There was a time of heroes.
I might use that last word a bit flippantly, but you try telling a ten-year-old kid who’s just found his new favourite thing that his use of the word ‘heroes’ is flippant, and I’ll show you a kid who ain’t listening and don’t care.
I have been going on and on about who I saw turn out for the opposition when I went to watch Carlisle, but I want this to be clear — that time supporting Carlisle United, for me, was a time of heroes.
I might have seen a Swindon side I liked the look of, or got a good ogle of Dean Lewington’s hair, or noticed a former Leeds player knocking about, but while I admired and appreciated them, I held those at Carlisle United in much higher esteem.
Because they played for my team.
I could rant and rave about how good Keiren Westwood is until the cows go back to work and come home again. Some of the best reflexes and reactions in the game. And I can still see him crouched down in his bright yellow ‘keeper kit, towel over his head, saying whatever he was saying to himself before going out and playing a blinder every time.
David Raven was concrete consistency. My overriding memory of him is that his right-back position when Carlisle were playing out from the Warwick Road End was right next to the wheelchair users seating, and anytime he cleared a ball out of play, and I mean, anytime, I swear it went right into the wheelchair users. He did not have a vendetta against them, but he seemed to play like he did. Great seeing him rock up for Marine in their FA Cup run as well — I love that. Seeing these players again in other highlights, it feels like seeing old classmates. He also had a reputation for like, never scoring, so when he slapped home a 117th minute winner for Caley Thistle in the Scottish Cup Semi-Final against a Celtic side containing Virgil van Dijk, I loved that. Loved.
Danny Livesey was just always there. Always. He was the starting centre-back. And yet I’m still not sure if it’s Liv-see or Liver-see. Or neither.
The likes of him and Peter Murphy held down the fort for me and I never gave ’em enough love.
Simon Hackney led that second-half charge. There was a run of five or six games I went to where Carlisle would be 0–1 down going into half-time, and in each and every match, they would come roaring out of the blocks in half two and Simon Hackney was everywhere. He was the tricky little winger, picking the ball up and putting it where it needed to go, into the box, or on the spectacular occasion, into the back of the net.
He was so easy to cheer for, so easy to support.
I remember his face being on the front cover of some local magazine… ‘Carlisle People’ maybe? Issue Two it was. Then I remember being shocked when he moved to Colchester for what I considered to be a paltry sum of ‘only’ £120,000.
He banged in a hat-trick of assists in their 7–1 drubbing of Norwich and looked to be on his way up and up, but I sadly didn’t hear much about him after that.
In my head I can still hear me at fifteen years old or somet cheering him on and saying ‘Go on, Simon, son!’ He must have been ten years older than me at the time, but that’s what my dad shouted at him and I wasn’t thinking about the logistics.
Maybe my favourite story from Brunton Park is the one of Cleveland Taylor. When he got there he looked as if he struggled to put one foot in front of the other, and when he did, some dirty dog went and put a ball in front of him for Ol’ Cleveland to kick everywhere apart from where he needed it to go.
It was frustrating. For all parties.
Then, he’d start coming off the bench and showing danger. He’d be in promising positions or make good moves, even though the eventual shot would still go wide — but it was enjoyable.
And then he scored. And everything that came before was forgotten, he was an immediate hero and him grinning at the corner flag after scoring against Brighton is a joyous image in the walls of my mind. He might have been shit, but we kept willing him on, we kept singing his name ‘Walking along, singing his song, walking in a Taylor wonderland!’
It wasn’t tremendously inventive, but I hope it meant something to him that everyone stuck with him.
And there was everyone else. I once openly labelled Ben Williams as my idol, so for at least one night, you were, Ben Williams!
Chris Howarth was the eternal back-up, always on the team sheet, never on the pitch.
Scott Dobie was always there up top, but someone would stroll in and steal the headlines before him, a Danny Graham or a Michael Bridges or a Gary Madine — he was there before them and he was there for all of them. Team player.
Steven Swinglehurst had a copper-top you could see from miles out so you could always tell when he was warming up. To this day, I believe I played against him while repping the County Cumbria side in an under-18’s tie against Accrington Stanley ‘cos I seem to remember him heading out that way. And because I didn’t think I’d ever see anyone else with that luminous a hair colour.
Darren Campion played four league games for Carlisle and the one I saw was his debut. Last day of the 07/08 season against Bournemouth. The Cherries had Darren Anderton, Josh Gowling, Brett Pitman running about, but my eyes were on Darren. The 19-year old played a blinder and I called for him to get man of the match, and so he did. No-one was there to hear my prediction though because my group of friends had gone to sit in the seats, while I swore I would never be anywhere but The Paddock. I would go on to stand in the Warwick Road End several times, but maybe I meant that I would just never sit down. Though I would do that too. But only once.
I wanted Campion to go on to everything, and I hope he has.
That Bournemouth game is actually quite pungent in my brain. It was one of my friends’ birthdays (making it extra bitchy that I didn’t go and sit with them), and I remember full-time rolling around and a couple of lads with JJB Sports drawstring bags saddling up to me and hopping the wall separating supporters from pitch.
Obviously a load of others did it for the last game of the season and I shouted at them all to get off, bonding for a moment as I locked eyes with an elderly gent who wanted the same.
I hope he’s good.
It’s strange what we remember. And how we don’t remember why we remember it.
I was saying before how I couldn’t remember if a memory came from seeing it live or from the highlights package and I have loads like that.
Gavin Tomlin celebrating a goal on the opening day of the 2008/09 season. While he was playing for Yeovil at Huish Park. I’ve never been to Yeovil.
Ashley Carew scoring a banger for Barnet against… I wanna say Macclesfield on that very same day.
Michael Duberry scoring a perfect hat-trick for Oxford, that included two own-goals.
Leigh Bromby scoring his only Leeds goal in a 2–4 victory against Stockport. I’ve never been to Stockport. I’m not the biggest Leigh Bromby fan, yet he has stuck in my head as he wheels away celebrating his goal.
But even for these reasons, I check in with these players. I like to see how they’re doing, see where they pop up.
The first two have the common ground of Champion Hill, which we’re yet to get to.
Bottom line, it didn’t matter where the football was, I was gonna get it. As my life has gone on and a time has arrived where I struggle to go outside, it’s nice to know that memories can come from any facet of the sport. Sure, I loved the matches, but I also loved the game.
Which is why I played it as well.
I was a goalkeeper, and in my ‘career’ I had trials with Leeds and Carlisle, as well as Leatherhead (obviously). None of them were successful, but that didn’t stunt my love of the game. I turned up for the trials as I’d turn up for a match, excited and raring to go but trying to keep my cool amidst a shite-tonne of testosterone.
At the Leeds trial, I was warming up with another goalkeeper (who strongly resembled Fraser Forster) and we were chatting about how lads are getting beards younger and younger now, and then I thought I saw Nathan Delfouneso doing his sprints. Then I thought I saw Casper Ankergren and Bradley Johnson watching us through a window.
I’m pretty sure only the first thing was real though.
At the Carlisle trial I felt as if I was being hazed because I was put between two sticks as the strikers fired unrelenting, frustratingly close together, powerful shots at me. It is the job of a goalkeeper to deal with those, but their non-stop chip and dink attempts seemed like an attempt to get under my skin. Good test, I suppose.
Then I broke the captain’s patella in a practice game.
I hope he’s okay.
I went back for some more goalkeeping sessions with the lovely Ben Benson (who called me ‘raw’) but my most prevalent memory is struggling to get the balls back into the bag and the other ‘keeper getting frustrated with me while I chuckled.
It could have been a bonding moment, Dean! You ruined that!
As for the Leatherhead trial, that sucked. I was older and out of shape, and they weren’t ready to do anything with a goalkeeper. Plus, I had to wait ages to shake hands on my way out and then I got lost on the way back to the train station.
Y’know what though? Still a good day. The worst day of football can beat the best day of owt else.
To be continued.
C.L.R.
