Memories from Elm Park - Daddy

Okay, hands up those of you who think the press are the scum of the earth (bear with me while I pull my wife’s arm down).

Right, hands up if you’ve heard the expression “Don’t shoot the messenger”.

Sometimes when you’re reporting on football an opportunity for a story comes up and you have to make a judgment call. Readers of this blog will know that I’ve made no secret of the fact that for the last 17 years my philosophy has been that football is entertainment, is fun and, if possible, my reports should reflect this.

Banter is the lifeblood of every dressing room at every level and if that can be shared with the fans then all well and good. Football supporters have played the game themselves. Maybe not to the same levels of skill and athleticism as the pros, but the dressing room mindset is the same.

By the time the Monday papers hit the streets, most of the descriptive stuff has either been read in the Sunday papers and web pages or even seen on the box and so I try to add a little something by giving the fans an insight into what the main characters are thinking or what they’ve been doing – the goal scorers, the keeper who saved the penalty, the guy who got sent off, etc.

So what happens when I stumble across a story that might possibly cause harm or distress to a player?

Well fortunately that situation doesn’t arise too often and frankly who cares whether a full back for a League One club has played away from home - so to speak?

Personally I feel that if you are prepared to take millions of pounds to promote soft drinks, PC games and/or appear in Hello magazine on the one hand and then you’re caught visiting brothels or doing drugs on the other, you leave yourself open to criticism. If you’re putting out an image of a nice wholesome fella for the money then you need to live up to that image. The alternative is not to take the money for the extras, play football, earn and honest wage and be entitled to a degree of privacy.

Compare the lifestyles of Wayne Rooney and Paul Scholes if you will. And there are many more Scholes-type characters in football than ‘Rooneys’.

A few years ago I found myself in a position whereby I had to make a judgment call – on a much lower level it has to be said.

I was covering a Reading game at the old Elm Park ground that ranked up there with the dullest of dull games. Scoreless at full time and as I watched the players leave the field I was left wondering who the main character was. Who could I base the report on?

The press used one of the unsold private boxes at Elm Park and as I looked out through the glass I noticed a Reading player walk over to the opposing fans (a team from the north) and lean into the crowd. He then pulled back and walked away to the tunnel.

Thinking no more of it I spent the next hour talking to players, but gathered nothing of interest from anyone. Eventually I decided to take solace with a pint in the supporters bar. As I waited for my drink the player I had noticed earlier came up to me and I asked him what he had said to the away support.

“Oh, nothing,” he replied, “It was my baby son. His mum had brought him down on the supporters’ bus to see me play for the first time.”

What a nice little human interest story I thought with relief and set my atheism aside to thank God.

“He’s nine months old and that’s the first time I’ve seen him,” he continued.

This was getting better all the time I thought and made a mental note to go to church the following day for the first time in fifteen years.

“Here,” he said suddenly realising who he was talking to. “You won’t put that in The Sun will you Jeff? My missus would kill me if she found out about him.”

Bugger! It was decision time. Did I say tough luck son, I’m desperate and you knew who you were talking to. I could have argued that he’d made his own bed. I could have even have justified it as a warning to the women of Berkshire to keep their knickers on when he was about!

I didn’t and wrote a mundane piece for the paper.

If I had gone with the story it might well have brought forward the inevitable as you can’t keep a secret like that forever. But on the other hand what was the real benefit of me breaking the story? A pat on the back?

The story would be forgotten by most people by Tuesday and so I kept my word.

As a by-product though, Reading players started talking to me openly and – I like to think – trusted me. I suspect that when the lad picked up the paper on Monday he was relieved and told his colleagues I was a decent bloke. As it was I got numerous good stories from them in the following two seasons as they marched up the leagues and made it to the Championship play-off final against Bolton and so maybe by doing the right thing by him, it inadvertently paid dividends.

By the way, the players name is ….

Just joking. A promise is a promise after all – no matter how many years have gone by.