Cow sheds to a palace – I was returning to St James’ Park after 20 years away | OneFootball

This story starts about 25 years ago…

A young father in Glasgow had a son with a serious illness. The local hospital lacked the equipment to treat the boy, so he and his father had to travel quite a distance every day to another facility.

The father decided to raise funds to buy the much needed – but expensive – machine.

He was a Celtic supporter, so approached the club to ask if they would hold a charity match for his cause. Someone had the brilliant idea of having two teams of local supporters – one to be the “home” team, the other the away – and have would-be players bid, in an online auction, for each position on each side.

Celtic would provide use of the pitch, the stadium (for supporters), the dressing rooms, plus personalised shirts and a star player (that is, an ex-first teamer now on the club’s staff) for each side.

The idea took off, and pretty soon pretty well every English premier league club, and no doubt some lower division sides as well, had joined in. The money needed was soon raised, and much more.

I was in my early fifties at the time but thought, what the hell, you’ll never get another chance like this. So, when it was Newcastle United hosting such an event, I kept on bidding and eventually won the left back slot for the “home” side.

I hadn’t been back to Newcastle in over 20 years and how it had changed. Not least St James’ Park, transformed from a series of cow sheds into a palace.

The lads in my team looked like serious players and me – well, I looked young for my age. We had a coach, too. Ours was Bobby Moncur (yes, really) and he taught me more about playing full back in 10 minutes than I had learned in 30 years of actually playing. And our star player? Some of you may already guess (A previous article of mine on The Mag ‘My own stellar football career…’): Peter Beardsley.

Peter was in his early forties by then, and a little overweight – no, let’s be honest: he was plump. But when we got on the field, he just wasn’t going to be beaten.

If the other side scored he just took the ball, wherever it was, and he scored. I was once near him on the centre spot when a long ball came over and I happened by pure fluke to head it down to him (I didn’t know he was there). “oh, good header” he cried instinctively. That was the highest praise I’ve ever had for my footballing skills (actually, the only praise).

The charity lasted a few years, then I don’t know what happened to it. I’ll only say that it was one of the best days of my life. I still have the shirt, but I left my boots behind in the changing room. Never mind, it was the last game I played.