Taking Part

Throughout my career (life), I’ve come into the orbit of several famous people. Oscar nominated composers, Booker prize nominated writers, multi-million selling dance producers and more. But Warren May was not one of them. Warren May was what might be best described as a journeyman professional footballer. He had a contract with local club Southend United – admittedly then a bigger club than they are today, but still. I don’t think he was on their books for long.

After that maybe he went to another league club or made some sort of a living in the non-league game. I didn’t follow his career that closely. Warren May was a bully, although to be fair I think he was mostly in the company of a bully. He and his friend were a year older than me, as bullies often are. But this is not a story about bullying.

At some point in my later years at junior school, there was a 5 aside football competition. I don’t remember who set it up or why every (male) child was required to take part. But that was what occurred and by some unseen process everyone was randomly picked to be in a side. The side I ended up in featured Warren May.

Journeyman footballer or not in later life, he was clearly far advanced of all the other 10/11 years olds taking part in this event. I, on the other hand, lacked any sporting instincts whatsoever. Hopelessly uncoordinated. No spatial awareness. The physique of a book reading nerd. You get the picture. It was, to the outside world, the most laughable thing that I should be in the same team as a bona fide school legend.

We won that 5 aside tournament. I can still picture the concrete pitch of the school playground that we played on. I’m sure I had strict instructions not to get in the way of my other four team mates. If they could’ve subbed me and played a man down, I’m sure they would’ve done. The ultimate irony was that every member of the winning team was supposed to receive a trophy of some kind at an end of term prize giving ceremony. I was off sick that day and when I returned, the cup or whatever I’d been due to receive had gone missing or been given away to someone else and instead one of the teachers had found some other random piece of cheap junk (a plastic shield or something) to award me in its place.

Warren May wasn’t really a bully, it was just the company he kept. A couple of years after leaving junior school, I saw him as I was doing my Sunday paper round. He shouted a greeting and smiled at me as he walked by. And then several years after that he was signed by Southend United. He wasn’t at the club for long, as far as I remember. And after that he disappeared off my radar for good.

But that wasn’t to be the end of my football career. Several years later, as sixth formers at high school, a bunch of us decided to take part in a 7 aside football event. This one was not compulsory. It had been organised by the school’s P.E. department. Matches took place during the lunch hour. It was open to anyone who could get together a team of 7 players to enter.

I was no more sporty at 16 than I had been at 10. I possessed all the same qualities as the younger me. I’m not sure where the idea to enter this event came from. A few of my circle of friends were decent enough players, but an equal number were similar to me in terms of sporting prowess. We were doing it for laughs. It was one of those ideas that comes from nowhere and at the time seems like a good idea. The whole thing – to a large extent – hung upon my surname, which was Lake. This gave us our team name: Lake’s 7.

I’ve stressed this elsewhere in relation to bands – names are important. The first point of contact people have is with your name. It’s a significant bit of the branding. Names matter.

Of course names don’t matter so much in random 7 aside knockabout football tournaments. But it amused us – because at the time, Blake’s 7 was a hit TV show about a bunch of renegade space travellers fighting against the fascistic seeming Federation and their evil but charismatic leader Servelan. It had acquired a cult following in its Saturday early evening slot as a more exciting and dynamic alternative to the then long running SF mainstay Dr Who.

Fun name acquired, prospects of success minimal, we duly entered the event. Much to our amusement we were drawn in a group of four teams that included one made up of teachers. We were very much looking forward to taking on the teachers (who it transpired were equally as useless as us).

I was de facto team captain, by dint of my surname. If the concept of a non-playing captain had existed back then, that would’ve been the perfect role for me. We did manage to acquire a couple of ringers (decent players, co-opted to joining our squad) including someone who actually had some experience keeping goal. The rest of us were a mix of passable amateurs and complete klutzs who would run around and do the best they could (that best not amounting to much). It didn’t come as a surprise to anyone that we lost our first two matches. We were not disheartened though. The big match was scheduled last – our chance to go up against the teachers. This was to be the match that made the whole thing worthwhile.

Alas the gods were against us. Not only had we lost both our opening matches, so had the teachers. This left our group settled, thus – the other two teams were to face off in a final game to decide who progressed to the next phase of the competition. Our last match was meaningless, as neither team could progress and the result would have no effect on the outcome of the group. Armed with this information, the teachers chose to forfeit the last game. We never got to play them. Lake’s 7 managed only two matches and two losses. I have no more detailed stats to share than that.

And thus, unsurprisingly, did my footballing career come to an end.  

No more trophies for me. 

And if that wasn’t a metaphor for what was to come, then transport me up to the Liberator and let me try it all over again.