|
As far as most Americans are concerned, football is that game that’s even more rubbish than rugby where the players are so scared of getting hurt that they ponce about wearing shoulder pads straight out of Dallas and Dynasty, and where the half-time entertainment lasts longer than the game itself.
But taken from issue no. 16 of SWWF, first published in 1991, here’s the tale (by Yankie Doodle Dandy - we suspect that's not his real name) of how, back in the early 1980s, the state of Florida (well bits of it anyway) was, for a short time at least, gripped by real football fever, thanks to one visiting Mariners fan’s desperation to find out the score back home.
It was February 1983 and the Mariners were occupying a respectable, if not completely secure, position in Division Two. Thanks to a scintillating start to the season (remember when we topped Division Two), our traditionally poor November and uncharacteristically bad December and January hadn’t been as damaging as they otherwise could have been. Moreover, in our two most recent matches there were signs that the early season form might be returning. Thus, Chelsea were sent packing by two Drinkell goals, and Tony Ford took care of Leicester City. Even the usually non-committal Dave Booth sounded optimistic about our position.
Consequently I was not unduly worried as I boarded my America-bound Jumbo Jet at Heathrow. With 14 games left Town could well be challenging for promotion upon my return, which had been cleverly arranged to coincide with the visit of QPR in the last game of the season.
On my first Saturday in the ‘hick’ Floridian town I was staying at, my host listened in amusement as I spent fifteen minutes on a transatlantic call getting the lowdown on the game against Derby. The following week I spent a similar length of time hearing about the home draw with Sheffield Wednesday. Unfortunately, and despite my promise to pay the next phone bill, my host was somewhat concerned about the money I was investing in following the Mariners from a not inconsiderable distance.
His solution to the problem was unique. It turned out that one of the many local TV channels specialised in sport. For a modest sum, they claimed to be able to get any result, for any sport, anywhere in the world. By calling ‘toll-free’ and telling Candy of your requirements, Ted (an Elton Welsby behave-alike) would give you the result you wanted live on TV. All you had to do was ‘stay tuned for the next ten minutes’. I did, and Ted duly gave me the information I wanted.
“And now for a viewer in Gainesville, this result from the English soccer league: Cambridge – is that where the university is? – one, Grimsby – where the hell is that? – nothing, zilcho, the big 0.” “Thanks Ted, you prat,” I said and, though he couldn’t hear me, he smiled smugly, knowingly even.
The following week Ted told me of the draw against Wolves (and enquired about ‘shoot-outs’) and the thumping 4-0 reversal at Ful-ham. His grin became even more sickly the next time I rang Candy when, having reminded me of the score at Fulham, he told me of the slaughter at Newcastle. After three successive defeats (Rother-ham having beaten us in midweek) Ted had “some good news for the viewer in Gainesville”, if you call a scoreless draw with Shrewsbury ‘good news’.
If I thought things were getting better, I was sadly mistaken. Ted’s grin was in danger of splitting his mouth as he told me of successive defeats against Middles-Bow-Row, Crystal Palace, and Old-Ham. Since late February I’d rung eleven times. On three occasions we’d drawn, and on the other eight we’d lost. This seemed to arouse Ted’s curiosity in the ‘viewer from Gainesville’ for, on the day before the Bank Holiday game with Bolton, he rang me, (Candy presumably having given him my number).
We chatted for about ten minutes as I told him of the trials and tribulations of following Grimsby Town. He caught me at my most emotional as I colourfully described the goings-on at Blundell Park. Ted promised to phone me with the result of the Bolton game and, after I’d thanked him, he ended the conversation with “our luckless viewer from Gainesville there.” It was a most curious way to end a phone call.
The next day Ted told me we’d drawn 0-0 at Bolton and asked me for my comments, which I duly gave him. The cheeky sod reminded me that we’d failed to score in the last five games and asked me what I thought of that. Just as I was about to give him a considered Pontoon Stand reply, my host burst into the room and removed the phone lead from the socket. At that point it dawned on me that my conversations with Ted were being broadcast across Northern Florida. We hurried into the TV room to see Ted replacing his phone receiver and making some sort of joke about Bell Telecommunications.
Some time later Ted rang again and, after apologising for any embarrassment he might have caused, engaged me in quite serious conversation. His researchers had told him all about relegation and he seemed genuinely concerned about the plight of the Mariners. After the draw at Burnley, a poor graphic of the lower half of the Second Division was beamed into thousands of American homes. The pre-season preparations of the ‘Fighting Gainesville Gators’ came a poor second to the possibility of Third Division football for Grimsby Town.
Even Ted had heard of Queens Park Rangers and didn’t give Grimsby much of a chance of staying in Division Two. I told him my work in America had finished and that I’d be at Blundell Park hoping to see us get the point we needed. Ted suggested I rang the religious network in Jacksonville and asked the Right Reverend Kenneth Brigham to offer prayers for our survival. I declined, preferring instead to pin my faith on the satanic Bobby Cumming.
Bobby duly did his stuff, Orient duly did theirs, and we were safe. I wrote to Ted, enclosing a Town programme and a scarf. If you’re ever in Northern Florida tune into the Sports Station. The idiot in the black and white scarf is my mate Ted, a true Grimsby Town fan.
|
