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The Grass Arena
Would you believe that in the early weeks of the football season –a particular sparkling Sunday- I was way down on my knees saying my prayers beside the head grounds man of Watford Football Club, at All Saints Pastoral Centre, London Colney.
Things couldn’t have been that desperate, could they? Well, yes they were.
Back in the day, we had just exchanged our manager, stable well doing Sean Dyche for untested Gianfranco Zola, he with the most marvellous football pedigree, but as yet, a largely unknown quantity, as supremo of our beloved football team.
That we needed faith was in no doubt. The certain belief that Watford could be raised up from the middling ashes of the championship, to the pinnacle of success, promotion to the Top league. Was this an impossible dream?
To clear my head I made my way up Bell Lane, and turned into a side road leading on to a perfectly straight wide concrete path which put me in mind of Wembley Way. An optimistic, forward thinking déjà vu experience, only distracted from the real thing by the bordering long strips of grass, at edges of which young trees predominated in colourful beds of variegated shrubbery, leading to Watford’s own training ground.
The mass of fields immediately took my eye, as they reach up to Ridge and relegate the modern dark glass side gym, dining and changing rooms, to the appearance of minor buildings.
A close friend first drew me to these grounds. He had worked at the London Stock Exchange, but yearned for the wide-open country. Eventually he found tractor work at four hundred acre Woodhall Farm in Shenley Village. Unfortunately, no sooner in the job than word spread like wind shaking barley, every tractor was to be fitted with a cab, and of course Alec railed against this restrictive cocoon. Free spirited, he took off for the fresh green fields of London University College grounds, to pull a gang mower to make grass fields friendlier for our home county footballers.
At that particular time I had lapsed, -like a small boy loses his faith on coming of age- in my support of Watford Fooball team. But subsequently came the day I caught a snatch of an enthralling commentary on Three Counties Radio, with Watford clearly in fine fettle and in the ascendancy. That was when I got my mojo back. This redeeming moment set me on the right track.
Hadn’t I a zillion years past rejoiced in Nigel Callaghan’s flighty jinks down the wing and with great excitement watched Luther Blissitt and John Barnes destroy opposing football teams in brilliant, chequered careers? They remain legends.
The buzz of taking my girl friend Josephine Morris along to the terraces was not to be outdone, and watching her pure conversion to the beautiful game was sublime.
To return to training field. I spoke to Steve Read, who is marking a field meticulously. He works two weekends and takes three off, but what is more, he is rewarded with free match tickets. My envy grows.
He uses his dandelion coloured Kobuta tractor blades to draw through and aerate ground when he’s not cutting grass, scarifying, rolling or putting fertilizer down. The pitches manicured to perfection lack for nothing, and Steve a full on member of back room staff, says his work and loyalty is dedicated to Watford’s Football Team.
You could not fault the pitches, I saw footballs rocket off the surface like Sputnik’s in space lift off. To stop their reckless wayward flight there is netting higher than the wire mesh around tennis courts.
The team goes about its training in thin, red, green, yellow and blue weather proof tops, easing into practise with knee bends to settle hamstring, quadriceps and cruciate ligaments.
The goalkeepers break off to do a round of pitch, warming themselves into session and then coaches encourage random shots between the posts, from different positions, in sharp succession. One, two, three shoot!
I guess the players, whether they know it or not, need look no further for inspiration than the huge Shenley Water Tower on the distant four hundred feet ridge, south west of ground.
Brickies’ from Borhamwood, most notably the Cane gang, built it in record time. Every morning they raised the bar, until the high building pierced low clouds, and what is more, reaches down into earth’s core, as far as height of structure you see up above.
When they were done, the stokers came to fire the furnaces, which heated huge water tanks to service the hospital, whose building covered area now containing a nine hundred-house estate.
You could get a glimpse of these men through grimy coal dust spattered windows, faces blackened, sweating from the brows enough to dip your fingers.
Talk had it that the penthouse suite went to a famous footballer, one of the noveaux riche.
With my newfound enthusiasm for the Watford team, in the spirit of things, I walked from Bushey Gym to the football ground on match days, bumping into the odd enthusiast early on and more stragglers past The Avenue.
By way of smoky car beaten Bushey Arches, there would be some three or four more characters, maybe in surly mood depending on the last weeks result, which they would still be morosely chewing over. Then past the old Benskin’s Brewery area, with a lightening of step, leading on to an increased level of anticipation as supporters got Dutch courage, their bottle back, from, we’re looking for a draw to, we’ll blow them apart, in quick easy strides.
A fastened pace up Vicarage Road, to where our fans converge, then a shambling gait bubbling inside with excitement, a confluence of water held back as at a weir, the stadium itself, with all it holds in store.
It is gob smacking amazing that the team, the best in our county, is taking to this almost sacred place, all that it has learned out in the Hertforshire country. To be replicated in the glorious grass arena of Watford Football club. Into this field of dreams we conjure up all manner of inner thoughts. Can we attain promotion to the top league? Will my partner be watching at home, on TV, or browsing through the Harlequin shopping parade? Disparate thoughts churn through players and spectators alike.
Police look kitted up in funeral garb, black apparel, black boots and conical hats. Officers are peak capped with small regular chessboard patterns about the rims with upper body jackets wrapped in luminescent yellow bibs.
They see us through to ticket office; adrenaline fuelled as Z cars starts to play. We have a quick shufti around the ground. Our old warrior John Eustace has dropped by wayside after back operation. Myron Nosworthy joined the squad, a much need newcomer. But this long legged diamond also got laid up with serious injury.Still it was not the time for what might have been. Indeed, for me, writing does not come without its own brand of pitfalls. I was initially engaged and encouraged to write this piece for Hertfordshire Countryside, by Richard Walker, head of media, Watford Football Club, but the magazine sadly hit the dust, and folded overnight.
We must go on like our favourite football team and surpass ourselves as Watford have done, and conquered all adversity.
It would not be fair to selectively go through attributes of different players, in this spectacular season, but strike wise we were suspect until the brilliance of Matt Vydra and Troy Deeney showed itself.. Marvin Sordell was no more, but these two took over the goal scoring where he left off, with incredible determination and much craft. Skill did not reside with them alone, but was displayed in large measure throughout the rest of super team. From the indefatigable goalkeepers, captain Manuel Almunia and reserve John Bond there was this element of magic and steely resolve, not forgetting our nineteen year old, much fraught, but ready to face the music, debut. .
We have endured a long tense journey. You could say we all took part in this fine pilgrimage, players and supporters alike. Starting out from Borehamwood’s own Meadow Road ground, on a sun drenched evening which contained a strong hint of thunderous rain, and was to prove a suitable metaphor for our tumultuous cliff edge end of season matches. At times it was hard going but the players sensationally pulled it off, combining together so unselfishly as singularly demonstrated by the Johnathan Hoggs headed ball to Troy Deeney during the penultimate Leicester match, which result sent us on our final heart warming way to Wembley, hugely cheered on by our loyal supporters to a make or break, famous play off final.
We could not ask for more. Hurrah the Hornets!