With 42,000 Beatles At My First Soccer Match

Press, Volume CIV, Issue 30687, 1 March 1965, Page 2

With 42,000 Beatles At My First Soccer Match

(By AINSLEE SHELTON) “Would you like to see Everton play this afternoon?” “What’s that,” I asked, mildly interested. “That,” he replied indignantly, “is one of Eng-

land’s top soccer teams.” “In other words, you are anxious to go and can’t think of anything for me to do,” 1 teased.

“Good heavens, no,” he replied. “I thought it would be good for your education.” Fair enough. A fortnight in England was enough to teach a New Zealander that there was lots to learn, just as my husband had said. HISTORY MADE

So a loyal Kiwi, whose interest in football of any kind is confined to fleeting glimpses from the “Scotsman’s grandstand” in Dunedin, went willingly to Goodison Park, Liverpool, on a cold, foggy winter’s afternoon.

And history was made. Not by me, but by the referee, who worked against the odds for half an hour, then took the players off before murder

was committed. It was the first time in English soccer history that a match had been stopped, other than by the weather.

Surprising, really. As the same crowd goes every week to Goodison, they ought by now, to know the Riot Act by heart. I realised later why mounted police were on duty.

The Everton club is one of the jewels of English soccer. It has John Moores, head of Littlewoods’ Pools, on the board, and thinks nothing of paying £50,000 to get a player. It was league champion two years ago, and boasts the biggest gates in the country. But these facts rang hollow as we walked to the ground, down smoky streets of terrace houses, not a gap, let alone a garden, between them, front doors opening on to the pave-

ment. And we headed towards a great woolstore, place. Surely a glamour club occupied more salubrious surroundings? Yet, heading the same way, was a tough looking army, obviously all related to the Beatles. (Who else could grow hair that long?) The woolstore turned out to be the back of the main Goodison stand. Maybe the grass patch in the middle makes it a "park” but the huge stands and terraces on all sides, black with people, gave it the significance of a cockpit. Kiwi crowds cheer, but have you heard 42,000 Beatles explode in anger when an Everton man is hurt? Or chant "Dirty Leeds” in unison for a full minute? It’s shattering, especially when you’re in the middle of it, wondering whether your clothes or expression could show a trace of sympathy for the visiting team. FUN STARTED The fun started as soon as the teams emerged. Amid the general din individual players were singled out for spleen. A former hero got the bird. He plays for Leeds now. An “expert” just behind me pointed out another visitor: “That’s him. That’s the dirtiest little of the lot.” FREE KICKS He didn’t say it loudly enough, because it was an Everton player the “ref.” sent off, after only five minutes. Free kicks were given away like jelly babies. Finally, two players collided at full speed and the crowd howled a requiem when they fell, knocked out All those lungs working overtime in a confined space on a cold afternoon created a mist over the pitch. They had to turn the floodlights on. MISSILES FLEW But what made the referee take the players off was not the dirty play, but the missiles. Oranges, apple cores, toilet rolls, empty bottles, and worst of all, pennies. A warning was broadcast. Any more of this and the game would really be off. The teams returned after 10 minutes to the screech of “Dirty Leeds” and the rest was anti-climax. We didn’t see any of the football artistry I had been promised. But the crowd more than made up. The Beatles, I know now, could only come from Liverpool. Who said the English were unemotional? Give them guns and there would be a revolution every week.