Page 2 of Playing the Field
He nods vigorously. ‘And Cassie. You’ve got a business degree. You can look after the money side of things. Your sister’s a coach. She can train the players.’
I stare at him in disbelief– he can’t seriously be suggesting this. My sister coaches a group of eleven- and twelve-year-olds on Saturday afternoons and I haven’t even finished my degree yet. My final exams are still two months away. Plus I’d been planning to spend a couple of months loafing around Europe with my boyfriend before looking for my first job, and Cassie is busy doing up her new house with her fiancé.
Dad may have some managerial experience, but it’s certainly not in a sporting environment– he helps run a local coach and minibus hire company. In short, we might know how to support a football team, but we’re in no position to start a new one.
But because I don’t want to burst Dad’s bubble, I humour him when he requests I grab my laptop, so we can start making a list of the things we’d need to make this happen. ‘Players, kit, a manager, a team name,’ he says, counting them off on his fingers.
And a spark of excitement bubbles up deep inside me, because football is such a massive part of our lives that it’s hard to imagine what Saturdays might look like without it. I’ve had posters of my favourite players up on my wall since I was in primary school and, if I’m honest, my decision to go to a London university was only partly so I could live at home and save on rent– I also wanted to be close enough to Hamcott Park that I could still go to all our home matches.
It’s quickly followed by a reality check, though, when the list expands to include a training schedule, pitch, referees... There’s no way Dad can start up a whole new football club from scratch with absolutely zero experience beyond playing for his university team thirty years ago, with only me and my sister to support him. I don’t know what briefly made me think he could. Especially when he’s proposing to have it up and running in time for the new season at the start of August. It’s mid-April. That would give us less than four months.
But it turns out I underestimate all three of us that day. Although I don’t know it then, that’s the day Crawford United is born.
2
Dad’s first move is to meet with Bob and a few other Hamcott Park fans at The Fox to put the idea of a new club to them– and the support for it is unanimous. They all know we’ll have to start at the very bottom of the football pyramid, going from crowds of thousands to probably one or two hundred, with amateur players rather than pros and grounds that are more likely to have hay bales than stands, a coffee shack if you’re lucky. But foolishly or otherwise, they all share the belief that with a lot of hard work and determination Dad, Cassie and I can build a new club that will eventually make its way up through the ranks. Every team had to start somewhere, right?
Before last orders have been called, Dad has declared himself the new club’s acting manager and his plan is underway.
Things move unexpectedly quickly after that. As assistant manager I’m tasked with designing and printing off hundreds of flyers that we can hand out at the last two home games to any Hamcott fans who aren’t boycotting them, to alert them to our plan and let them know how they can help. Namely through donations. It’s a shame we can’t put the word out on the Hamcott Park fan site, but aside from not having access to it, they’re not about to let us try to lure their supporters away to a new club.
Not lacking in confidence, my sister is fully on board with the idea of coaching the players, once we find them. She did a five-day Football Association Introduction to Coaching course before teaching her Saturday Kickers club and she’s adamant she can make the transition to teaching older players at a higher level. She’s sport-obsessed and teaches PE in a local school, so she’s convinced she has both the physical fitness and authority she’ll need for the job. I can’t help thinking she’ll be amazing.
When it comes to approaching our local County Football Association to get approval for the new team, Dad is more than happy to be the one to get the ball rolling. Between us we also produce a more comprehensive list of running costs. There’ll be nets and balls and an FA-approved first-aid kit to buy, we’ll need liability and injury insurance for the players, there’ll be travel expenses for away games...
For the next few days, a new book on football management or setting up a new business arrives from Amazon almost daily– which makes a change from the Alasdair Frowley thrillers Dad is usually ploughing his way through– and Dad throws himself into his research, spending every spare moment poring over the pages of his growing library. I can’t help but be swept along by his enthusiasm. A lot of what I’ve learned on my business studies course will come in useful, but increasingly I find myself pushing my university work aside and reading about team building and match strategy instead.
Had Mum still been around, the unruly tower of books taking over the living room would have driven her crazy, along with the number of people popping round to see where they can help out with the club set-up, but Dad just leaves the back door unlocked so Cassie, Bob, Marge and a few others can come and go as they please.
Bob and Marge’s son Adam, who’s training to be a web designer, volunteers to pull together a website– no bells and whistles, just setting out the basic ambitions for the club, with details of how to get in touch and pledge support. Marge sets about compiling a list of local schools and sports centres that have pitches we might be able to use for training. I collate a list of rival teams we can approach to discuss the possibility of a ground share.
The nearest ground, the home of Redmarsh Rovers, would be our top choice as it’s the easiest to get to from Hamcott– although with a capacity of four thousand, it might be beyond our means. Southmoor also has potential and I’ll be contacting every other ground that isn’t prohibitively far away too. But Redmarsh is the one we really want.
Meanwhile, Cassie starts trying to find us some players. A couple of the kids she coaches have older brothers who might fit the bill. She also puts notices out on local Facebook groups, spends a few evenings hanging out by the five-a-side pitches in the local park and persuades some of the gyms in our area to put an ad up in their reception areas– anything to spread the word.
‘Let’s hold player trials on the first weekend after Hamcott’s last home game,’ Dad suggests at our first official kitchen table meeting, even though we don’t know whether our new club application will even be approved yet. We’ve all decided to optimistically work on the assumption that it will be, which means we can’t waste any time if we’re going to be ready for the start of the new season.
‘We can do it at the West Street Rec,’ Cassie suggests. ‘It’s never that busy there.’
‘Good plan.’ He adds it to his notes. ‘Any updates on the financial side, Lily?’
As well as producing the flyers, I’m learning everything I can about fundraising. While we’re all happy to pitch in and do whatever we can to help establish the team, we all know money will have to change hands down the line. We still don’t have an entirely accurate idea of how much. So much of it will come down to the cost of the ground-share lease– and our newly learned negotiation skills.
‘We’re not eligible for a Sport England grant, sadly, but I’m setting up a GoFundMe page for anyone who wants to make a donation to help us get up and running. I’m still reading up on how best to attract investments from local businesses.’
‘Keep up the good work,’ Dad says.
I don’t want to put a dampener on proceedings by sharing the alarming statistic I’ve discovered that more than three thousand fledgling football clubs have folded in the last fifteen years and it’s almost always down to money. I just tell myself it doesn’t mean we’ll be one of them.
Then we move on to what I think is everyone’s favourite moment in this whirlwind of a first week– it’s time to select our new club’s official kit colour, logo and team name. Bob, Marge and Adam have joined us to help brainstorm ideas. I can’t wait to see what everyone comes up with.
Dad puts three bowls in the middle of the table marked with the three categories and gives everyone a pen and some scraps of paper so we can write down all our ideas and put them in the corresponding bowls. We’ll put it to a vote at the end. He then dishes up a giant pan of spaghetti Bolognese and pours everyone a hefty glass of red wine.
‘And remember, the more suggestions the merrier,’ he says, with a beaming smile. I’ll never get tired of seeing how happy nights like this make him.
The Bolognese is devoured in virtual silence, punctuated only by the sound of forks hitting china and pens tapping and scribbling. And it’s not long before the plates and cutlery have been cleared away ready for the big reveal.
‘First up, it’s the club name,’ Dad announces, rifling through the slips of paper in the bottom of the bowl. ‘There looks to be around thirty suggestions, so in no particular order... Mike Crawford United.’ He shoots us all a withering look. ‘We arenotnaming the club after me. That would make me look like a right pillock.’
