SPORTING ASPECT
Murder on Saturday
T Piccadilly Circus they told us to mind the doors. 'If I could take my cap off I'd be able to stand upright. But where'd I put my cap ? ' said" an American Air Knee officer curved into the far side of the carriage. ' After King's Cross you won't be able to lift your arm,' said his Neighbour.
At King's Cross two passengers wanted to get out. They Might as well have wanted to reach the moon. A wedge of flushed humanity, which pressured itself from platform into Tube, made outward movement impossible. Mind the doors ! ' Excuse me sir, will you please take your foot out Of my pocket ? " Mind The Doors ! ' If you don't get Your bottom in, sir, the stationmaster will hit it with a sledge hammer." MIND THE DOORS ! ! ' This football seems to be slightly popular,' said the American Air Force officer.
We there was no talk. We were too busy breathing. We could only watch • the sweat dropping gently on to our Mackintoshes. At last we reached Arsenal (Highbury Hill) and were projected on to the platform like pellets from a Compressed air gun.
* * *
After the match, even the ticket holders' queue for the Tube stretched for three quarters of a mile. Cars stood motionless in the roads like islands in a slow moving stream. Sightless and aimless, we went with the crowd, without even a star for guide, hoping only that somewhere at the end of it all there Would be a bus.
Then it rained. When we reached it, even the bus was no longer a haven. we sat in sickly mackintoshes and peered through steamy Windows.
`That full back never tackled once. He just ran up and ?own the line. Talk about marathons 1 Jim Peters wasn't in f. That fellow must have run ninety-seven miles today. And never kicked the ball' `I bet I've got a cold tomorrow morning.' , `That's nothing. If it had been one degree colder, all that lot would have caught pneumonia this afternoon.' `Fares, please. No standing on top.' Here you are. All the winners and Classified Results.' Oh, the misery of those Classified Results * * * hills beyond the chimney pots. True, in the second half the sky was bruised and discoloured; yet, until the end, all stayed right for good football.
And, while the police band played before the game began, there was more than usual expectancy. I myself think little of football in the middle of August, especially when the cricket championship stands poised above the heads of at least three counties. I need to be eased from cricket's gentle grimness into the raucous abandon of. League football. But the majority at Highbury on Saturday wanted no easing. They were ready to plunge. August was their Spring and they revelled in it. favours, hunting horns, rattles and all, especially when, for the very first match, there were Arsenal and Newcastle, two flashing teams which seemed to promise all that was best in English football.
In English football. . . . Every man and woman on that ground had heard of the Hungarians. Most of them had seen the Hungarians, in the flesh, on TV or on the newsreels. Everyone on that ground had been pricked in his pride because foreigners had shown not only how much more attractive their brand of football was than ours but also how much more effective. I would bet that everyone at Highbury last Saturday was saying in his heart: All right 1 This season we'll begin to show 'em' So the normal excitement of the season's first match over- bubbled.
Well, we showed 'em Jackie Milburn, Newcastle's outside right, twisting and turning and making two beautiful goals. But then we've already shown 'em Stanley Matthews and, on the other wing, we've shown some of them Tom Finney. We've got a bit of a corner in these fine, individual, wingmen, but what else have we got to show 7 We've got, judging by last Saturday, whole forward lines who miss openings which my seven-year-old son would have taken if only football was his full-time job. We've got players who expend more energy writhing on the ground or otherwise attracting the referee's attention than they do in playing. We've got players who, failing in skill, try to compensate by fouls.
But of individuals whose skill is set on fire by the joy of playing, and whose delight in playing reaches its climacteric when they are part of a team which plays football as it can best be played, we have nothing to show 'em, judging by last Saturday. Newcastle won 3-1, so presumably someone was pleased.
* * * Very late that night I was in my- local. What,' said my neighbour, is wrong with you ? ' I told him. Two teams, I said, had murdered a Saturday afternoon. Kick the man and miss the ball. Use your science only on the referee. Get round him if you can but just barge into your opponents. Mind you, I said, it's not only the players' fault. I blame the fans. They don't want good football. They want two points. But, I said, there is still hope. People who have seen the Hungarians play aren't going to be satisfied with this muck. Today the crowd gave 'em the slow handclap. There are going to be some changes in English football before long. Didoyou,' asked my neighbour, notice any Newcastle supporter giving the slow handclap ? By the way, how's Huddersfield done today ? Oh, I see. Not even one point for them, eh ? Still, I expect they played football like the Hungarians. And that means more than points, doesn't it ? ' He took a deep draught of ale, then looked at me over the brim. ' Do you know what I think ? ' he asked. Unless things change, they're likely to stay pretty much the same.'
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