Deeper Shade of Blue

Neil Fitzsimon

Description

A Deeper Shade of Blue charts the tumultuous years of Chelsea Football Club between 1972 and 1977 when the glittering cup-winning side of the early 70s was broken up, and stars such as Peter Osgood and Alan Hudson departed, along with manager Dave Sexton. It was an era that saw Chelsea relegated to the Second Division while massive debts pushed them to the brink of extinction. But the Blues bounced back with the birth of Eddie McCreadie's brash, young and exciting side, led by the precociously talented Ray 'Butch' Wilkins. McCreadie guided the club back to the First Division only to leave acrimoniously in bizarre circumstances - a golden opportunity spurned by the club's owners. A Deeper Shade of Blue is the eagerly awaited sequel to Neil Fitzsimon's Rhapsody in Blue. It reveals how the author made the difficult transition from adolescence to adulthood as a Chelsea supporter during those turbulent times. We discover how the innocence of youth was replaced by the harsh experience of growing up in 1970s England.

Sujets

• Gran Londres
• Greater London
• Grand Londres
• London

Informations

• Publié par: Pitch Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 10 mai 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781785319280
• Langue: English

Extrait

First published by Pitch Publishing, 2021
Pitch Publishing
A2 Yeoman Gate
Yeoman Way
Durrington
BN13 3QZ
www.pitchpublishing.co.uk
Neil Fitzsimon, 2021
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A CIP catalogue record is available for this book from the British Library
Print ISBN 9781785317712
eBook ISBN 9781785319280
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Contents
Introduction
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
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19
20
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22
Photos
Introduction
THE LATE, great American singer-songwriter, Jim Croce, once wrote, If I could put time in a bottle. Hopefully, in these pages, I have gone some small way towards achieving this. It s hard to imagine what it was like to grow up in that most abrasive of decades, the 1970s, a time that today seems almost unimaginable. A decade that started full of hope that somehow the lessons we had learnt in the 1960s would help us navigate the next ten years. That hope gradually declined as the 70s progressed.
Gone were the days of the 1960s as England descended from the beautiful technicolour of the previous decade into a grey, dismal monochrome. Looking back, it s strange to think that the people mentioned in this book, who were so integral to me in the process of growing up, have now disappeared into the mists of time. Indeed, some of the players have taken their final bow and have now sadly departed from the stage. Gone maybe, but never forgotten.
The constant, however, through these pages, is Chelsea Football Club. Since 1967 they have been my passion, the master manipulator of my moods. The nerves and anxiety I feel whenever the Blues are playing have not dissipated in any way, shape or form, since the day I decided to nail my colours to Chelsea s mast after the 1967 FA Cup Final loss to Spurs. The time period between 1972 and 77 is not one of the most glorious eras in the Blues history but for those of us who lived through those difficult days, it has almost become a badge of honour that we stood firmly behind the club when they suffered some of the bleakest times in their history.
The departure of manager Eddie McCreadie in July 1977, when Chelsea were on the cusp of a bright, new dawn, still remains one of the bitterest moments I have endured supporting the Blues. Although the list of all the great players to have worn the blue shirt of Chelsea is endless, it s still that classic line-up of 1970 that I hold closest to my heart. That team of Bonetti, Webb, McCreadie, Hollins, Dempsey, Harris, Cooke, Hudson, Osgood, Hutchinson and Houseman remains to me to this day the most iconic side we ve ever produced. Yes, I know their achievements have been eclipsed in modern times, but as Scott Walker once sang, You were my first love, and first love never ever dies.
1
LOOKING BACK after all these years, you can t say that the signs weren t there for Chelsea Football Club. The crushing blow of going out of the FA Cup to Second Division Orient in the 1972 fifth-round tie at Brisbane Road had been a humiliation. Having thrown away a two-goal lead in that game was bad enough, but just one week later Chelsea, who had been massive favourites to lift their third trophy in as many years, surprisingly lost the League Cup Final 2-1 to a Stoke City side that eventually finished the season in the lower half of the First Division, which was nothing short of a disaster for the Blues. The air of invincibility that had enshrined the players and supporters was gone. The sunshine and blue clouds that had shone over Stamford Bridge had now been replaced by the threat of a storm that would last for a quarter of a century with only brief glimpses of the light that had shone so brightly.
Yet in that summer of 1972, I, like many other Chelsea fans, thought that that defeat to Stoke was merely a blip. I remember getting a brochure sent to my home from the club, outlining the plans for the brand-new East Stand and the total redevelopment of the Bridge. At the time it looked great. I had gone to the last home game of the 1971/72 season when we had beaten Stoke, of all teams, 2-0. It was a routine win. What we all would have given to have had that result at Wembley against the same opponents just a few weeks earlier.
After that victory there was a pitch invasion as loads of kids wanted to celebrate our win that night, and also to take a last look at the beautifully quaint East Stand before the bulldozers came in the following day. It was a shame that they were demolishing that historic edifice. It had been designed by Archibald Leitch, the great Scottish architect who was responsible for some of the finest stands ever built in this country, but time, as they say, moves on and the board had decided that a three-tier super-stand was the way to go. It was, in retrospect, a project that almost put the club out of existence.
On the spur of the moment that night, me, Steve Gallagher and Wally decided to join in with the masses crowding on to the pitch. So, for the one and only time, I trod the hallowed turf of Stamford Bridge. To be honest, I was quite surprised at the dip in the penalty area at the Shed end, compared to the level of the ground towards the touchline. From where I used to stand on the terraces in front of the tea bar, the pitch always looked to me like a perfect playing surface. Somewhere among the melee, Wally had found a tennis ball. What it was doing there, God only knows. He quickly got in goal at the Shed end, and then threw the ball to me.
This was it. This was my chance to score at the legendary Shed end. I duly smacked the ball past Wally, high into the roof of the net. My celebrations were cut short by Steve shoving me out of the way and saying, My turn! But before he could take his once-in-a-lifetime shot, a groundsman had spotted us and in no polite manner told us to fuck off! We were then chased off the pitch. I left in a high state of excitement after scoring at the Shed end, while Gallagher was extremely pissed off that he had missed his golden opportunity.
There was another invasion at the opening game at the Bridge in August 1972. Every time Chelsea scored at the Shed end that day, thousands of kids would run on to the pitch. Seeing that me and Gallagher were now going to the games with a bunch of blokes who were in their mid-20s, we thought better of joining in; not wanting to appear as a couple of snotty-nosed 17-year-old kids. I remember after that game, there was a warning in the programme that the reduced boys admission prices would be scrapped if this behaviour happened again. Instead, all boys would have to pay the same as the adults. They needn t have worried and there would be no more pitch invasions that season. In fact, the only exodus would be the crush of people trying to get away from what they were watching on the pitch.
Another thing I remember from that Stoke game was that the comedian Harry Worth was sitting opposite me on the train up to Euston. Harry was famous for being a bumbling, loveable fool in his TV series where, in the opening titles, he performed an optical illusion of standing sideways next to a plate glass shop window and lifting one leg and one arm, so that the reflection would look like he was doing a star jump. Hard to imagine, I know, but that is what passed for entertainment in those days. Harry, it must be said, looked far from loveable that day on the train. The people in our carriage had obviously recognised him, as I had, but Harry had a look on his face that seemed to say, Fuck off and leave me alone. And so the journey to Euston passed with the usual, natural English reserve, of embarrassment and total silence.
This was also the day that I had decided to wear my Royal Brogues complete with Blakeys fitted in the heel. Blakeys were the height of fashion in those days. They were supposed to be heel protectors for your shoes. They consisted of a horseshoe-shaped strip of metal that you hammered in to the heel to stop the wear and tear of everyday use. However, that was not the reason why blokes of my age wore them. They produced a lovely clicking sound with every step which seemed to add a certain swagger and bravado to the youths of that era. Of course, I was also wearing the obligatory thin, luminescent socks that were de rigueur in those days. It was, in hindsight, a terrible decision.
By the time I had walked from the platform on to the concourse at Euston, my new Brogues were bloody crippling me, but somehow I struggled on. How, I do not know, as my journey to the ground that night included a walk from Pimlico, near Victoria Station where Steve lived, followed by another excruciating trek back after the game. It must have been youthful bravado and bluster that carried me through. How I got through the pain barrier to actually rifle that tennis ball into the net at the Shed end, I will never know.
On the walk back to Pimlico that night with my thin, pathetic socks offering no protection whatsoever, I could barely hobble across the road. At one stage, Gallagher and Wally raced ahead of me and got to the other side of the main drag in front of the Royal Chelsea Pensioners home, when I stupidly tried to follow them. I was then caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. I had no choice - I had to run