Playin’ fitba’ on a blaes pitch wi’ a mouldmaster ba’, that’s what being a kid in Scotland wis aw aboot back in the day. Sado-masochism for twelve-year-olds. Freezin’ cauld day, wind howlin’ roon the flats, thon really cauld rain that seems tae be jist a spit but has ye soddin’ in a matter of seconds. Yon drookit wiy where ye end up wi’ the flu and a boattle o’ Ferguzade beside yer sick-bed.
A Mouldmaster. A mouldie It’s made wi’ the same hard plastic they coat submarines wi’. It’s lethal. When it hit you, say on a thigh or, Christ help us, on yer ear it made a sound like ‘PANG’ and yir bodilly part was screaming such pain to yer brain or vice versa that you though ye’d die of it. Death by mouldmaster! It wisnae funny.
Or the blaes pitch, made fae cinders or the clinkers from the devil’s arse. Take a skid on that and you needed a skin transplant. There’s be bits embedded in yer knees for weeks. You could only imagine the goalies, who hud tae dive around on it were daein it as a punishment either that or they must have been sick bastards who loved pain.
Goalies have iy been a different breed. I palled around wi’ this guy once in London, lovely chap by the dodgy name of Richard Head. Either his parents were as innocent as lambs else they wur takin’ the piss! Auld Richard wis a mad hockey goalkeeper where no’ only have ye goat that mad wee puck thing but the players have goat sticks anaw tae rattle yer jaw wi’.
He wis one of thae mad fuckers just like ma da only wi’ ma da it wis fitba’. I remember him in goal in a ‘friendly’ game over at the pitches. In my mind I see him burlin’ oot at some centre-forward arms and legs flailing like some demented dervish and virtually attacking the poor guy before he could shoot.
“Take it easy, big man” said the visibly quaking forward.
“Aaaargggghh!!” responded my father as if to further emphasise his ferocity.
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