19.WHEN SATURDAY’S GONE By Jonaldo

Touched By The Gods

Sometimes the greatest of shots don’t get their deserved reward whereas the ugliest of touches do. Every striker has experienced this so can understand where I am coming from.

The match I always recall when contemplating this was when I was on the darks side partnering Rich Wolf up front in my England 1982 second choice red shirt with white shorts and socks. We had the better of the early play with Rich walloping the post with a spectacular volley on the turn and myself connecting sweetly with a shot that seen Gordon Angem pull off a fine save at full stretch to his left.

But, with just four minutes of play left, we inexplicably found ourselves 3-1 down. It was then that I llatched onto a through ball from Phil Dallas behind the defenders and was one on one with the keeper. I cannot say that I ever had the ball under my control, it appeared to be doing all it could to evade that outcome as Gordon set himself in goal for a shot. I went to place it with a side foot to his right but the ball had all but succeeded in its intention of running away from Jonaldo to the extent that I connected with a couple of dimples on the sole of my right boot, instead. Gordon, who was expecting a strike of some venom was totally flummoxed by this skimmed effort and lost his footing and fell as it span past him at a snail’s pace and into the corner of the net. Just as earlier in the match I had thought I couldn’t hit my strike or direct it much better and it had resulted in a great save from the White’s goalie, on this occasion I couldn’t have made a worse contact with the thing, yet it went in.

With less than two minutes remaining, Rich headed a ball about forty yards out down the wing where Derek Nugget battled with Derek O’Connor near the corner flag and managed to direct a ball into the six-yard box. Gordon dived to intercept but only managed to divert the ball onto my left shin and thence into the net as I made my way into the area sniffing a chance. I had scored with two late and rather fortuitous ‘strikes’ to level the scores at 3-3. And thus it remained for the little time left in the game.

In the pub afterwards for our post-match analysis, I ran the gauntlet of jibes about my apparent lack of ball control regarding my first goal, indeed, the quality, or lack of, both my goals in general. Mainly from Phil Dallas who loves to wind me up. Indeed, I am wondering if he put me through on goal instead of having a shot from range in the hope I would miss and it would provide him with the fuel to rib me afterwards. But obviously, having executed the chance, I was in the ascendancy. I told Phil and the others that I truly believe the best strikers are touched by the Gods. Some would say I’m touched in the head, more like. But it was like some deity had involved itself in making me deliberately appear to make a hash of it so that it would beat Gordon. It done such a great job of it that I too, initially thought I had made a pig’s ear of it until it surprisingly nestled in the net. (Actually, I don’t think it touched the net, it basically had only enough legs to cross the line by a few inches.)

The more I thought of it, the more it seemed to me that I’d been assisted by supernatural forces although, obviously, in the record books it goes down as an assist to Phil. But after the dust had settled on a quite remarkable match, I racked my brain as to the possible source of the heavenly interference on my behalf. There were several candidates as I have, as most veterans would, known several close people who have departed this life. But I couldn’t think of any who would seemingly owe me a favour or two on the football pitch. Was there something nice I had done perhaps many years earlier, football related that would render the recipient of my kindness the necessity to bestow me favours in a match?

Then it occurred to me. In 1978, when Bristol City were in the top flight I was at Ashton Gate when they beat Leeds United 3-2. Up to that point, I had collected programmes from every match I had attended since my first match eight years earlier. Anyway, myself and a few mates waited behind after the game to collect a few autographs as the players emerged to board the Leeds United coach. It was then that a Leeds fan approached me and asked if he could buy my programme off of me as he had been unable to obtain one. I knew it would then mean I no longer had a momento for every match I attended but I genuinely felt sorry for the visiting supporter and acceded to his request in the spirit of hospitality to the man from afar (although it later occurred to me that he might have been a Yorkshireman living in Bedminster). My act of kindness was repaid as having made the transaction I discovered that he had placed 30 pence in my palm rather than the 15 pence the programme cost.

I was in my fairly early teens then and I’m guessing that the Leeds supporter was a good decade plus older than me, so as it was a long while ago there’s every possibility that he has since met his maker (good timing on his part, as that season Leeds got relegated). He has probably taken stock of his time on Earth and remembered my act of kindness and has further rewarded me. Little did he know that I became thankful my habit of buying a programme each match was broken as I realised they were crap and not worth the paper they were printed on. It is, however, daunting to realise that I was repaid well at the time and now handsomely recompensed many years later.