Footy Memories: Death of a Legend

It was the winter of 1990 and I had made a big decision in my life. The pocket money that I had saved up was burning a hole in my pocket and after seeing a few choice adverts in magazines I had decided to dust off the Subbuteo pitch and take it to the next level. My money would be invested in Subbuteo stadium development. I had decided I would purchase stadium sections from Beatties toyshop. Whatever your thoughts on Subbuteo, to see it in the adverts with the full stadium, floodlit, it was sexy. It was the football toy equivalent of Blanche Devereaux.

Beatties Toy Shop was in the heart of Cumbernauld (where I grew up) shopping centre. I entered the shop and headed straight to the Subbuteo section. As I looked around my worst nightmares were coming true. There were no stands. What was going on? They were always here! Why now when I wanted to actually purchase them were they nowhere to be seen?

In seeing my problem the shop assistant began to approach. This wasn't what I wanted. I just wanted to get in, get the job done, and leave again. I was an inexperienced, nervous shopper back then. Not like now. I now thrive in the shopping arena and don't even think twice about even taking stuff back. This is a man who once took back a coat and gave my honest reason that 'I really like the jacket...but my mates will slaughter me for it.'

Back then it was a different story. I would panic under the pressure at the most basic chat from the salesman and just take it. I asked the salesman who informed me there were none in stock but they did have corner section stands.

That was no use to me. Why the hell would I want two corner sections when I have no main stand to join them to? Did he think I was mental?

The inevitable happened. I purchased them. It was a sales masterclass. He saw my weakness and nervousness and exploited it. He was good. This man could sell a salad to Rick Waller and win The Apprentice at a canter. 

As I left the shop I had visions of him being high-fived off his work colleagues as he closed the sale. The truth, however, was that he was probably just a student who hated his part-time job and just thought that I was 'a wee bit simple'.

As I walked home, not even the drizzle soaking through my trainers could dampen my enthusiasm. Sure I could have got a bus, but buses in those days through Kildrum (a part of Cumbernauld) were as infrequent as bath day and even back then I was quite a fast walker.

Also, I had combated the effects of the drizzle by adopting the poly bag folded up over the hair technique. I had my Beatties bag with my Subbuteo stands and my Poly Bag over my hair. Lock up your daughters...Vinnie's in town.

On the way home I imagined the stadium in its glory - it would be a visual feast. Excitedly, I picked up my pace.

As I got home I adopted the tactic much favoured by the underage drinker...it was straight upstairs and into the bedroom. I took the stands out of their respective boxes. I knew that my options were limited but I had to make do with what I had and get the best possible outcome. The fans deserved it. It was just a case of deciding how would I lay them out.

I had decided that on the same side on the full length of the pitch would be the best option. This would also give me suitable access to use my Subbuteo skills. I opened both packets of fans and although they weren't too generous with the amount (about 12 in each stand) I carefully placed them around the stands.

I constructed my stadium and pitch together. I laid out both teams in their 4-4-2 formations and stood back to admire the stadium that I saw develop before my very eyes.

As I stood there looking at the stadium, it soon dawned on me. I had inadvertently created the worst stadium in Europe. It was awful. My disappointment was evident. I looked as if not only had someone taken my last Rolo but had proceeded to sleep with my mum in the process.

I had entered in to this expensive regeneration project with gusto and like any optimistic Scottish fan, my optimism was quickly pulverised into dust. The gap in the middle between the two stands was massive.

The only good aspect of the stadium was that there would be no chance of crowd trouble with both home and away fans being a pitch length away. It was a steward's dream. If one section was to spill onto the pitch and sprint over to the opposing fans to cause trouble they would simply be so knackered that they wouldn't have the energy to 'start something'. Also, the only chance of hitting a fan of the opposition with a coin or other makeshift missile would be if a rowdy and reeking of alcohol Fatima Whitbread was in attendance.

Despite the stadium design being a complete let down, the opening ceremony match would be between my beloved Liverpool team and my brother's Celtic team. It was a fixture befitting of the opening ceremony and being that it was only me controlling both sets of players, Liverpool were clear favourites. It would be match fixing in its simplest form.

About 20 minutes into the match play was halted. My mum had entered the room and much to my delight she had brought me some food with what I seen as a perfect combination. There were two triangular homemade cheese salad sandwiches in fresh white bread, a cheeky side crescent of crisps, a piping hot mug of tea and what looked like a mint chocolate Yoyo biscuit.

To me it was a snacking behemoth. It had everything. Texture in the crunch of the fresh crisp lettuce. An element of mystery in the crisps...Were they ready salted? Cheese and onion? Perhaps even salt and vinegar?

BANG! Prawn cocktail! It was classic leftfield thinking from my mum.

It also had undeniable comfort in the warmth of a piping hot mug of tea where one sip was like a 15 tog duvet wrapping itself around my very soul. The comfort was multiplied tenfold due to the drizzle making outdoors as miserable as an Eastenders Christmas special. Now this was a snack befitting of the opening ceremony. It cannot be understated. My mum had played a gastronomic blinder.

As I happily munched on my cheese sandwich, savouring each bite, my mum left the room. I was in my element. I stood eating at the window. The radiator at the window warming my legs through as I looked at the poor rain-soaked man standing at the bus stop outside the back garden fence. I felt for him, I really did, but I had a game to contend with.

As I turned round to view the pitch from my lofty standing position I noticed something horrendous had happened. There were small Subbuteo bodies scattered horizontally over the pitch. As I rushed over trying to make sense of what I saw before me it hit me. My mum, in her delivery of my exquisite lunch, had left a trail of destruction and carnage in her wake.

Unbeknown to her, she had stood on several players participating in the match and crushed them under her slipper leaving me to deal with more bodies than The Hulk at a 'hugging party'. This was now most certainly a massacre befitting of the stadium.

As I scanned the pitch looking for casualties I was dazed and confused. My mind was swirling. I soon got my act together and my first port of call was to check for John Barnes. He was a god to me when I was growing up. Always my favourite player and the reason I'm a Liverpool fan to this day.

The thought of him being damaged would have left me distraught. Thank god, though. He was fine. He was hugging the touchline like always and was out of the impact zone. Relief.

As I quickly scanned the rest of the pitch I could see that Liverpool's backline had been obliterated along with a Celtic striker. As I looked at the injured and infirm I recognised a player instantly.

It was the moustache. There was no mistaking that moustache, it was Rushie. Dear God no. Not Rushie. Take Ronny Rosenthal but don't take Rushie!

He was crushed. His two legs were clearly broken. As he lay there like a plastic David Busst I scooped him up in my hands, looking for signs of life. Even though my only form of albeit limited medical training had come when Casualty was on TV and I couldn't find the remote control, I still knew there was no saving him. He was gone. I was devastated.

The only consolation was that he would have known nothing about it. It's not the way he would have expected to go. One of the greatest strikers in British football history, crushed under a fluffy size five piece of female domestic indoor clothing in a detached house in Cumbernauld.

As I sat there despondently eating my lunch, I tried to make sense in my young mind of what I had just witnessed before me. I thought about the whole day and the lessons I had learned which would prove helpful in my future. I learned that life can be so fragile. You can be there one minute and gone the next. I learned that I would never be a stadium designer as my only portfolio piece would see me never get a look in. My mum had also learned to knock. Something I never truly benefited from until I hit the tricky 'measuring years'.

Most importantly, though, I learned something that I think every football loving person of my age learned in those years. I learned that Subbuteo, even with all its brilliant aesthetics and accessories, was and always will remain...absolute pony.

An alternative version of this article - complete with swearing! - first appeared on the TalkingBaws.com website. Thanks to Jonny Boyle and Vincent Brownlow for allowing it to be published on Liverpoolfc.com.

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