and had people spilling out on to the pavement.
I went home to find the old man had beaten me home, picked up Mum and headed down to Green Street to celebrate. My brother told me he was off too but that I had to stay home. Yeah, right! I was out like a shot, meeting my mates and going over the game time and time again with them, showing off my new scarf and rosette. I was the talk of the street amongst our lot of friends – what a way to see your first senior game!
I went to a few more reserves games after that but they seemed tame. Even the odd time I was taken to see the first team it still was not as good as the final crowd but a lot louder than the reserve games. I got to see a lot of first-team football from then on. I saw two European games – Sparta Prague and the semi-final of the ECWC playing Real Zaragossa in a packed Upton Park.
CHAPTER 3WEMBLEY AGAIN
We made it through to our first Euro final again at Wembley, playing TSV Munchen 1860. I really wanted to go to this one and the old man kept me dangling. I made sure all the odd jobs were done around the house, kept my shoes clean, offered to clean the old man's boots, tried to stay out of trouble at school and at home and when I finally got the nod that me and my older brother were going as well I went mad. Nearly a year after the last final I was to make the trip again, but things were a little different this time. The old man knew I could find my way around all right and me and my brother were to meet him at the Two Puddings pub at Stratford at opening time. We found out later that it was open nearly all day.
I was raring to go, this time scarf ready but no rosette. I had flogged that for a quid at school – not bad money in those days, but as it turned out the kid who bought it had done his gas meter in to buy it and got into all sorts of trouble. He never told why he wanted the money. If he had, my final trip would have looked shaky.
We finally left Stratford and got the tube to Mile End and changed lines again. The trains were full of West Ham fans and many seemed more confident this time. The old man gave us our tickets, a sign to us that if we got split up we could get in OK. A few bob each from him and our uncles and we were set.
Arriving at Wembley station we lost our old man and uncles, or they lost us, but we did not care. I was 'Jack the Lad' at this lark now and showed my brother the way around once inside the ground. My brother and I got some light ales at one of the bars. He was older, and if asked said the drinks were 'for Dad, mister'. We had about four to five small bottles I remember, then some barley wine. I felt funny and don't recall much of the game except we won 2-0 and we were going potty. The Cup duly lifted, songs sang, we made our way home, a journey which seemed to go on forever.
Back at Mile End the scene was the same as the previous year – people going mad all over. I felt sick and was worried what would happen. When I got home Mum was there and asked what was wrong. We said we had eaten one of those hamburgers you could get at the game (you know the ones – a piece of rubber between a stale flat roll slopped on with a ton of semi-cooked onions) and had felt bad since. She gave us a funny look. We were hoping she could not smell the drink on us. Thank God for Bazooka Joe bubble gum! She made us a cream soda with milk and packed us off to bed saying we would be OK by the morning. I don't know what time the old man got home but found out later that he came and got Mum again and went down East Ham way to my uncle's place.
The next morning we made our way on to the Mile End Road hoping that like the year before the Cup-winning team would come along there showing off their Cup. Once there we knew they would be coming as thousands of people were milling around. Some looked like they just got back from the game, singing, mainly drunkenly, cheering, loads dancing. It was a funny sight. I have often wondered how many did not show up for work – loads it must have been, but no one seemed to care.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from For the Claret and Blue by Micky Smith. Copyright © 2004 Micky Smith. Excerpted by permission of John Blake Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page,Dedication,
Acknowledgement,
Foreword,
THE AUTHOR'S THOUGHTS,
Chapter 1 THE AGONY, THE ECSTASY,
Chapter 2 ONE FAN'S GREAT DAYS,
Chapter 3 WEMBLEY AGAIN,
Chapter 4 FIRST GAME ON MY OWN,
Chapter 5 DIGGER'S TALE,
Chapter 6 MANNYGATE,
Chapter 7 WITHIN THE RANKS: A FAN'S JOURNEY WITH THE ICF,
Chapter 8 THE BANNING ORDER,
Chapter 9 ARSENAL (THE GOONERS),
Chapter 10 EURO 2000 AND THE WORLD CUP,
Chapter 11 SCOTLAND (THE SWEATIES),
Chapter 12 MANCHESTER UNITED (GLORY-HUNTING C**TS),
Chapter 13 MILLWALL,
Chapter 14 NEWCASTLE AND OTHER OFFS,
Chapter 15 THE CASTILLA GAME,
Chapter 16 THE OLD BILL,
Chapter 17 TOTTENHAM HOTSPUR (THE YIDS),
Chapter 18 THE BOND SCHEME,
Chapter 19 CHELSEA (THE RENT BOYS),
Chapter 20 HILLSBOROUGH,
Chapter 21 MANCS (PART 1): THE GAME AT OLD TRAFFORD,
Chapter 22 MANCS (PART 2): THE FA CUP,
Chapter 23 THE NEW GAME TODAY (WHERE'S THE OLD ONE?),
Chapter 24 THE TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS OF A HAMMERS FAN ABROAD,
RETIRE BOBBY MOORE'S NUMBER SIX,
THE SONGS,
THE SITES AROUND,
KNEES UP MOTHER BROWN – AN ONLINE COMMUNITY,
Copyright,