Craig Brown - The Game of My Life. Craig Brown
a handful of goals every time he played. You could get a jumbo jet to fly under the crossbar and over the young goalkeeper’s head, and Andy soon learned where to place his shot. He was a prized asset to us because he could score so easily but, because his size and ability gave him such an advantage over other boys of his own age, he effectively ruined the game each time he played. It wasn’t his fault, but it did show how inappropriate it was to have eleven-a-side matches in that primary age group. I tried to even the games a little by making arbitrary rules such as that he could only score with his head one day, or from outside the area on another. It succeeded in evening up the games and hopefully furthered his football education too.
While at Blantyre, I also ran the local Hamilton district schools side along with the local priest, Father Glachan. Between us we had the privilege of selecting the best boys from the local schools – and it would have been totally enjoyable but for the various parents who continually tried to influence our selection. The best example of this is provided in a series of award-winning short stories written by William McIlvanney. He wrote about the single parent watching her son playing football. Whereas the rest of the 21 players appear merely as a blur to that parent, her son remains in sharp focus throughout.
Because I was so busy with my school coaching, I gave up coaching seniors for a while, but I was still remembered in Dundee as being a player and a coach, and also as being semi-literate. As a result, DC Thomson, the well-known publishing company based in Dundee, got in touch with me with a view to my writing a column. They produced all manner of newspapers and magazines, ranging from the Sunday Post and other newspapers to the Weekly News, the Topical Times, the Beano and miscellaneous women’s and children’s publications and assorted journals.
I was asked if I would comment on one of the matches of the previous weekend every Monday in the Dundee Courier, and I was delighted to do so. Then I was asked if I would write actual match reports for the Sunday Post. I was no longer playing at this time, and I was thrilled to be involved in the game from a completely different angle. So, for the next eighteen months, I was a regular in the press box. It taught me a great deal. I was sometimes given one of the top games, but I was always getting First Division matches – remember that there was no Premier Division in those days.
Once again, I consider this period as part of my education. I was able to listen to the comments of the press men and join in with their discussions, which gave me a great insight into the way the press viewed things. As well as commenting on the match I used to write the introduction to the piece and learned that you have to make it brief, to the point, and interesting enough for the reader to continue through to the match report, rather than just flash-read the scorers. I quickly learned the value of those people who write the actual headlines in the newspapers.
Usually, your introduction is something that you think up during the second half of the game when you can see how the match is going. You may already have been given your introduction by goals, sendings-off or injuries. I was once at a game between Airdrie and Aberdeen and it was, arguably, the worst game of all time. It was 0–0 with a minute to go and I had been struggling to dream up my intro before finally settling on resorting to William Shakespeare and his famous work, Much Ado About Nothing. I had branded the game a bore with nothing to say for itself.
Not long before the final whistle, Drew Jarvie scored to break the deadlock – but my intro still held because the rest of the game was totally forgettable. I just added that Jarvie of Airdrie popped up to give us the only bright spot of the whole game. It was then that I realised the importance of those headline writers because, when the report appeared in the Sunday Post, the heading read ‘Jarvie – Merchant of Menace’ – totally in keeping with my Shakespearean intro.
I have often been amused by – or admired – newspaper headlines since then, although there have been times when I have been disgusted by the inaccuracies or innuendo contained in stories that are way off the mark – or headlines that are meant to sensationalise the unsensational.
Anyway, I learned the ways of the press box. I would hear the late John Begg, the famous freelance writer, say, ‘Who scored? Left leg or right leg? Who passed it to him? What time was that?’ It wasn’t that he didn’t watch the game, but he would be so busy telephoning constant reports to seven or eight newspapers that he didn’t have time for the details. The other reporters would shout him the answers to his questions. When a goal is scored these questions are usually flying around the press box so that everyone is in agreement – even if they all have it wrong! Nowadays there is more factual reporting because of TV monitors at most big games. I found also that it was easy to influence the reports if you just made a chance remark to someone near the end of a game. As an example, I might say, ‘Doug Houston is having some game for Dundee today. Some of his passes have been great.’ If you say it at the right time, when the reporters are considering which players have done well, you will almost certainly read the next day that the player you were touting ‘put on a great performance’.
Most managers co-operate with the press – but not all. I can remember being asked to get a statement on injuries from one manager who was fairly new to that particular job, and whose side was playing in Europe a few days later. I waited for an hour and ten minutes after the game only to be told to ‘F*** off’ by the manager when I asked him if he had any injury worries. He didn’t know who I was, and really it would have made no difference if he had. There is no need for anyone to be uncivil – after all, we all have a job to do. I made up my mind, then and there, that if ever I was in a similar situation I would not speak in that manner to any journalist who was just trying to do his job. As far as I am aware, I never have.
To get back to my job at the college in Ayr, part of my role in lecturing on primary education was to watch students teaching in schools. It meant that I was out quite a bit, and when you add to that all the work I was doing with football teams, it doesn’t take a genius to see that I was not at home very much. We had long holidays from the college, but I spent most of those involved in football coaching at some level or another. There was a lot of hard work done, but at various times of the year I would have a month off, which gave me the freedom to still be involved in football almost as a full-time occupation.
I have always liked to be busy all the time. I can’t stand having nothing to do. It was no different in my teaching days – or even in my childhood. If I wasn’t actively doing something, then I had to be thinking about things. During my time at Craigie College in Ayr, I would involve myself in football and golf – as well as catching up with all the latest paperwork and guidelines involved in my teaching profession. If there was an evening when I found that I was free I would have a game of golf – or dream up some new coaching idea to try out when next I got the chance.
The doctor had ordered me to stop playing football and I had done exactly as I had been told. I did not even take part in any of the training games I organised as part of the coaching work. If I kicked a ball at all, it was to demonstrate a point or just to pass it to someone who needed it for an exercise. I kept myself fit by taking part in the training and indulging myself in a bit of golf or swimming.
For all that, I could not stop thinking about the game. I was not bitter about the way my career had ended, and I was certainly grateful for the successes I had enjoyed during my all-too-short playing years, but it was frustrating not to be involved at the highest level of the game. I felt that I’d had something to offer and had been denied the chance of finding out whether or not I was right.
I had done what the doctor ordered and that was that. But then came the day when I was asked if I would like to become part-time assistant to Willie McLean, who was then manager of Motherwell, having taken over from Ian St John.
Would I?
Now, that really was just what the doctor ordered!
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