Football: A foul but cautionary football tale of Hamish, Horrid and acts of reasonable force

Mike Rowbottom on the dark arts of the playing field

I haven't hung up my boots. I just don't happen to have worn them for six years. And I don't know where they are any more. And they probably wouldn't fit me if I found them.

But if asked, I will respond that I haven't hung up my boots.

I still play football regularly - but only in my dreams, where I am recurringly involved in matches played, for reasons with which I am not fully conversant, indoors.

I look back on many things in my unremarkable footballing career with fondness. The laughs, the goals - mostly other people's - the late night calls to find a goalkeeper. Mostly mine, as I recollect.

But most of all, I remember the fouls.

There are two main categories of fouls - those which offend against the very spirit of the game, and acts of reasonable force. The latter, obviously, are those committed by one's own team.

I vividly recall one such act which, as a by-product, introduced me to the sound a human body makes when it involuntarily relinquishes two lungfuls of air.

My team-mate Johnny Mac, a tigerish midfielder, had what I thought was an unwise confrontation with a large, swarthy opponent one Sunday morning. But I changed my mind when our man reduced the opponent to a wheezing heap by levering him over and jumping on to his chest.

Johnny Mac had to go, no question. But as the man mountain was helped to his feet, the feat reverberated.

Reasonable force? Johnny did no more than was required to get the job done.

That same team also contained a defender who would turn up on an occasional basis when he was on leave from the Army and who was known as "Horrid".

His method of halting an enemy - sorry, opponents' - attack was trenchant, but not without virtue. Not only did it eradicate any immediate danger, it also ploughed the fields.

I never did find out how Horrid got his name.

Personally, I was not much good at fouling - and I feel bad about that, because it wasn't as if no one had tried to teach me from an early age.

As an 11-year-old I was a follower of West Ham, a team which - but for the occasional over-exuberance of Billy Bonds - was conspicuously lacking in bad intent. But my eyes were opened to the darker ways of football through the tireless schooling of an old professional.

My friend Hamish's dad had played for many years in the Scottish League and he gained a deep sense of satisfaction from accompanying us to the local football field to show us how he used to foul for Airdrieonians.

Tirelessly, this brisk and energetic Scotsman demonstrated to us the trip which looked like a tackle that had tried its best and failed.

He tutored us in the art of dead-legging at free-kicks.

And on the subject of the defensive header - one which was close to his heart - he took a real pride in showing us how to put an arm into a forward's back in such a way that a referee couldn't be sure if it was meant or not.

Those Saturday afternoons had a timeless quality. A father out with his son, passing on the skills of his trade...

I can still feel that iron fist pitching me forward as Hamish's lofted ball came over.

One area of foul play that was not touched upon was that of obstruction. I fancy that Hamish's dad considered it too low an occupation to justify a place in his pantheon of misdeeds.

Browsing through The Boys' Book of Soccer for 1958 the other day - which I was - I came upon a thoughtful treatise on the subject.

Entitled "What Is Obstruction?" it differentiates the offence from the traditional British devices of body checking and shirt pulling, and ponders on its history. "Obstruction was perfectly legal until 1951. Why was it made illegal then? Because the British did not like it."

Obstruction, then, was not in my armoury as I set foot in earnest on the football fields of Hertfordshire and beyond.

Sad to report, I was unable to integrate any of the other invaluable lessons into my game.

I tried. As a 17-year-old I was playing for a senior team in the Herts County League, which was dotted with old professionals and decent standard county players.

One afternoon I was being given the runaround by a grizzled winger who looked really old - 40 or something. I was swinging my foot with the futility of a row of table footballers when the ball is jammed in a corner. And I decided to act decisively to prevent the humiliation continuing.

"What would Hamish's Dad do in this situation?" I thought to myself. The answer was academic, because what I did instinctively was try to give Old Mr Quicksilver a bloody good kick.

He was too quick for me. After skipping away from my clumsy boot he paused for a moment and I wondered if he was going to retaliate. But he did something far more crippling. He smiled the smile of an old pro and glided away.

I felt very young; and very foolish. Hamish's dad would have shuddered at the crudeness of it all. But it only served to confirm my view that real foulers are born, not made.