My football club is Hull City - nicknamed The Tigers. I have actively supported them for fifty seven years experiencing many ups and downs. It has been quite a journey I can tell you.
One of the first players to really catch my eye was a local lad called Chris Chilton. He was a big, strapping centre forward who played the game with a smile on his face. He loved it. As a centre forward he had to head many balls as they were crossed in to the goal mouth by the team's wingmen.
In the mid-sixties The Tigers enjoyed some much needed financial investment that sparked an era of reasonable success. In spite of the introduction of new players bought from other clubs, Chris Chilton was able to hold his own in the rejuvenated team. He went on to become the club's all time top scorer with 222 goals overall. Quite an achievement.
Many's the time the crowd would sing his name - mostly after goals had gone in - a lot of them headed - "Chillo! Chillo!" He would wheel round in the penalty area with his fist raised to the heavens and a big grin on his face. In his heyday, Tottenham Hotspur and Leeds United wanted to lure him away but Chris was happy in East Yorkshire and wished to remain with his boyhood club. A local hero.
At secondary school I became a very capable rugby player. Though I loved watching football (American: soccer) I admit that I was a very average footballer. Even so, at fifteen I was asked to play in goal for my village men's football team. It was just the one game on a wet and windy Saturday in November. I believe the regular goalkeeper was indisposed..
In those days, football was not played with light plastic-coated balls, you played with leather cannonballs that must have been designed to absorb as much moisture as possible. They weighed a ton and on that fateful Saturday I proved to be a hopeless goalkeeper. I let in four goals, mostly because the cannonball went right through my flailing hands. Though at school I could kick a rugby ball for fifty yards, kicking that soggy football that miserable afternoon was a different story. Hopeless.
This personal diversion was simply to illustrate the kind of balls that Chris Chilton headed very frequently. In his career he must have headed thousands of balls, rising to meet them with brave athleticism.
And now I reach the very purpose of this sporting blogpost. Chris Chilton is now 77 years old and he resides in a nursing home diagnosed with dementia. He is one of many footballers whose lives have drawn to a close in this distressing way. Only yesterday it was announced that the England and Manchester United World Cup winner - Bobby Charlton has also succumbed to dementia.
All those headed footballs! They could get away with it when they were young but former professional players are paying the price now that they are old. In East Yorkshire, fund raising is happening to support Chris Chilton's care. Go here. As Remembrance Sunday draws near, I shall remember Chillo and the joy he gave us. Up The Tigers!
Chris Chilton in action in the early sixties
Perhaps it is time strikers wore helmets or even ban the heading of a football?
ReplyDeleteThey could play with beach balls though that might prove problematic on windy days.
DeleteI remember the beach ball goal between Sunderland and Liverpool. I was serious about helmets. A brain scan carried out on Geoff Astle claimed that he had the same injuries that boxers sustain.
ReplyDeleteI know you were being serious. Jeff Astle's daughter Dawn has done a lot to raise awareness of this terrible issue. Is dementia a price worth paying? I very much doubt it. Jeff Astle was only 59 when he died. He was born in the same place as the writer D.H. Lawrence.
DeleteInteresting, Northsider, you mentioning boxers. My father once explained to me the "Schuesseleffekt". The Schuessel being the bowl, your skull, in which your brain wobbles on impact. Do it once, do it twice, eventually you'll pay a price.
DeleteI am a relaxed parent. Though wouldn't have vouched for my actions should the Angel have taken up boxing. Not that it is the only contact sport that has potential to fuck with your mind or body. How many knees have been put out by Rugby? Not, of course, that one's brain resides in the knee. Or maybe it does.
U
I am always interested to hear of your father's work:
DeleteSchuessel is my New Word for today.
When I've hit myself on a very low door (being six foot one) I always feel my metallic fillings going up my, ermm, Schuessel.
Could ye please not use the F word in your comments, Ursula?
I'm from Glasgow, Scotchland, and we flinch when we hear that word.
The C Word we tolerate, it's only Anglo-Saxon anatomy effter aa.
As for the B Word, if uttered in Italian by the pope's daughter, it can sound as poetic as Dante saying Beatrice.
When I wrote the B Word I meant B***** and not Bastard, after all if a priest hasn't got a Bastard or three, he must be a B*****.
DeleteHelp me Yorky, I'm drowning in a swamp of linguistics and lechery here.
My mother said Bugger when she was angry but she went to her grave not knowing what it meant. Maybe she thought it meant Bugs and she hated Bugs.
Hamel(d), I rarely swear. I rarely use the "F" word. And if so it's judiciously applied, with intent - to much greater effect than those who use it habitually. Like, say, certain bloggers who, instead of engaging, tell you to eff off. That's poor. Maybe they played too much football, head kicks, now lost for more than the basics; no, make that base.
DeleteAs to the C word. That to me is a no-no. Comes with the territory. I find it crude beyond belief. A couple of years or so ago I asked the Angel why men call each other the C word. He, patiently, explained it to me. Apparently it can also serve as a term of endearment (among men). I still don't get it. Never mind. The invective is a law onto itself.
As to the "Schuessel" I think you mean Scheisse. A word my father, since you are referring to him, used frequently. The cats would bolt.
Your mouther sounds sweet in her innocence. It's the (young) female's lot. Innocence. Again, my father (with whom, you may be relieved to hear, I have no contact any longer) would put me to rights. As a teenager I'd use an expression, integrated into common usage, nothing coarse or to do with swearing, and he'd suddenly say: "Do you actually know what that MEANS?" Wide eyed I'd say: "No?" He rarely elaborated. Over the years I worked out many of those expressions and where they came from. Sailors and St. Pauli (red light district in Hamburg) have a lot to answer for. Oh, did and do I laugh. If I were writing this in the mother lingo I'd now sign off with a flourish - to make a point. Alas, in translation it won't work.
U
Is Saint Pauli the red light district of Hamburg?
DeleteIn Glasgow (the Cursing Capitol of the World) they would love that.
Only history teachers here would know Hamburg was a Hanseatic city.
I shall remember Scheisse and use it judiciously. Over here educated young men will sometimes use the C Word with young women in a curious way. *I was cunted last night* they will say, meaning drunk or *wasted*. Invective is a law unto itself as you say. And it goes on mutating.
I remember reading that John Steinbeck would wince when he heard any profanity. It must have been his upbringing in Salinas. My father never swore in front of me, and he told me that my mother's father, an atheist, would walk away from any man who used the F word in conversation, even in a mild way.
Your father's remark *Do you know what that means?* was wise. If my mother were alive today she would (in a mild voice) say of Boris Johnson, *He's a buggering man, isn't he?*
A lot of our 'footballers' (British: not soccer)are dealing with the same sorts of after effects of years of undiagnosed head injuries. There are a lot of athletes paying quite a price for entertainment purposes. I think it's sad.
ReplyDeleteWere you a sporty lass in your youth Debby?
DeleteI was not. I was a socially awkward, extremely shy person who read a lot of books. My mother didn't drive, we lived far out into the country and my father worked long hours, which precluded organized sports of any kind. So I cannot be blaming my odd thinking on a head injury. I must simply accept that fact that I am a strange person by nature.
DeleteAs a self-assured lad many mythic moons ago, I always wanted to meet an *awkward, shy girl who read a lot of books*. A lassie *strange by nature* would have suited a stolidly extrovert fellow like me.
DeleteI have just discovered the mythical novel *Lud-in-the-Mist* by Hope Mirrlees (first published 1926) praised by Neil Gaiman. Virginia Woolf, strange by nature, found Hope Mirrlees even stranger. Give me odd thinking any day.
Back off Hameld! Yorkshire Pudding is not a dating site! Besides, Debby has expensive tastes that would be beyond your meagre pecuniary resources.
DeletePlus, Debby is married to a amiable character who is just as socially awkward as she is. We live a quiet life where the leeks grow wild and the venison runs free for the taking. Expensive tastes? YP! How did you know I broke down and bought myself an immersion blender Saturday?
DeleteIt was the Wild Leeks that went to my head, Debby. Not to mention the deer, gambolling freely. And it's Pennsylvania, country I only ever read about in John O'Hara. If I wanted a date I'd phone up Tartan Escorts and say my name was Neil.
DeleteWell, they gambol freely right into the freezer, I suppose. Here where I live, 'strange by nature' women are just as common as wild leeks. However, wild leeks are more highly prized.
DeleteWild leeks cannot make fellows laugh!
DeleteAre ye kidding, Yorky? The Leek is the Don Rickles of the Vegetable World.
DeleteWe just don't hear get the gags. And they speak in Welsh and what Englishman ever bothered learning the Welsh aside from Professor Tolkein?
As Wittgenstein said, *If a lion could speak we wouldn't be able to understand it.*
Follow Wittgenstein on YouTube and Don Rickles too.
Chris Chilton, an English gentleman and folk hero.
ReplyDeleteMy late brother Brian would have relished your post. He died at home in south London of pancreatic cancer, age 58. I called him Doc Soccer because of his love of the Beautiful Game. His knowledge of English football was *encyclopedic* according to my other brother Ian, also a London resident and Kickbaa fan.
About a year before Brian died I sent him a book he wanted to read again, The Football Man by Arthur Hopcraft: I found a new edition with a puff from Mike Parkinson, as well as the old Penguin edition.
Hopcraft was a TV scriptwriter and brilliantly adapted Le Carre's Tinker Tailor and Smiley's People for the small screen.
I always wanted to read Hopcraft's autobiography: I think it's called The Great Apple Raid, and is about his Essex childhood.
How sad that Brian died so young. I guess that when Ian and Brian were enthusing about "the beautiful game" you were busy crocheting antimacassars.
DeleteYe outed me, ye scunner ye. Crocheting's a safe hobby, ken. And Ah dae it for a gude cause, like: the Ex Cabinet Ministers Distressed Income Fund. We helped ease the last years o' Cecil Parkinson's life, and by pullin' a few pulleys, we got Michael Portillo intae a cushy number on the telly, like. We'd dae the same fur John Major, John's the new God's Banker, ye remember the auld P2 masonic loge? Well it's now the P22, and they run London AND Rome, read yer Private Eye for further details, like. But keep me outa the Epstein story, ay?
DeleteDo you mean Brian Epstein or Jeffrey?
DeleteJeffrey Epstein was killed (oh sorry it was the security guard's night off and Epstein did himself in even though he showed no suicidal signs) because he was going to Name Names. He didn't even own that island, there were circles within circles.
DeleteIt's the brazenness of legal financial crime, right here in London now, that makes Mario Puzo tame.
As Deep Throat said to Woodward (Redford) in the movie, *Your lives may be in danger.* A bullet in the heid don't bother me, torture I'm squeamish about.
I think it's awful that young men are destroying their bodies and their minds for entertainment. We have the same problem here with hockey and concussions. Our heads are not designed to withstand that kind of punishment. I'm fine with sports for fun and for exercise but once you put money into it and it becomes entertainment for people, young people are forced to perform even while injured.
ReplyDeleteThe brain is like an egg yolk inside a shell. It's not good to bash it about so vigorously time and time again.
DeleteI agree with Lilycedar. Here it is football (American football, of course). And boxers too. I know that it is thrilling for both players and spectators to watch athletes do what they do so beautifully but it's not fair in the end. All the money and all the glory can't make up for what is lost so completely in the end.
ReplyDeleteAt least your husband's sport did not invite brain injuries.
DeleteFootball, Rugby, Boxing - it's a man thing. I don't get it. Boxing to me unwatchable. Rugby - nah. When they go for a scrum was that, in olden days, the closest men got to hugging each other? Having said that, one of the sweetest guys I ever worked with told me he was a Hooker. Enter the freshly arrived on English shores me and I was baffled. Hooker? Well, I suppose anyone can do with extra income. Until he, patiently, explained TO me his position on the battle field.
ReplyDeleteTo please his father and his grandfather (both victims of the Rugby knee) the Angel joined the local Football Club. Saturday mornings of all times. Weather usually shite. Not as shite as a lot of fathers on the side lines (not the Angel's) who'd shout at their sons (age range from little to teenage). It was disgusting. Anyway, and this is the funny bit, the Angel - laid back to the point of horizontal - would walk the field. Hands in his pockets. The Manager shouting at him "This isn't a walk in the park". Met by indifference. However, the Manager was no fool. He put the Angel into GOAL with all the responsibility that position entails, and what do you know, the Angel sprang into life and threw himself all over the place to save the goal. Successfully.
I am so very sorry for those who, for whatever reason, lose their marbles in later age. It's horrible. I haven't been touched by it, other than by proxy of friends' parents, and sincerely hope I won't live long enough to inflict that sorrow and despair onto my son.
U
A football fan said to me years ago, *Did ye ever watch lassies playin' hockey? Yon's a vicious game. Gie me the kickbaa ony day !*
DeleteWhen I was a boy you saw very few women at football matches but nowadays (excepting COVID-19) women make up a significant proportion of any football crowd. Nothing like 50% that's for sure but sometimes 10 -15%. Modern stadiums are more welcoming to women.
DeleteI had a three-quarter sized lace-up with bladder leather football and that use to get pretty heavy. Someone close runs a group for people with memory problems. They've had several ex-footballers, some moderately well-known. Whereas the majority of people attend for several years, the footballers usually only manage a few months before leaving to move into care homes.
ReplyDeleteBobby Charlton's brother Jackie died after a struggle with dementia. Perhaps Bobby's dementia will cause more serious questions about heading footballs.
DeleteDo you remember the sound those leather footballs made on a day when the red blaize pitch was gurly with rain? That thick thuddy sound?
DeleteHeaders makes me think of that lads' phrase, *Hey Heid-the-ball, can I tap ye for two bob?*
It was the noise of cannonballs thudding.
DeleteI never heard a cannonball thudding, Yorky.
DeleteJangling I hear a lot of.
My wife's Jewish, so every time she gets up off the sofa, I hear her jewellery jangling.
Go on, DO it, you've been longing to DO it since ever I showed up !
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DeleteThe joke about the Jewish wife's from Don Rickles. Jewish men make those jokes about their wives.
DeleteDid you ever read *The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz* by Mordecai Richler? He grew up in Montreal. It was a very funny Jewish movie with a lot of heart. Richard Dreyfus played Duddy.
I just watched Rickles (YouTube) on Dick Cavitt. He liked writers and he was obsessed by the secretive J.D. Salinger, trying and failing to have him on the show.
Rickles is my god
DeleteRemember the scene in the film *Equus*?
DeleteThe lad says to his psychiatrist:
*Gods don't die.*
The psychiatrist (played by Richard Burton) says:
*Oh, yes, they do.*
You raise an important question sports enthusiasts around the world are dealing with in many different sports. The enjoyment of the game is important but sports has now become so money centered that I fear the money is considered more important than the athletes. Our football (not soccer) here has had many new rules and changes hoping to protect the players because many have had similar problems. They keep trying to improve the helmets yet players still come away with concussions. I would think they would use helmets in soccer but even if they did there are no promises of protection.
ReplyDeleteChris Chilton sounds like a wonderful person and I love that he stayed with his home town team!
You are right to remind us that American football has its tragedies too. With the brutal impacts that occur in American football, it's a wonder there aren't more life-changing injuries.
DeleteA world wide problem in many football codes that is being addressed in many countries. Balls being a lighter weight might help a lot in the future.
ReplyDeleteI guess the rule makers could simply ban players from heading balls. We would soon get used to it.
DeleteWe've learned much about concussion in the last few years. Unfortunately some players have payed a heavy price.
ReplyDeleteBack in the sixties, the relationship between heading balls and dementia had not been considered.
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