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J R Endeacott - Route Publishing; ISBN: 1901927172
£5.95
If that goal in Paris had been allowed then everything
that followed could have been different. For young Stephen Bottomley
something died that night. One Northern Soul follows the fortunes
of this Leeds United fan as he comes of age in the dark days of
the early eighties with no prospects, no guidance and to cap it
all, his beloved football team suffer relegation to the Second
Division. This book is a reminder of a recent past and of connected
fates. J R Endeacott has drawn a story that captures the mood
of a time and a place, bottling the atmosphere of the terrace
in its final days as disaster was about to strike and bring about
wholesale and lasting change.
 Extract
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Leeds United versus Europe
From a pocket I called my heart, I drew a story
of Leeds. Pete Wylie had a 'Story of the Blues', this was a Steve
Bottomley story of The Whites.
'David Harvey - in for the brilliant but inconsistent
Gary Sprake - plucks Neeskens' cross out of the air while Gerd
Muller can only look on. Harvey rolls the ball out to Paul Reaney
at right back. Reaney quickly squares the ball to Big
Jack Charlton who coolly steps over it, allowing it to run
to Norman Hunter. His short pass to Terry Cooper at left back
eludes the bemused genius Johann Cruyff, who appears to be at
odds with the world. Cooper looks down the line, searching for
Eddie Gray, but instead plays the ball inside to the nonstop captain
Billy Bremner. He swivels and ghosts by Paul Breitner in the centre
circle before laying the ball off to his partnering midfield general
Johnny Giles. Giles, visionary and always aware, sprays it out
wide right to 'Hot Shot' Peter Lorimer just inside the opponents'
half. He chests it down, gently bounces it on his right thigh
and unleashes a thunderbolt volley which flies not towards goal
but all the way across the pitch to his fellow Scot, the mercurial
Gray on the opposite wing. Gray traps Lorimer's missile dead with
his left foot, causing gasps of wonder from the Elland Road faithful
and a wry admiring smile from the as yet pedestrian Georgie Best.
'Gray, shoulders hunched as always when about to
delight fans and dazzle opponents, commences his attack. With
feet faster than Fred Astaire, he shimmies and swerves and then
breezes by the tormented Ruud Krol. Krol, playing out of his accustomed
central position, tries to tackle again to his credit, only to
be finished off with a Gray dragback and a deft flick of the ball
past him. Gray paces towards the penalty area and curls a pinpoint
cross to unsung hero Mick Jones, who gracefully beats Bobby Moore
in the air to nod the ball down to Allan 'Sniffer' Clarke. In
one fluent movement, the predator Clarke has tapped the ball through
the legs of his marker and skipped around him - would you believe
it, Franz 'The Kaiser' Beckenbauer 'nutmegged'! Paul Madeley,
the Leeds substitute, chuckles with Don
Revie and Les Cocker in the dugout - this was one of Clarke's
regular training tricks. The bamboozled Beckenbauer can only watch
as Clarke collects the ball near the penalty spot and rifles it
past the flailing arms of Dino Zoff, fizzing the net.
'Three - nil to Leeds United and it's not even half
time yet.'
The story was for my dad, he would've liked to remember
Leeds as the footballing kings of Europe. My dad used to tell
me how important 'the team behind the team' was at Leeds, meaning
the boss Don Revie and his crew, Les Cocker, Syd Owen, Maurice
Lindley and even Bob English, who looked like the cheerful granddad
of the club to me. And then there were the behind the scenes people
too, the overworked and underpaid groundstaff, the laundry women
and the admin workers. Once, on a freezing day when the groundsmen
were tending to the pitch, Don Revie went out to them to give
them each a nip of whisky to warm them up. It was a sign of the
family atmosphere the club had at the time and little wonder the
pitch was one of the best, suitable for a great side.
back to top
My dad took me to Leeds games from the age of four,
when I was getting under my mum's feet, and from the (kick) off,
I was addicted. It wasn't long before I was pleading to go to
all the home games with him. I'd marvel at the four fantastic
floodlights, how high they were, and many a time I'd just stand
at the foot of one of them, holding on so as not to lose my balance,
gazing upwards and getting dizzy at the clouds floating by and
the ever so slight sway of the monumental steel structure. When
they were switched on at nightime for first team and reserve matches,
you could see the glare from miles and miles away and I bet lots
of locals saved on their lighting bills. Near to where we entered
the stadium was the West Stand façade above the club reception:
a rich blue background with the club's coat of arms and LEEDS
UNITED A. F. C. in glorious golden lettering over it, just another
reminder of the class and sophistication the club had. The cost
of my getting in wasn't really a problem for my dad, he had this
long grey Mac that he'd smuggle me through the turnstile with,
me clamped to his body like a limpet and the wooden rattle stuffed
up my jumper digging into my ribs and I'd watch the games seated
on his lap.
The team should have been the champions of Europe
but in football as in life, things don't always turn out as they
should. That final against Bayern Munich for instance, should
have been just the first European Cup win for Leeds, and ... well
there's no need to go on about it just yet. It's safe to say though,
that in defeat something died that night - something in the hearts
of the players, something in the hearts of the Leeds supporters
and people, and possibly football fans around the nation. My dad
travelled to the game in Paris and whether it was the injuries
he returned with or just his hurt pride, I don't know, but from
then on his passion definitely waned and he never went to watch
Leeds away from Elland Road again in his life.
There was no recovery from Leeds United after that
defeat and in 1979 my dad died from a heart attack, a fucking
heart attack. What age was forty-two to have a heart attack? NO
age, that's what. Me, I was only thirteen at the time; suddenly,
without any kind of warning, I'd lost my best friend and my guide
for life. Where was the justice? This was the first time anything
truly bad had happened to me - the first time I'd encountered
death - and no one could tell me why. It wasn't fair, it just
wasn't fair. God only knows how my mum got through it because
I was of little help. I lost count of the number of times I was
snapped out of my sleep in the early hours by her sobs from across
the landing, every one a pull at my insides. The Bottomley house
was not a happy one to be in for a long, long time, I yearned
to hear my mum laugh again and I often felt guilty for smiling
ever or being remotely cheerful. I couldn't take any of it in
properly, it was like I wasn't really here. I begged for none
of it to have really happened, that it was all a horrible dream
which would disappear when I awoke. Instead of trying to share
the grief with my mum and my young brother Andrew, I retreated
in to my own personal shadows.
It was the time when my mate Gaz proved how great
a friend he was. He was the only person who called for me at our
house, who dared mention my dad's death and the only one who had
the guts to give me a hug to show how sorry he was about it all.
There's no denying it, I was a selfish, thoughtless little shit
for some time after, and I spent a lot of the time with Gaz when
I should have been home for my mum. He helped me begin enjoying
life again and I owed him for it. My dad dying didn't make me
go off the rails as such, but with the help of Gaz I chose some
wrong turnings. At home, I was late to realise I wasn't alone
in the darkness.
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