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 are not naming the club after me. That would make me look like a right pillock.’
‘I think it’s a nice idea,’ Marge says. I suspect it’s one of hers.
‘Absolutely not,’ Dad says, starting a reject pile then picking up another slip of paper. But he’s even less enamoured of the next proposal. ‘Magic Mike’s Merry Men? Come on, you lot, these are meant to be serious. Who put that in there?’
Adam raises a sheepish hand.
‘It’s very flattering,’ Dad concedes. ‘But I don’t think anyone...’
‘If we drop the Mike part, I think Crawford United has a certain ring to it,’ Bob interrupts. Which gets the rest of us thinking. A quick search on my phone and I confirm it doesn’t already exist elsewhere.
‘I actually don’t mind it,’ Cassie says.
‘It works for me,’ Marge chips in.
Dad rolls his eyes and moves the paper into a maybe pile with a sigh. ‘Okay, fine, but let’s see what else we’ve got before anyone gets too excited.’
It turns out there are three other Mike-related names, but Dad won’t be swayed from adding these ones to the reject pile. I’d be willing to bet he’s a tiny bit embarrassed, even if he appreciates the sentiment.
Hamcott appears in the majority of other suggestions– there’s Hamcott United, Hamcott Rangers, plus a Wanderers, a Warriors and a Hamcott Blues. Dad adds them to the maybe pile, but even though two of them came from me, I didn’t propose either with confidence. Because as nice as this nod to our neighbourhood would be, I wouldn’t want us to ever be confused with our predecessors.
The final two submissions are inspired by our street name– Queens Avenue United– and the name of the local recreation ground, West Street Park FC. Both join the other maybes.
‘Okay, time to vote,’ Dad says, and he starts reading from the top of the pile.
Cassie puts her hand up for West Street Park. As it’s where the player tryouts will be held, she says, it will have some historic meaning. Dad raises his for the Hamcott Blues– until Bob points out that Hamcott Park play in blue, so that could get confusing. It’s not until Dad reads out Crawford United that the rest of us shoot our hands into the air.
‘That’s decided then,’ Marge says triumphantly, leaving Dad momentarily speechless.
‘Are you sure it doesn’t feel too self-indulgent?’ he asks eventually.
‘I think it’s the perfect nod to the founders of the club,’ she says. ‘All three of you.’
Dad turns to Cassie, the only other person who voted for something different, but she smiles and says, ‘It’s already grown on me.’
‘Crawford United,’ Dad says, like he’s trying it out for size. ‘Crawford United...’
‘To Crawford United!’ Bob bellows, holding his glass aloft. ‘Long may it last and successful may it be!’
And finally, Dad laughs and clinks his glass against Bob’s. ‘Okay, okay, you lot win. It looks like we’ve got ourselves a club name.’
‘There’s only one Mikey Crawford,’ Marge sings quietly.
‘Oh, stop it,’ Dad says, turning pink.
Next up, it’s the kit colour, and our proposals range from lime and navy stripes to orange and burgundy. It’s only my proposal of straight purple that throws in a curveball.
‘Just purple?’ Dad says. ‘Whose suggestion was this?’
I raise my hand.
‘Any particular reason?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘It’s my favourite colour.’
Dad runs his hand over his stubble while he contemplates it. Then he nods and says, ‘I can picture it with white shorts. A kind of Cadbury purple. What do the rest of you think?’
‘I’m on board.’ Cassie is first to respond. ‘It’s nice and a bit different.’
‘I like it too,’ Marge says.
Another vote follows, at the end of which purple has a clear lead. I drum my feet on the floor under the
table.
‘We’re a bit short on logo ideas,’ Dad says, peering into the final bowl. ‘There are only five pieces of paper.’
He scoops them up in one hand. ‘We have a standard shield, I think this one is meant to be a foot kicking a ball, this one just says goalposts, we’ve got a fork—’
‘It’s a trident,’ Marge corrects. ‘To represent the three founding members again.’
‘I think Manchester United might have something to say about that,’ Adam points out.
Dad nods his agreement and adds that one to the ‘no’ pile. Then he squints at the last piece of paper in his hand. ‘Well, we definitely don’t have any artists among us, but last but not least, I think we have an owl.’
‘It’s a phoenix,’ Bob corrects. ‘You know, because we’re rising from the ashes.’
Cassie, Marge, Adam and I shoot our hands up into the air before Dad can even start the vote.
‘I think that’s unanimous,’ Bob says.
‘Provided we get someone else to draw it,’ Dad says, laughing.
And that’s all the important decisions out of the way, so Dad thanks everyone for their contributions.
‘I’m so grateful to have you all here on this journey with me,’ he says warmly. ‘We’re now another step closer to making this happen.’