Archive | January, 2019

Springfield Road

16 Jan

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The match ended, Wigan beat Bristol City by one goal to nil. Not a classic but another 3 priceless points. The crowd seep out of  the stadium into the September night, plenty of chatter after a win, not so much following a defeat. Mobile phones check the league table as we wait to cross the metal bridge over the canal. Shuffling forward slowly and fairly orderly although some sneak under the bridge and filter in at the side. I don’t mind the queue jumpers, I’ve done it myself but the smug ones irritate me a little especially after a defeat.

I try to get near the handrail on the bridge, not always possible, but to be in the middle of the steps is a bit of a balancing act and the metal steps are hard to see in the dark. As we cross that black stretch of water I listen for rivets creaking under our mass and ask myself “Did they test this bridge load capabilities?” Finally we reach the other side descending more dark metal steps, through the bottle neck fencing and a palpable sigh of relief as we spread out into the open road picking up speed at last.

Under the railway tunnel avoiding the concrete post lying in wait to catch unsuspecting groins and knees and out into the metropolis of Springfield and its environs. Once upon a time my journey home from football took me the opposite way over the canal and crossing a different bridge that looked more modern than the monstrosity we use now. That was when we played at Springfield Park…

As the crowd thins out and I cross the road in relative isolation my mind invariably turns back to the past. So when I look up and see the old Springfield Road street sign on the building on the corner I’m a bit taken aback. How many times have I walked past this spot and never noticed it? It’s tucked away  a little bit and looking neglected, orange rusty glow under the streetlamps glare and occasionally lit by the passing cars. The corner of the old shop is quite a sharp one and brings to mind the image of a shipwreck resting on the sea floor, the last remains of HMS Springfield.

The old street sign has seen some sights including me at 15yrs of age going past there with my dad. I get out my mobile phone to take a picture of the metal sign fifty years on from my first walk past it. So much has changed and I’m starting to get a bit rusty myself but we all do eventually.

I have my back to the road taking the photograph and behind me a stream of Wigan Borough supporter’s walk past me in grey clothing ashen faced. A coach carrying Newcastle United players coughs and splutters by, all the team already in their black and white striped kit looking glumly out at the latics crowd giving them stick.

Snow falls from the sky and the Halifax Town supporters alight their coach after being slayed or should that be sleighed in a snowstorm at Springfield. Have we ever been as cold as that day? I doubt it.

Lancashire Cups and League Championships hang from street lamps, glittering like the illuminations at Blackpool. Old leather footballs bounce down the road eagerly chased by Harry Lyon and Bert Llewellyn while Johnny King and Bobby Todd run across the rooftops. Kenny Banks is on standby with his bucket and sponge in case of emergencies.

A player goes past, boots tied together slung over his shoulder, carrying a bag with “Cole” on the name tag, the young man is going away never to return and is killed at Dunkirk along with many others who watched him play football just down this street.

Wagons carrying steel and scaffolding make their way to Springfield Park to erect floodlighting for the first time. A young girl from the club office is sent up to change the light bulbs when they go out. Climbing up the steel ladder with not a care in the world.

These very lights illuminate my first game and grass has never seen as green as it did that night. When we walk back down this street after the game, my dad and I, the living rooms glow invitingly and some occupants appear to look out the window at the shadows outside, puzzled, irritated and curious about our passing. I feel like I’m part of a special movement, brothers, sisters, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, friends, we are one…

The passing crowd roars through like a tidal wave of humanity, fashions mingle uncomfortably and look there’s you being swept along with people you know, yet don’t know… And sometimes the wave dissolves into a trickle, a quietly sighing intermittent flow that reflects the football clubs fortunes.

Past First Avenue and onto the corner of Second Avenue is the place where my heart was shattered into a million pieces unknowingly by a girl who found love with someone else. I look at that corner every home game but I met another girl who patiently picked up every piece of that shattered heart and put it all lovingly together. I was lucky…

So much can change in one lifetime; buildings crumble and leave nothing but memories behind, some good some bad but all part of life. When I was a boy I dreamt about travelling around the world but my journey was marked by pins on my Great Britain map of exotic places like Gainsborough and Goole, Netherfield and Northwich. No sun cream needed, no passport stamped, no language problems. Well if you discount Bangor that is.

I look at my mobile phone to check if the photo I’ve taken is okay and a lorry goes past carrying the mournful twisted limbs of floodlights bound for the scrapyard. Satisfied with my picture I turn around and walk up a dark and silent Springfield Road…

Tony Topping