Читать книгу To Cap It All - Kenny Sansom - Страница 10

Like our fathers before us, we formed gangs as children. We had our small tribes and let off bangers and Jumping Jack fireworks to scare our enemies. Never in a million years would it have entered our heads to use knives and guns like the gangs roaming our streets today. Our tribal gangs would rather play football or cricket against each other than look for trouble. Revenge was not on our minds.

The Sansom kids were all wild and free, but I think my little brother David and I were the naughtiest. We took no end of risks. Nicking Mars bars from Woolworth’s was a must for us. Although we never went short of essentials such as chops and chips, there wasn’t much spare money left over for sweets. Anyway, if the truth be known, we’d rather enjoyed the thrill of grabbing the chocolate bars and running away.

Playing ‘Knock Down Ginger’ filled hours of potential boredom and by the age of 8 we had progressed to nicking lead from roofs.

The scrap-metal man must have heard us coming from streets away as we pushed a pram full of lead towards his yard. We must have looked a comical sight and, of course, he knew we’d been up to mischief, but he always paid up and we eagerly shared out our ill-gotten proceeds.

We never went out looking for trouble. Who does? But trouble always seemed to find us. It’s funny how that happens. Nothing was our fault, you know. Like the afternoon we happened upon an old factory with a smashed window.

We had been entertaining ourselves by jumping across rooftops when we landed on the roof of what looked like a derelict warehouse. On closer inspection we were astonished to see loads of marbles inside. Well – this was like the Crown Jewels to us scallywags. Marbles! My God, finding a shedload of marbles was the luckiest thing ever. So we thought.

We scrambled through the broken glass and found ourselves gawping at Aladdin’s cave. From the outside, the building had appeared to be abandoned; but it wasn’t. It was a bloody chandelier factory, and the marbles were bloody crystals.

How could we possibly leave without pocketing some of the gems? Not a chance. We were going to take the jewels home to our mum and then we would be rich. Bingo! The lottery was won. But we didn’t get far.

As we were boldly leaving with our stash, the police sirens screamed down the lane and flashing blue lights came into view, scaring the hell out of us. Being a nippy little bugger, I was off up the drainpipe and across the roof before David was even out of the window. But how could I leave him? I was supposed to be looking after him. Mum would kill me if I abandoned him.

As I peered over the drainpipe I could see a burly policeman dragging David by the scruff of his neck over to his panda car. Damn! We had so nearly got away.

I shimmied back down the drainpipe and slid into the panda car next to my terrified brother. We were both wearing grey shorts and long socks that had fallen down around our ankles – so his bony knees were visibly knocking. We had been nicked. I was 7 and he was 5. What in God’s name was our mum going to say? We knew she loved us, but we also knew she would kill us for bringing trouble to her door.

Thankfully, the policemen took pity on our sobs and pleas for mercy and let us go with a clip behind the ear – but a great lesson was learned. We never nicked again. At the ripe old age of 7, I knew I didn’t like getting into trouble.

Maybe this is why I’ve only been booked once and only once been given a red card (Crystal Palace v Coventry). I can’t stand being told off, let alone be sent off. Being sent off meant being in someone’s bad books and therefore unloved. I needed to be loved.

I remember clearly that, once, my mum gave me one and sixpence (7?p) and sent me up the shops to get her a loaf of bread and some potatoes (for chips). The items only came to a shilling (5p) and for some reason I forgot the sixpence (2?p) change was in my pocket. When I found it I gave it straight to mum and she said, ‘For your honesty, Kenny, you can keep that sixpence.’

I was so chuffed and felt so good about myself that during my growing years I was never in danger of dishonesty. It was a bigger buzz to be trusted and loved, than naughty and always in trouble. Not that there wasn’t temptation all around me. I was growing up in south London, after all, where being naughty was the norm.

One of my best mates, Duncan Jelley, was still nicking stuff and selling lead to buy sweets. Although I was envious of his stash of goodies, I vowed I was never going down that scary road again. They say you make your mind up about important things by the time you are 7 years old and I’d go along with that theory. But Duncan’s done all right for himself, and he too has managed to stay on the right side of the law.

Running wild was what I loved the most. The thrill of jumping from one building to another and not knowing whether you’d actually make it to the other side in one piece was wicked.

I remember one day clearly. A group of us were scampering over the rooftops when we came to an extra-wide gap with a long drop to the ground. I calculated I could just about make it to the other side and as usual was the leader – so I went first.

One by one the others ran and jumped – hurling themselves to safety. Bringing up the rear was my mate Johnny Laws. Poor old Johnny didn’t quite make it. Sorry to say this, but it was bloody hilarious – he hit the side of the brick wall and slid down the building. It was exactly like a scene from Tom and Jerry. He must have seen stars. Fortunately, we weren’t too high up and he wasn’t seriously hurt. Had we been higher, he would have been a goner. He’s a black-cab driver now, and I haven’t seen him in ages – but I haven’t forgotten him. He fancied himself as a bit of a goalie, and, if I remember right, he was pretty handy.

Being a daredevil was highly enjoyable and, taking everything into consideration, I was lucky to survive without serious injury.

That said, I fell out of a tree once and got a painful poke in my right eye with a stick. Because I was ‘Lucky Kenny’, though, the stick just missed blinding me by a millimetre, and all I’m left with as proof of near devastation is a scar on my eyelid. If I had been blinded in one eye my football career would never have happened, and I might well have ended up getting into hot water like some of my schoolmates and learning the hard way: behind bars.

When I think back to the craziness of some of our antics I go cold. Take Bonfire Night, for example. We set rockets off in corridors, threw bangers through letterboxes, and Jumping Jacks found their way into enclosed spaces like phone boxes – while people were inside. Now I shudder at the lunacy of it all, but watching the mayhem was hilarious at the time.

One year we built the most humungous bonfire on the green in the centre of our neighbourhood square. When we lit it we were both excited and proud. But, as the flames licked high into the winter night sky, our excitement turned to panic and then horror as it flared up and went out of control.

The next thing we knew, three fire engines were clanging their way though the chaos and aiming their hose pipes at our magnificent bonfire. Once we knew it wasn’t going to be a case of ‘London’s Burning’ and that the firemen were going to save us, we began jumping on the hoses. Right little sods we were.

Another incident wasn’t so funny. There was this old and abandoned Morris Minor parked up near to our flats, and one day David, Duncan Jelley and I decided to jump all over it. It really wasn’t the most exciting of games, so David decided to light a match and throw it into the petrol tank. Flash! It blew back into his little face and he lit up like a Christmas tree. It was like a scene from a horror movie as he screamed in agony. Fortunately, a man was passing by and witnessed our stupidity. He turned into Action Man. He threw off his heavy sheepskin coat and wrapped it tightly around David’s burning face before getting him to casualty in record-breaking time.

There is no doubt about it: that man saved my brother’s life. Although David was in hospital for weeks and still bears the scars today, he is lucky to be alive.

I was 9 years old when I got into football. I was doing all sorts of crazy things and unwittingly building up skills that would one day ensure me worldwide success. One of my favourite pastimes was balancing on fences. The other kids would try in vain to copy me, but always wobbled and fell off after a few steps. But I could go round and round the fence surrounding our flats for miles and miles.

This was probably my first experience of showing off. It’s no good saying I wasn’t a show off. If playing football in front of the huge audiences the world over isn’t a form of showing off, I don’t know what is? But hey, that doesn’t make me a bad person – just a go-getter.

Back indoors, life was calmer. My four older siblings, Peter, Maureen, Mary and Midge (we never had a Mungo, and Midge was short for Margaret, and I can’t tell you the chaos when letters arrived for Miss M Sansom), and little David and I, had a brilliant home life. I was a Tarzan out of doors and I also resembled him at the dinner table. I really don’t know why this happened, but I always ate with my fingers. The knives and forks were laid at the table, but I never used them.

We ate chops and chips a lot. First I’d pick up the chops and munch on them, and then I’d demolish the chips. Why on earth would I want to spoil the experience by using a knife and fork? This habit began at an early age and went on all through my teenage years, and I never saw anything wrong in enjoying my food in this way.

But I clearly remember when my first tour with the England Youth Squad caused my mum a bad headache. She was far more worried about my eating habits than how well I played. She needed to be worried – I didn’t have a clue what to do with the knife and fork and so I picked up my meat just as I did indoors. It took a long time to drop the jungle way of eating, and I still like to chew on the odd bone.

I have always found eating a great pleasure. Our kitchen cupboards were always full of nuts, crisps, lemonade, cola and doughnuts – food that is scorned upon today. Hot crusty bread and dripping was another favourite. But I guess I was always active enough to work off the calories.

(By the time I was a teenager playing for the Crystal Palace youth team I was still munching on bread and dripping for breakfast, and devouring three pork chops before a match. I can’t imagine the players of today eating such ‘naughty’ food. Arsène Wenger would blow a fuse if he ever caught players such as Cesc Fàbregas eating beef dripping on toast, but it was my staple diet.)

My sisters attended Brockwell primary school in Tulse Hill and close by was Brockwell Park. There was a great big outdoor pool that I believe is still there today but not used as much as it was back in the sixties. One of the lifeguards was a character I’ve never forgotten. We nicknamed him ‘Dave the Whale’. He was this gentle giant who dived in the pool without making a splash and was the most elegant swimmer I’ve ever seen. I could watch him for ages as he glided through the water.

We kids spent endless hours swinging in trees and playing football in Brockwell Park. My finely tuned balancing skills ensured I never fell out of trees, but one day another incident occurred that could have put paid to my career. A boy called James threw a sliver of flint and it wedged in the artery behind my knee. Blood was squirting in great arcs from the back of my leg, and, if it hadn’t been for the quick action of passers-by, I would have been in real trouble, which would have been tragic, as by now football was well and truly in my blood.

Every day after school David and I would rush out onto the square of grass by our flats and meet up with our friends – playing footie until the sun went down. Having so many mates to kick the ball around with made me very happy.

I have been told by the other boys that they knew David and I had something special – that we were always a pace ahead and would always win the ball. They said they would always choose us to be on their side, as it meant defeating our opponents by a huge goal difference.

In the early days I was always in goal and, despite my size, I was quick enough to save most of the shots. David was probably a better player than I was at that time, and although he never became a top-class footballer, I’m certain he could have if he’d had the same luck as I had, because he really was a classy player.

By the time I was secondary-school age we were on the move again. Home was now a flat on the Brandon council estate, close to the Elephant and Castle, and not far from the local pie-and-mash shop. (I know, I know, I ate too many pies in the end, but that was to come much later.) My older siblings had by now found places of their own, so there were just David, Mum and I now – a solid little unit.

The two-mile journey to school, which was in Lambeth Walk, kept me on my toes. But I never walked on the pavement. Instead I balanced on fences again. Don’t ask me why I chose not to walk on the pavement like normal people, because I don’t know. Perhaps it was the challenge of not falling off. Or maybe I wanted to be different. Whatever. The reason is not important. The main thing was it gave me the most wonderful sense of balance that was to help to take me into the world of top-flight football.

There was this fantastic fish-and-chip shop up the Elephant. At lunchtime my mates and I rushed out for chips, free crackling and cola, before going back for afternoon lessons. Then at home time I’d hurry back so I could play football till the sun went down. I was never, ever still.

My best friends at Brandon became my very first teammates.

Joining me and my brother David was Johnnie ‘Awight’ Laws – the boy who’d flattened his face Tom and Jerry style. Then there was Tony Morris who was great at right-back – a really good footballer who might have gone far. Barry Fulbrook and Arthur Duncan joined us to complete our five-a-side team. I clearly remember our winning a five-a-side tournament, which fuelled my passion for winning.

All that swinging through trees and jumping over rooftops was starting to pay off, and my eye-to-foot coordination became finely tuned during these years. My reactions were getting sharper and sharper by the day, and by now I found I was moving in the right direction before being fully aware of which way I was going.

This was in the swinging sixties, when London, like the rest of the country, was living life to the full and ‘anything goes’ was the theme. For those of us too young to be enjoying ‘free sex’, we got our kicks by playing football, anywhere and everywhere. We were lucky. The grown-ups welcomed our free spirits and high jinx. Today there are miserable ‘No Ball Games Allowed’ signs everywhere – but for us that wonderful sense of freedom and wildness just went on and on.

Our natural curiosity was nourished and we learned from experience rather than being told what we could or couldn’t do. There are no lessons greater than falling down and having to get up again.

Next I played for a team called Spring Park Wolves. Our greatest moment was when we won the Dewar Trophy. The match was played in Shirley, near Croydon, and it was the most exciting experience of my very young football career.

By now I was as athletic as I was agile and capable of playing in any position, which was just as well, because our left-back, Terry Eames, got injured and there was no one waiting in the wings to step into his boots, so I got the job.

Being switched from goalie to left-back was the beginning of my journey to the top of my profession. My guardian angel must have been sitting on my shoulder, because I wasn’t growing at the same rate as the other boys and therefore goalkeeping was never going to be my forte. Being a Peter Shilton or Ray Clemence would have been impossible. So a lad called Terry Bruna became goalkeeper and I moved over to the position I was to make my own for many, many years.

We had raw talent and from Monday to Saturday were rarely away from the local parks. But, without a doubt, Sunday was the best day of the week.

Sunday morning was all about playing football and the afternoon was spent in front of the television watching The Big Match, which started at two o’clock and coincided with a roast dinner. Then afterwards at least fourteen of us would congregate on the green and have the time of our lives.

Every spare minute of every day was spent with a ball balancing on the end of my foot. And, despite my terrible diet, I was as fit as a fiddle. I guess chips just worked for me.