I had a great day out in Norwich on the Saturday before Christmas. Let me tell you all about it.
My sole intention for the day was to meet Frank Cordwell. If you didn't read the article I published about him last week, do go and look it up. He had some great tales to tell me, not just about Norwich City Football Club but also life in the Second World War. He is a fine upstanding gentleman, modest to the core, and still carries a glint in his eye, an enthusiasm normally only found in men a third of his age. Everything he spoke about was fascinating, and the opportunity to meet him was the nicest moment I have had since starting Sing Up The River End!
One thing that stuck in my mind for the rest of the day was his admiration for the former Norwich midfielder Bernard Robinson. 'Sticks' as Frank still called him, had played the majority of his 380 City games pre war, and before Frank himself had access to the club. But he was certain that Bernard was his favourite player, and he has carried that respect for the player for over 70 years.
Robinson had been brought up in King's Lynn, and spent his entire professional career as a Canary, and like many of our heroes before and since, stayed in the Fine City after his playing days were over. There is something about Norwich and football, that cannot be separated. I think most cities and towns will make claims that their football clubs stretch far and wide into the community. And many genuinely do. But the love affair between the people of Norwich and Norfolk and their club goes way beyond the perfunctory charity events and soccer schools found elsewhere. Many residents of the city and county really do 'get it' when it comes to the Canaries - even though the majority of them may never step foot into Carrow Road.
My day out in Norwich - on the 17th of December last year - threw up a few examples of this. I left my home in the East Midlands on icy roads. Ironically on that day, a fair number of City fans were moving in the opposite direction. The Canaries were playing at Everton you will remember. I had hoped to see the coaches travelling west as I headed east. But I got my timing slightly wrong. By the time I reached King's Lynn, the convoy of yellow and green had turned off up the A17. Instead, having left the dull low clouds behind at Wisbech, I was greeted with sleet at Lynn, which had turned to bright sunshine at Dereham, and then a snow flurry as I hit Norwich.
The first human life I saw when I slowed down at traffic lights on Dereham Road was a man walking on the pavement, morning newspaper under his arm. But I saw what he had on inside his jacket, keeping out the cold wind. Yes, his Norwich City scarf. I commented on it to my wife, and explained to her (probably not for the first time), how Norwich is a one club city. Yes, there are plastic fans within the city walls, but essentially, if you love football, you love the Canaries. And there, within a minute of arriving, was the first evidence.
Either side of meeting Frank Cordwell, I spent some time with my sister. We talked about many things, including NCFC. She is definitely not what you would call a football fan, but the game always crops up in conversation. Okay, partly because she knows about this blog. But like me, she was brought up in a family where Norwich City and football in general was always in there somewhere. She told me a memory she had of our Dad insisting on quiet at five o'clock on a Saturday evening so he could write down the football results for his pools. My own memory is that our Mum probably knew more about Norwich City than our Dad, and I am pretty sure she never went to a match. Strangely I have no recollection that Bernard Robinson had ever been mentioned by either of them. But then again, like Frank Cordwell, they were probably just a bit too young when he first played for the Canaries. I do though remember them talking with affection and pride about Sid Plunkett, Don Pickwick, Ron Ashman, Errol Crossan and many more. And Sammy Chung. He often got a mention. As I acquired heroes of my own, the conversations often went along the lines of my Ted MacDougall not being a patch on their Ron Davies. Different times, different heroes.
I should say that when I met Frank Cordwell, he was accompanied by his grandson Stuart Applegate (by marriage) and friend Darren Utting. These guys were much younger than me - well by ten years or more anyway. Stuart had an interest in NCFC whilst Darren was a self confessed Canary fanatic. The latter told me about how he cried as a lad when City sold Kevin Reeves, for a million pounds back in 1980. I had to admit that the event did not have the same hurt for me. Being that bit older, I had already become used to Norwich strikers moving on far too early. David Cross, Jimmy Bone, Phil Boyer and Ted MacDougall had all been and gone from my Canary supporting life by then. But for Darren, Reeves had been the main man - his first Norwich City legend.
Mid afternoon I travelled across Norwich for a quick visit to my auntie and uncle. The day was getting colder, the sky darker. So just a quick cuppa, and the dropping off of a Christmas card. I managed to catch the half time score from Goodison Park whilst in the car. 1-0 up. Get in !! My aunt and uncle are both in the second half of their eighties and for the best part of forty years I have known them to be serious followers of sport, only though, via a television. But even I was surprised on arrival to see them avidly following the Canaries' progress courtesy of Jeff Stelling. ''He's damn good'' said my uncle. In between a short catching up session, the conversation with my uncle swung from Ken Nethercott to Sandy Kennon, Paul Lambert to Norwich City's diminishing debt. And, needless to say perhaps, Grant Holt. ''He's a marvellous player you know. Like those players from the old days. He really let them have it'' my uncle told me. When news of the Everton equaliser came through, my auntie said ''Oh well, never mind''. My uncle pointed out that Norwich liked their late goals and should not be written off !
As soon as the final score was known, we said our goodbyes. A two and a half hour journey home awaited us. Passing Fortress Carrow Road on the way was not out of the question. So that is what I did. It was bathed in lights, against a black snow filled sky. Coming down the hill, it made a glorious sight. And on Radio Five, they were talking about our point gained at Everton. I thought about all those fans that had made the trip. And hoped they were happy.
As it turned out, the journey was slightly longer than hoped. Cold temperatures did not help. And shortly after I left apparently, Norwich had a fairly large fall of snow deposited on it. I reflected on my day. The wonderful Frank Cordwell. The way all of it was filled with the presence of Norwich City Football Club. People talking about them. Caring about their fortunes. Appreciating the present whilst understanding the past.
When I got home, I was really only up for lounging about. And then something happened that really did make my day complete. It was only a chance occurrence, but just rounded everything off nicely.
Take another look at the picture at the top. Meet Jude. That photograph popped up on my Twitter timeline soon after I put my feet up for the evening. It had been taken a few hours earlier at Goodison Park. It is of course a brilliant image. But on a day when I had conversed on just about all eras from the thirties onwards, here was a little lad living the dream. That very afternoon he had watched Everton v Norwich City in the Premier League. I have since learnt that he has been to a massive eighteen football grounds already. Wicked ! And his favourite player ? Well yes, that man again.....Grant Holt.
Jude lives in the north of England - hence his impressive travelling record. He was most impressed with the Etihad Stadium. Less so with Brunton Park. But it hit me that here he is, starting a long journey of supporting the club he loves. Yellow and green. Nothing else will matter in his world of football. He will see some great Canaries in the future, liking most and loving a few.
As for the hot dog. Well, it was the only size available at Goodison Park. And much much bigger than the one he had eaten earlier at Lime Street station ! In fact, I can only think of one other person who could have eaten it. Yes, that man again.....Grant Holt.
All those people I had met during the day had all been Jude's age once, and caught the same bug. Different times. Different heroes. But all sharing common emotions that come with Norwich City, whether they actually go to the matches or not. Jude will not remember every match he goes on to watch. But he will gather precious little memories that will keep him warm for the rest of his life. I know I have. And, as my day proved, many others have too.
I went to bed tired but content.
I could think of only one way to describe Norwich. Fine city, fine people, fine club.
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