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summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
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Everton History
Alan Ball Unseen
If there's such a thing as a modern day treasure trove, it's probably not going to be a trunk in an attic but in a rather more prosaic form: the computer hard drive.
Searching through the depths of my iMac the other day for an old piece of work so that I could corroborate a new piece, I stumbled across an interview I'd carried out with Alan Ball in the summer of 2005 for the Observer Sport Monthly. It was for a regular feature, called Triumph and Despair; where a sporting personality talks about their career high points and life low points. I spoke to Ball on a number of occasions but I couldn't ever remember seeing this in print. A search of the Guardian website confirmed that inkling.
At the time I was in my mid-twenties and trying to forge a career in journalism while also reconciling myself to the reality that I was a nobody in a fiercely competitive industry. To a nervous and slightly disillusioned novice, Alan was of great encouragement. I can't begin to emphasize how nerve-wracking it can be to make (often) unsolicited calls to a very famous person when you're an unknown yourself, but he was always the model of generosity and decorum, pleased to be asked for an opinion or a memory. Nothing was ever too much for him. He even gave me his home number because it had a better line.
I've no idea why this piece never went into the magazine. It may well have been overlooked because, a few days after we spoke, London was awarded the 2012 Olympics and the news focus went to England's next sporting mega event rather than its last one. Nine months later, Ball passed away and the story was forgotten about — until now.
And so, for the first time, here's Alan in his own words — as told to me in July 2005.
My father, Alan Ball senior, had been a journeyman player in the post-war years. I think the pinnacle of his career was probably playing for Birmingham Reserves. People have told me he was an uncompromising wing-half, but didn't have much pace. He was probably a better coach than he was a player, and had stints in charge at Preston and Halifax. No player was influenced more by my Dad than me. From as far back as I can remember, he drove me towards the talent he had never quite had as a footballer himself. He was my mentor, coach, adviser, critic and caring father.
I was always small and light. I knew I had the ability to make it as a professional footballer but, when I was 15 and other lads were getting apprenticeship deals, I had trials at Wolves and Bolton and was turned down because of my size. Bill Ridding, the Bolton manager, even told me that the only apprenticeship I'd get was as a jockey.
Blackpool took a chance on me though and I became a pro when I was 17. Three months later, I made my full debut against Liverpool at Anfield. There were 57,000 people there; I'd previously only played in front of a few hundred for the reserves! I was playing on the right, in place of Stanley Matthews, who was injured. Jimmy Armfield, who was England captain, was right back. We won 2-1, a great win and the start of Anfield being a special ground for me.
I'd vowed to my Dad that I'd be in the England team by the time I was 20. I wasn't cocky, just ambitious, but I made it with three days to spare, playing the first of 72 internationals against Yugoslavia in Belgrade in May 1965. I did okay but, as Alf Ramsey's team evolved into a 4-3-3 formation, I started to become a regular.
When the World Cup was hosted in England a year later, I was in the starting eleven for the first game, against Uruguay. The whole country had been geared up for a football carnival, but it was a miserable match — a goalless draw — and everyone felt let down. Alf changed things around for the next match against Mexico, bringing in Martin Peters and Terry Paine but leaving me out. We won 2-0; as we did with our last group match against France, but again, I'd been left out.
The whole country had been struck by World Cup fever, but I was miserable, moping around. As there were no substitutes then, I couldn't even picture how I'd get a way back into the team unless someone got an injury. On the eve of the quarter-final against Argentina, Alf asked me why I was so low. I told him I was disappointed at being left out after I felt I'd done reasonably well in the first match. He told me to brighten up as I had a role to play the next day — on the right side of midfield. Suddenly I was happy again.
The match was a real dogfight. I was up against the Argentine left-back, Marzolini, a world-class player, but I loved every second of it. It was the game when Rattin, their captain, got sent off and wouldn't leave the pitch. We won with a Hurst header — the only real bit of football played all game — and were into the semi with Portugal. By then, we were full of confidence and we beat Portugal 2-1 in a wonderful flowing game.
And then, of course was the World Cup Final with West Germany.
After the World Cup, I left Blackpool and joined Everton for £110,000. It was the first six-figure deal between two British clubs, but I fitted right in. They used to call the midfield — myself, Colin Harvey, and Howard Kendall — the ‘holy trinity'. We were a great side, and played the kind of football that befitted the club's nickname — The School of Science.
There were three great mysteries about Everton. The first was that we never won more with that great team. (During Ball's five years at Goodison Park, Everton won the 1970 League Championship, and finished runners-up in the 1968 FA Cup Final.) The second was that Harvey and Kendall never got the international recognition they deserved. (Harvey got one cap; Kendall was regarded as the finest player to ever go uncapped by England.) The third was when Harry Catterick sold me to Arsenal in December 1971.
I never wanted to leave Goodison and was gutted when Catterick sold me. I felt like I'd been used and dumped to make a quick profit, and that Catterick — who was always a cold, ruthless man — had broken up a great side too quickly. I had six good years at Arsenal before joining Southampton. I carried on playing for England until 1975 and also played in the US, which I loved. I hung up my boots in 1983 after 20 years at the top — not a bad record is it?
When I gave up playing, I knew right away that I wanted to follow my dad's footsteps and go into management. I had a spells in charge at Blackpool, Stoke, Exeter, Southampton, Manchester City and a couple of spells at Portsmouth. Some people say I was a bad manager, because I never had a record like Alex Ferguson, but that annoys me. I always did my best and had some great times. I took Portsmouth up to the old First Division; was brought in as a troubleshooter on a couple occasions and kept teams up; and I discovered players like Neil Webb, Mark Hateley and Lee Dixon.
I was disappointed that Southampton let Man City come in for me in 1996 and, as everyone knows, I didn't have the happiest of times there. By the time I left City, I'd had enough of management, enough of average players thinking they were superstars. I had one last crack with Portsmouth in 1999, just after Milan Mandaric took over, but my heart wasn't really in it. Football had given me a lot, but it had taken a lot out of me as well. I'd had enough.
I'll never forget the dark day in March 2001, when our family's lives changed forever. It was a horrid day, cold and raining, and I had been playing in a charity golf day in Surrey and was driving back home to our village over the Hampshire border. I was finished with football by then — it had been three years since I'd left Manchester City, and I was enjoying retirement, playing golf and spending more time with my wife, Lesley, my three grown-up children — Mandy, Keely and Jimmy — and our precious grandson, Louie. Then the mobile rang. It was Lesley, and I knew straight away that there was a problem. Mandy had been due for a biopsy on a small lump she had found in her breast, and I knew from the minute that the phone rang something was up. ‘Alan, we've got a problem,' said Lesley. ‘They think it's cancer.' I drove like a maniac down the M3 straight to Mandy's place and found a heartbroken young couple with their baby boy, and my wife with a desolate look on her face. This was my daughter, my little girl. How does anyone handle that?
Weirdly, that same day, Lesley had felt a pain in her groin. She'd thought nothing of it, and said nothing. Over the following couple of months, while Mandy was undergoing debilitating and arduous chemotherapy sessions — supported every step of the way by her mam — these pains in Lesley's groin got worse. Unknown to me, she had booked in to see a specialist at the Nuffield Hospital at the start of May 2001. She was told there might be a serious problem and that she should have a hysterectomy. All the while, she played things down, keeping positive and trying not to cause further worry for the family. I didn't know what to think. I did not, at the time suspect anything more serious — life couldn't be that cruel, could it?
But later on that May, the horrible news came out. Lesley had Ovarian cancer, and like Mandy would have to undergo chemo. I could not take it in, I was devastated, absolutely devastated.
It was the biggest battle of our lives. Cancer haunts and stalks. It is with you 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and affects every part of your life. For two and a half years, I watched my daughter and wife battle against the disease. Mandy's chemo worked. After months of pain and worry, she got the all clear, and is as fit and healthy as she's ever been. In March 2003 she ran the London marathon with Jimmy for the Bobby Moore Cancer Research Fund.
Lesley didn't get better though. We did everything possible, kept our fingers crossed and lived life to the fullest. We went on long holidays — to Australia and the Caribbean. We took the grandkids to Lapland. Lesley was braver than any footballer I ever saw. But it wasn't enough to beat the cancer. She passed away on Sunday 16 May 2004. No man could have asked for a better wife, no child a better mother. We all miss her very much.
With thanks to Alan's son, Jimmy, for giving the Ball Family's consent for this to be posthumously published.
Everton History
Alan Ball Unseen
If there's such a thing as a modern day treasure trove, it's probably not going to be a trunk in an attic but in a rather more prosaic form: the computer hard drive.
Searching through the depths of my iMac the other day for an old piece of work so that I could corroborate a new piece, I stumbled across an interview I'd carried out with Alan Ball in the summer of 2005 for the Observer Sport Monthly. It was for a regular feature, called Triumph and Despair; where a sporting personality talks about their career high points and life low points. I spoke to Ball on a number of occasions but I couldn't ever remember seeing this in print. A search of the Guardian website confirmed that inkling.
At the time I was in my mid-twenties and trying to forge a career in journalism while also reconciling myself to the reality that I was a nobody in a fiercely competitive industry. To a nervous and slightly disillusioned novice, Alan was of great encouragement. I can't begin to emphasize how nerve-wracking it can be to make (often) unsolicited calls to a very famous person when you're an unknown yourself, but he was always the model of generosity and decorum, pleased to be asked for an opinion or a memory. Nothing was ever too much for him. He even gave me his home number because it had a better line.
I've no idea why this piece never went into the magazine. It may well have been overlooked because, a few days after we spoke, London was awarded the 2012 Olympics and the news focus went to England's next sporting mega event rather than its last one. Nine months later, Ball passed away and the story was forgotten about — until now.
And so, for the first time, here's Alan in his own words — as told to me in July 2005.
My father, Alan Ball senior, had been a journeyman player in the post-war years. I think the pinnacle of his career was probably playing for Birmingham Reserves. People have told me he was an uncompromising wing-half, but didn't have much pace. He was probably a better coach than he was a player, and had stints in charge at Preston and Halifax. No player was influenced more by my Dad than me. From as far back as I can remember, he drove me towards the talent he had never quite had as a footballer himself. He was my mentor, coach, adviser, critic and caring father.
I was always small and light. I knew I had the ability to make it as a professional footballer but, when I was 15 and other lads were getting apprenticeship deals, I had trials at Wolves and Bolton and was turned down because of my size. Bill Ridding, the Bolton manager, even told me that the only apprenticeship I'd get was as a jockey.
Blackpool took a chance on me though and I became a pro when I was 17. Three months later, I made my full debut against Liverpool at Anfield. There were 57,000 people there; I'd previously only played in front of a few hundred for the reserves! I was playing on the right, in place of Stanley Matthews, who was injured. Jimmy Armfield, who was England captain, was right back. We won 2-1, a great win and the start of Anfield being a special ground for me.
I'd vowed to my Dad that I'd be in the England team by the time I was 20. I wasn't cocky, just ambitious, but I made it with three days to spare, playing the first of 72 internationals against Yugoslavia in Belgrade in May 1965. I did okay but, as Alf Ramsey's team evolved into a 4-3-3 formation, I started to become a regular.
When the World Cup was hosted in England a year later, I was in the starting eleven for the first game, against Uruguay. The whole country had been geared up for a football carnival, but it was a miserable match — a goalless draw — and everyone felt let down. Alf changed things around for the next match against Mexico, bringing in Martin Peters and Terry Paine but leaving me out. We won 2-0; as we did with our last group match against France, but again, I'd been left out.
The whole country had been struck by World Cup fever, but I was miserable, moping around. As there were no substitutes then, I couldn't even picture how I'd get a way back into the team unless someone got an injury. On the eve of the quarter-final against Argentina, Alf asked me why I was so low. I told him I was disappointed at being left out after I felt I'd done reasonably well in the first match. He told me to brighten up as I had a role to play the next day — on the right side of midfield. Suddenly I was happy again.
The match was a real dogfight. I was up against the Argentine left-back, Marzolini, a world-class player, but I loved every second of it. It was the game when Rattin, their captain, got sent off and wouldn't leave the pitch. We won with a Hurst header — the only real bit of football played all game — and were into the semi with Portugal. By then, we were full of confidence and we beat Portugal 2-1 in a wonderful flowing game.
And then, of course was the World Cup Final with West Germany.
After the World Cup, I left Blackpool and joined Everton for £110,000. It was the first six-figure deal between two British clubs, but I fitted right in. They used to call the midfield — myself, Colin Harvey, and Howard Kendall — the ‘holy trinity'. We were a great side, and played the kind of football that befitted the club's nickname — The School of Science.
There were three great mysteries about Everton. The first was that we never won more with that great team. (During Ball's five years at Goodison Park, Everton won the 1970 League Championship, and finished runners-up in the 1968 FA Cup Final.) The second was that Harvey and Kendall never got the international recognition they deserved. (Harvey got one cap; Kendall was regarded as the finest player to ever go uncapped by England.) The third was when Harry Catterick sold me to Arsenal in December 1971.
I never wanted to leave Goodison and was gutted when Catterick sold me. I felt like I'd been used and dumped to make a quick profit, and that Catterick — who was always a cold, ruthless man — had broken up a great side too quickly. I had six good years at Arsenal before joining Southampton. I carried on playing for England until 1975 and also played in the US, which I loved. I hung up my boots in 1983 after 20 years at the top — not a bad record is it?
When I gave up playing, I knew right away that I wanted to follow my dad's footsteps and go into management. I had a spells in charge at Blackpool, Stoke, Exeter, Southampton, Manchester City and a couple of spells at Portsmouth. Some people say I was a bad manager, because I never had a record like Alex Ferguson, but that annoys me. I always did my best and had some great times. I took Portsmouth up to the old First Division; was brought in as a troubleshooter on a couple occasions and kept teams up; and I discovered players like Neil Webb, Mark Hateley and Lee Dixon.
I was disappointed that Southampton let Man City come in for me in 1996 and, as everyone knows, I didn't have the happiest of times there. By the time I left City, I'd had enough of management, enough of average players thinking they were superstars. I had one last crack with Portsmouth in 1999, just after Milan Mandaric took over, but my heart wasn't really in it. Football had given me a lot, but it had taken a lot out of me as well. I'd had enough.
I'll never forget the dark day in March 2001, when our family's lives changed forever. It was a horrid day, cold and raining, and I had been playing in a charity golf day in Surrey and was driving back home to our village over the Hampshire border. I was finished with football by then — it had been three years since I'd left Manchester City, and I was enjoying retirement, playing golf and spending more time with my wife, Lesley, my three grown-up children — Mandy, Keely and Jimmy — and our precious grandson, Louie. Then the mobile rang. It was Lesley, and I knew straight away that there was a problem. Mandy had been due for a biopsy on a small lump she had found in her breast, and I knew from the minute that the phone rang something was up. ‘Alan, we've got a problem,' said Lesley. ‘They think it's cancer.' I drove like a maniac down the M3 straight to Mandy's place and found a heartbroken young couple with their baby boy, and my wife with a desolate look on her face. This was my daughter, my little girl. How does anyone handle that?
Weirdly, that same day, Lesley had felt a pain in her groin. She'd thought nothing of it, and said nothing. Over the following couple of months, while Mandy was undergoing debilitating and arduous chemotherapy sessions — supported every step of the way by her mam — these pains in Lesley's groin got worse. Unknown to me, she had booked in to see a specialist at the Nuffield Hospital at the start of May 2001. She was told there might be a serious problem and that she should have a hysterectomy. All the while, she played things down, keeping positive and trying not to cause further worry for the family. I didn't know what to think. I did not, at the time suspect anything more serious — life couldn't be that cruel, could it?
But later on that May, the horrible news came out. Lesley had Ovarian cancer, and like Mandy would have to undergo chemo. I could not take it in, I was devastated, absolutely devastated.
It was the biggest battle of our lives. Cancer haunts and stalks. It is with you 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and affects every part of your life. For two and a half years, I watched my daughter and wife battle against the disease. Mandy's chemo worked. After months of pain and worry, she got the all clear, and is as fit and healthy as she's ever been. In March 2003 she ran the London marathon with Jimmy for the Bobby Moore Cancer Research Fund.
Lesley didn't get better though. We did everything possible, kept our fingers crossed and lived life to the fullest. We went on long holidays — to Australia and the Caribbean. We took the grandkids to Lapland. Lesley was braver than any footballer I ever saw. But it wasn't enough to beat the cancer. She passed away on Sunday 16 May 2004. No man could have asked for a better wife, no child a better mother. We all miss her very much.
With thanks to Alan's son, Jimmy, for giving the Ball Family's consent for this to be posthumously published.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
It was ever thus.
Bally and big Joe were my childhood heroes, it was sad reading the above piece about him, he is one guy I would have loved to sit and had a chat with, a great player with a great attitude who loved the club and was sold against his will.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
A defensive masterclass comes to fruition.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
Haute cuisine at its finest.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
I love articles like this on the early history.
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
summerisle
The rain, it raineth every day
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