OSAmag81

T h e O l d S t a t i o n e r - N o 8 1
Dear All
Here is the attachment I recently received from Mike Bonner, noted
right back of OSFC many years back – and of course, brother of Peter
and like me also 1951 intake. He originally sent this to John Taylor,
also same intake, who had the idea of sending an abridged version to
Arsenal. This resulted in it forming part of the programme for the
Arsenal vs Liverpool game a week or so ago. Hope of interest even to
those supporters of the Lillywhite boys – you will find still worth a
read as there is an almost kindly mention of the likes of Blanchflower,
Mackay etc. at one point - maybe edited out from revised version?
Regards
Don
North of The Angel
The Angel in Islington, that is. It’s Highbury, a stadium which
evokes love locally and derision elsewhere, especially at the other
end of the Seven Sisters’ Road close to the White Hart Tavern,
home of Tottenham Hotspur. It’s May 2004 and the football
season – the Premiership anyway – has drawn to a close. The
Gunners have lifted the league trophy without a single defeat
home or away and are being hailed as the best Arsenal team ever.
The day after clinching the title one national daily carried the
views of several past players on their all-time best elevens. They
were all different, of course, though unsurprisingly Liam Brady
and Thierry Henry figured in each. Being of an age to remember
most of the outfield players mentioned I found it fascinating
reading, and could readily understand the rationale behind most
of the selections. We’ve had some decent goalkeepers in our time,
too – Swindin, Wilson, Seaman and company, as well as the
immaculate Pat Jennings, who was most pundits’ choice. He
wasn’t the best, though. That accolade will only ever belong to
the great Jack Kelsey.
Jack was a quiet, blond Welshman with film-star good looks who
(it seemed to me at the time) steered a succession of very
moderate Arsenal teams almost single-handedly through the
turbulent fifties into the clearer water of the post-Joe Mercer
sixties, albeit in the shadow of the dazzling skills of Blanchflower
and Mackay’s all-stars over at Spurs. He was a talented and
courageous ‘keeper and that rarity: a man’s man who was
attractive to women, too. A great servant of the club, you could
meet him serving in the supporters’ shop after training. Quite a
few players had local business interests – you’d always get served
by Wally Barnes in his sports shop (especially after his broken leg
in the 1952 Cup Final against Newcastle ended his playing
career), and Alex James’ sweet-shop was en route to the ground
from Finsbury Park Station. The trouble with him was that
no-one I knew could
actually recall Alex’s playing
days, with the result that
almost any male assistant
could palm himself off as
the great man. “He was in
today. Served me himself ”
was a common claim in the
pre-match exchanges.
Jack Kelsey inspired the sort
of confidence fifties’ supporters had no right to expect in an
endless succession of suspect Arsenal defences. It wasn’t as
though his influence spread far upfield, like the later Shilton’s, or
certainly Schmeichel’s at Manchester United. It was in the goal
area where Jack reigned supreme; the penalty spot marked the
farthest limit of his authority. He didn’t so much patrol the goalline
as prowl a cage, and all of us North Bankers (hardly anyone
I knew stood at the Clock End) had our brittle hopes ransomed
there. For an hour and a half we would watch them attacked
from all sides by dark forces with strange kits and unfamiliar
names, protected only by one man’s unwavering skill and courage.
And we trusted him completely.
I’ve always thought goalkeepers get off rather lightly when
apportioning blame for goals conceded, but I can honestly say
Jack was never ever at fault. The ball found his net often enough
in those days, but such shots were of the unstoppable variety and
usually as a result of some defensive cock-up. Every team visiting
Highbury at that time seemed to possess at least one player
whose mischievous skills – I’m talking the likes of Matthews,
Shackleton and Finney now – wreaked the kind of devilry to
which the straightforward heroics of Jack Kelsey had no answer.
Whatever the score, however disappointing the performance,
nothing ever diminished our faith in him.
I didn’t actually go to Highbury that often compared to some of
my pals – I had a serious cash-flow problem, for a start – and my
visits became even less frequent once I started playing regularly
myself. Maybe that’s why I can often recall so much of the detail
– each match seemed endowed with its own peculiar uniqueness.
Funnily enough, some of my best mates were of the Tottenham
persuasion – Tony Balding, for a start, a gifted footballer himself
who played with the sort of neat economy of movement that
seemed to characterize their sides … Anyway, enough about that
lot. I made more of an effort when the F.A. Cup came round,
though, and one of these occasions was probably the last time I
ever saw Jack play. It was a home tie against one of the Lancashire
clubs – the Big Bs, Bolton, Burnley, Blackburn maybe, or even
the great Blackpool team, all of whom I think were in the old
First Division at the time. I had the usual isolationist ignorance
of most Londoners at that time, and imagined these all to be
huge, million inhabitants-plus cities with great stadia to rival our
own. Much, much later I was to visit all four. Needless to say, I
was deeply humbled when I recalled the defeats they regularly
inflicted on us with such apparently limited resources.
Jack, like all goalkeepers, had his own superstitious ritual prior to
kick-off. Fans would roar encouragement as he made his way
goalward before kick-off, and he would respond with a shy,
solitary wave of the hand. He’d throw down his gloves in the
back of the net, mark out the corners of the goal-area with the
heel of his boot, then walk the length of the goal-line and kick
both posts. He’d bend from side to side and jump twice in the air,
tucking his knees tightly into his chest before picking his gloves
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