Bootle Boys Steve Platt
Bootle Joc
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bob. b
- Posts: 5744
- Joined: Sat Jan 03, 2009 1:04 pm
This is the St. Monica's football team in 1955-56. I am the goalkeeper (Top middle). Does anybody recognise themselves or anybody you know. If you do recognise anybody can you say where you are standing because I still have to look in the mirror to recognise myself let alone anybody else.
Last edited by bob. b on Tue Apr 21, 2020 12:48 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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bob. b
- Posts: 5744
- Joined: Sat Jan 03, 2009 1:04 pm
999 Victoria Bootle Joc champions 1946
Bill Johnson to the right of goalie Paul Johnson
From Ron Dixon I think the fourth from the left, next to the goalkeeper is my uncle Tommy Gore, who I watched on Orrell Please Ground. A great sportsman he took over as goalkeeper when he got older and slower. he as also a keen bowler on the green at the back of the Walnut Tree. the only name we had was my Dad. Would be great to get them all named.
We have his winners medal. Thanks Ron
Bill Johnson to the right of goalie Paul Johnson
From Ron Dixon I think the fourth from the left, next to the goalkeeper is my uncle Tommy Gore, who I watched on Orrell Please Ground. A great sportsman he took over as goalkeeper when he got older and slower. he as also a keen bowler on the green at the back of the Walnut Tree. the only name we had was my Dad. Would be great to get them all named.
We have his winners medal. Thanks Ron
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bob. b
- Posts: 5744
- Joined: Sat Jan 03, 2009 1:04 pm
Ha look at this
I’m standing on the touchline, though it’s more of a contorted crouch, as I try to shield myself from the wind whipping thousands of tiny, icy ball-bearings straight into my face. I am sodden and cannot imagine how I could possibly ever be wetter or colder. I’m holding a linesman’s flag but can’t raise it as whenever I try the flag falls off. I can’t really follow what’s going on anyway as the path of the hail is from the far side of the pitch to my side. I’m not even a linesman. I’m just filling in, as one of the substitutes tends to do. One of the other subs has already gone home. Another is sheltering elsewhere, back in the dressing room I think. I’m not entirely sure if I’m even going to get on the pitch today. It is May.
I didn’t picture the last day of the season being like this. A year ago, I didn’t think I’d play football again. I was hurtling through my late-30s with 40 on the horizon. There were other, more important things to do on a Saturday afternoon. And with a well-cultivated dad bod I wasn’t exactly in the right shape to lace up my boots anyway.
While I had watched more than my fair share of football over the years, I’d not really played much before. I’d played at school, then dabbled in five- and seven-a-side football in my 20s. But proper, competitive 11-a-side seemed an opportunity long gone. Busy, unfit and frankly not very good at football, my prospects looked dim. But there was still a nagging feeling that I’d missed out. I should have had a go.
I then saw a post from my local non-League team, Bootle St James announcing they were re-forming their veterans’ side, and were looking for new players. As much as I fulfilled the age requirements for veterans’ football, I wasn’t sure I strictly met the remit of a “veteran”. With my lack of real competitive experience, there was a risk that I’d be the equivalent of one of those blokes who dabbled in the TA for a couple of years and then pretends he has had a proper army career. I was basically a bit of a fraud. But I still wanted to play.
Pre-season was rough. I was pretty sure the warm-up had lasted an hour but when I checked the time it had only been 10 minutes. Physically I was a mess. I noticed a few around me in a similar state, but at least they had some technique to fall back on. I didn’t even have that.
Then, unfortunately, my wife fell ill, so I decided to take a break from it all, before it had even really started. It was a really tough time but football gave me an escape, even when I couldn’t play it. When I was feeling down it gave me something to look forward to. When I just wanted to stuff myself with beer and cake it gave me the motivation to lose some weight and get fitter instead. And all of that helped me feel a bit more level-headed and able to cope with the kind of stuff life throws at you from time to time.
By the autumn my wife was on the mend and with her full encouragement I was able to pick up from where I left off. To my amazement, despite my absolute lack of fitness, experience or skill, the team were happy for me to come along and play.
I’m sure there was some middle-aged delayed-adolescent wish fulfilment here, but going into a dressing room, putting on a proper kit and then taking part in a proper match with a proper referee – where the result even ends up on the FA website – was exhilarating. Coming on as a sub for 10 minutes felt like a genuine achievement. Even though I was rubbish.
And I kept playing and kept learning. I’ve played with and against players who have played at a decent level, and those who could have done so had a few more things gone their way. I’ve learned a hard-fought one-nil win is much more satisfying than routing your opposition, that some players really do light up a fag at half-time and that some people are mad enough to give up their Saturdays not playing, but refereeing a load of angry middle-aged men. I haven’t quite discovered what a foul throw actually is though. That mystery remains.
HaI have had first-hand experience of just how hard it is to play at wing-back, but how a bit more fitness and a lot more positional awareness goes a long way. I’ve played up front too, and gone from missing the ball and accidentally kicking the goalkeeper in the head to actually scoring a goal (from a yard out, but they all count, right?). I’ve got in better shape, mainly because I don’t really enjoy being yelled at by our captain for not putting the effort in – that even if I can’t play very well that shouldn’t stop me running down every ball. He had a point
I’m still no world-beater, but now I have a bit of a better idea about why. And the nicknames I’ve been given probably help with that analysis too – Steve the Toe in honour of how I strike the ball (or not) and The Hoff in honour of my rather laboured, exaggerated running style. I didn’t mind that I was nearly always on the bench, generally helping out running the line, or running off to collect loose footballs, or handing out the waters. As much as I’m clearly that weird bloke who turned up in pre-season and really couldn’t play, I’m now part of a team.
And that’s why I was there, that afternoon in May, shielding myself from hail, shivering, grappling with a broken linesman’s flag. Life is hard and around the time you become eligible for veterans’ football it seems to get harder. Football gives you a break. It gives you something else to think about from Monday to Friday. And on a Saturday it takes you away completely, so for a couple of hours all that matters is beating the team in front of you. I’m still no veteran but, with one season under my belt, I’m a tiny bit closer to becoming one.
Football gives you a break. It gives you something else to think about from Monday to Friday.My JOC Friends
Bobby
I’m standing on the touchline, though it’s more of a contorted crouch, as I try to shield myself from the wind whipping thousands of tiny, icy ball-bearings straight into my face. I am sodden and cannot imagine how I could possibly ever be wetter or colder. I’m holding a linesman’s flag but can’t raise it as whenever I try the flag falls off. I can’t really follow what’s going on anyway as the path of the hail is from the far side of the pitch to my side. I’m not even a linesman. I’m just filling in, as one of the substitutes tends to do. One of the other subs has already gone home. Another is sheltering elsewhere, back in the dressing room I think. I’m not entirely sure if I’m even going to get on the pitch today. It is May.
I didn’t picture the last day of the season being like this. A year ago, I didn’t think I’d play football again. I was hurtling through my late-30s with 40 on the horizon. There were other, more important things to do on a Saturday afternoon. And with a well-cultivated dad bod I wasn’t exactly in the right shape to lace up my boots anyway.
While I had watched more than my fair share of football over the years, I’d not really played much before. I’d played at school, then dabbled in five- and seven-a-side football in my 20s. But proper, competitive 11-a-side seemed an opportunity long gone. Busy, unfit and frankly not very good at football, my prospects looked dim. But there was still a nagging feeling that I’d missed out. I should have had a go.
I then saw a post from my local non-League team, Bootle St James announcing they were re-forming their veterans’ side, and were looking for new players. As much as I fulfilled the age requirements for veterans’ football, I wasn’t sure I strictly met the remit of a “veteran”. With my lack of real competitive experience, there was a risk that I’d be the equivalent of one of those blokes who dabbled in the TA for a couple of years and then pretends he has had a proper army career. I was basically a bit of a fraud. But I still wanted to play.
Pre-season was rough. I was pretty sure the warm-up had lasted an hour but when I checked the time it had only been 10 minutes. Physically I was a mess. I noticed a few around me in a similar state, but at least they had some technique to fall back on. I didn’t even have that.
Then, unfortunately, my wife fell ill, so I decided to take a break from it all, before it had even really started. It was a really tough time but football gave me an escape, even when I couldn’t play it. When I was feeling down it gave me something to look forward to. When I just wanted to stuff myself with beer and cake it gave me the motivation to lose some weight and get fitter instead. And all of that helped me feel a bit more level-headed and able to cope with the kind of stuff life throws at you from time to time.
By the autumn my wife was on the mend and with her full encouragement I was able to pick up from where I left off. To my amazement, despite my absolute lack of fitness, experience or skill, the team were happy for me to come along and play.
I’m sure there was some middle-aged delayed-adolescent wish fulfilment here, but going into a dressing room, putting on a proper kit and then taking part in a proper match with a proper referee – where the result even ends up on the FA website – was exhilarating. Coming on as a sub for 10 minutes felt like a genuine achievement. Even though I was rubbish.
And I kept playing and kept learning. I’ve played with and against players who have played at a decent level, and those who could have done so had a few more things gone their way. I’ve learned a hard-fought one-nil win is much more satisfying than routing your opposition, that some players really do light up a fag at half-time and that some people are mad enough to give up their Saturdays not playing, but refereeing a load of angry middle-aged men. I haven’t quite discovered what a foul throw actually is though. That mystery remains.
HaI have had first-hand experience of just how hard it is to play at wing-back, but how a bit more fitness and a lot more positional awareness goes a long way. I’ve played up front too, and gone from missing the ball and accidentally kicking the goalkeeper in the head to actually scoring a goal (from a yard out, but they all count, right?). I’ve got in better shape, mainly because I don’t really enjoy being yelled at by our captain for not putting the effort in – that even if I can’t play very well that shouldn’t stop me running down every ball. He had a point
I’m still no world-beater, but now I have a bit of a better idea about why. And the nicknames I’ve been given probably help with that analysis too – Steve the Toe in honour of how I strike the ball (or not) and The Hoff in honour of my rather laboured, exaggerated running style. I didn’t mind that I was nearly always on the bench, generally helping out running the line, or running off to collect loose footballs, or handing out the waters. As much as I’m clearly that weird bloke who turned up in pre-season and really couldn’t play, I’m now part of a team.
And that’s why I was there, that afternoon in May, shielding myself from hail, shivering, grappling with a broken linesman’s flag. Life is hard and around the time you become eligible for veterans’ football it seems to get harder. Football gives you a break. It gives you something else to think about from Monday to Friday. And on a Saturday it takes you away completely, so for a couple of hours all that matters is beating the team in front of you. I’m still no veteran but, with one season under my belt, I’m a tiny bit closer to becoming one.
Football gives you a break. It gives you something else to think about from Monday to Friday.My JOC Friends
Bobby
Ken-
john j connell
- Posts: 1253
- Joined: Fri Mar 27, 2009 11:18 pm
- Location: The Fourth Grace.
A true story, we (The Talbot) had a player signed on for us who come hail rain or shine turned up for matches/training, he paid his subs, sold spot the balls and done more than his fair share of washing the kit. He was not much of a footballer and he wasn't amongst the fittest of people you had ever met, he was always named as a sub.
One pre-season in a friendly v The Winnie at Heysham Road i had the misfortune to break a leg, Frank (i have changed his name to avoid embarrassment) was our only remaining sub, seeing this finally as his opportunity for stardom he took off his trackie top and started doing a few stretches and something resembling 5 yard sprints. After about 10 minutes the ambulance turned up to take me to hospital, i was put in the ambulance and our manager shouted over to our one remaining sub (who was by this time fully kitted) Frank, Frank, go with John in the ambulance, talk about crestfallen, he was sitting in the ambulance with me when the penny finally dropped and he said ,something tells me i am never going to get a game am i, i nearly fell off the stretcher laughing, (i think Frank went on to be a mass murderer).JJC.
One pre-season in a friendly v The Winnie at Heysham Road i had the misfortune to break a leg, Frank (i have changed his name to avoid embarrassment) was our only remaining sub, seeing this finally as his opportunity for stardom he took off his trackie top and started doing a few stretches and something resembling 5 yard sprints. After about 10 minutes the ambulance turned up to take me to hospital, i was put in the ambulance and our manager shouted over to our one remaining sub (who was by this time fully kitted) Frank, Frank, go with John in the ambulance, talk about crestfallen, he was sitting in the ambulance with me when the penny finally dropped and he said ,something tells me i am never going to get a game am i, i nearly fell off the stretcher laughing, (i think Frank went on to be a mass murderer).JJC.
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Matt
- Posts: 1205
- Joined: Tue Oct 08, 2013 6:02 pm
- Location: vancouver island
Hi bob.b thought that you may be interested in this photo being as your uncle Tommy Gore was a keen lawn bowler at the Walnut Tree pub some time ago.My wife Sheila grandfather used to be the publican there and the photo is of him and Sheila's mother(just 15 years of age) presenting the bowling Cathedral cup for 1936.
Matt
Matt
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bob. b
- Posts: 5744
- Joined: Sat Jan 03, 2009 1:04 pm
111 Holy Ghost annexe cross country team 1972
George Calder Tiger Rimmer Paul Shelley David Hartley Mr Faye Tony Lake
Left to right back row:
Joey Davis, Dave Latham, Tony Rimmer, George Calder, Tony Dunne
Middle row:
Paul Shelley, me, Mick Kelly, John Dobbs, Ste Swords
Front:
Robbie Sutton
Mr Fay at the back of course