(Post by Colin ‘Jackie’ Jackson of Glasgow – June 2022)

(Header artwork by Linda Woods.)

• Jardine fires a long, diagonal pass from right to left. The ball flies over the heads of all midfield players and falls at the feet of its intended target. The left winger deftly controls the pass, takes the ball in his stride and he’s off! Hogging the touchline, he pushes the mud spattered white leather ball past the first defender, while he himself races by on the other side.
  
  The next defender moves forward to block his path, but the tricky forward strokes the ball through his legs (nutmeg!) turns infield and heads towards goal.
  
  Another opposition player starts to close down space, but the blue shirted danger-man is wise to his intentions, feints inside, turns out, looks up and hits a spectacular curling left-foot shot into the nearside top corner! The goalkeeper stood no chance of reaching that! A peach of a goal!!
  
  Just listen to that crowd!
  
  We’ve got Wullie, Wullie Johnston on the wing; on the wing
  We’ve got Wullie, Wullie Johnston on the wing; on the wing
  
  Hi! My name’s Willie Johnston. It’s 1970, and I play left wing for Glasgow Rangers Football Club.

• The ascent began as planned, the early stages being relatively straight forward. We had practiced on these sections before so knew what to expect.
  
  As we gained height however, the younger and less experienced in the party questioned their ability and had to be encouraged to carry on. We made an unscheduled stop to regroup, refocus and break open the rations. As the clouds in the sky dissolved to reveal a pristine, blue sky, so too did the clouds of doubt in the party and we ploughed on to the top.
  
  The wind did create some problems, it has to be said, and we swayed dangerously in its breath. The decision was taken to curtail our time at that altitude, and return to base camp. The tail-enders of the ascent now became the leaders of descent, which in hindsight was not a well thought-out tactic. Being unable to see where to safely place their feet severely undermined their confidence and there were regular hair-raising slips.
  
  The downward journey took longer than up. But with utmost concentration we eventually reached home, where relieved family and friends joined in great celebration of yet another ‘first.’

Hello! My name is Edmund Hillary. It’s 1970 and just seventeen years ago, I became the first man to conquer Mount Everest.

• I paced around him and picked my moment. Setting up with a few left jabs, I threw two quick left hooks to his ribs. He gasped as the air seemed to leave his body. He was definitely looking shaky. Now was my time – I went for the knockout punch. Flush on the chin, I got him. This time he rocked; rocked big time. But he was a strong and resilient opponent and just wouldn’t stay down.
  
  I’d have to settle for a ‘points decision.’ But a win’s a win however it’s achieved.
  
  I’m Henry Cooper, professional boxer. It’s 1970 and I’ve just beaten Jack Bodell to retain my British and Commonwealth Heavyweight titles.

*****

Well, not quite:

I’ll tell ya, it was just my imagination, once again

Running away with me

It was just my imagination

Running away with me.

• It’s 1970. My name is The Pimply Kid. I’m eleven years old and playing football on the grassy area that surrounds the pylon at the top of my street.

The Jardine lad, is in fact pretty useless, and would be pushed to kick a football the length of his shadow.

I struggle to get into my Primary school team, being listed as substitute for the first two fixtures we played, and I’m only better than the other kids simply because they play rugby at their Private school. The real reason I run fast like Willie Johnston, is that I’m shooting down the steep slope we play our games on.

Crowd? The only person watching is the creepy old guy my mum and dad say I’m not to talk to – even though he says he can get me a trial for Queens Park when I turn sixteen!!

In truth the best player amongst us is Rex, the border collie from a nearby house, who, when not chasing cars, dispossesses us with ease (under threat of a nasty bite) and menacingly growls when we try to get the ball back.

Still – a boy can dream, right?

• It’s 1970. . My name is The Pimply Kid. I’m eleven years old. There is an mature, tall apple tree in our garden. Huge it is!

Having first been helped by my parents onto its lower branches as a three year, I’ve now clambered to the top many, many times now. I’ve grown up with this tree. It’s like a kindly old friend.

Today though, I’m leading an expedition of inexperienced ‘first timers’ from our secret Deepdene Club to the summit. I’m more like Sherpa Tenzing than Edmund Hillary, I suppose.

That’s the plan, anyway. I have my doubts about the little Little lad. He will have to extricate his thumb from his mouth if wants to ensure a sturdy grip.

It’s a struggle, but three of the four make it to the top. There’s tears of fear on the way back down (secret Club rules prohibit this, and disciplinary action will be taken) but we all make it safely back to base, where we celebrate with lashings of ginger beer.

Still – a boy can dream, right?

. It’s 1970. My name is The Pimply Kid. I’m eleven years old and my Grandfather and Great Uncle were professional boxers. Henry Cooper and Muhammad Ali are my heroes.

I’d like to be a boxer when I grow up. But I’d have to be really, really good, because I don’t like being hit! And I have wee short arms and legs and a big nose, none of which would be a great asset in that case.

I need to practice. Practice hard. So I’m training by knocking lumps out of my blow-up Yogi Bear Bop Bag.

Yogi’s pure nails! He just soaks up the punishment. I give him a couple left hooks to the body then and uppercut flush on his chin … but he bounces right back up every time.

Still – a boy can dream, right?

Fifty-plus years down the line, and I’ve yet to play professional football; I haven’t even walked up Ben Lomond, never mind climbed Everest, and neither have I stepped into a boxing ring.

Still – a grown man can dream, right?

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