Tales from Grandad's Tool Shed
The Price Of Glory – Saturday, December 1st 1934
Published by Eccles on January 7, 2008
It was the first day of December. Damp and cold. The sort of day Grandad called trench weather, when the flower and vegetable beds in the garden glistened with wet earth, and the cold went through you to the bones. A hard and bitter day at the onset of deepest winter.
Although it was only three o’clock in the afternoon it was beginning to get dark. Inside the tool shed it was warm, but today there was something sombre about the place. It was so quiet that at first I thought he wasn’t there, but he was sitting in his favourite chair, statuesque, with his scrapbook resting on his lap. I looked over his shoulder. The pages were open at 1934, and amidst the Gills cuttings he had pasted the famous quote by Bill Shankly, about how football was more important than life and death. Alongside, in Grandad’s beautiful copperplate handwriting, was the word “Idiot”.
“That’s a bit harsh, Grandad” I whispered. He stirred from his thoughts. “Well, yes and no, SunBoy. Don’t get me wrong, I liked Shankly. My kind of bloke, dealt with people straight, and told them exactly where they stood. Everybody cheered and clapped him at the time when he said that, classic stuff from the Liverpool genius, added to the fund of great quips and stories like taking his wife to see Rochdale Reserves to celebrate their wedding anniversary and suchlike. But even at the time it was out of order. When he said it, there had been the Burnden Park Disaster in 1946, and mercifully he didn’t live to see his own fans crushed and trampled on at Hillsborough, or Bradford City fans burned alive on television at Valley Parade. Then there was Ibrox, and Heysel. And then there was our tragedy – seventy years ago.”
He looked sadly at the photo which a few days previously we had placed in the ebony frame trimmed in white beading. He had spread Charlie McGibbon’s New Brompton shirt on the low table, and placed the photo on it, with two candles either side. “Sim Raleigh. An inside-forward we signed from Hull City in June 1932. He was only twenty-three and was a real prospect. Went straight into the team for the first match of the season, away to Brighton, and pretty much stayed there. He scored 10 goals in 29 appearances in 1932/33, and to show you how exciting he was he scored a treble hat-trick for the Reserves in the 12-1 thrashing they dished out to Sittingbourne in the Kent League in September 1932. The following season 1933/34 he was top scorer with 18 goals from 40 appearances. He was strong and brave, a bull of a man really, smashing in shots with either foot and bulleting in headers. Assuming the Directors wouldn’t have cashed in on him, he’d have been one of our greats. No question. In 83 appearances, he scored 34 goals. A very good return by our standards.
“Then, on December 1st 1934, we were at home to Brighton and Hove Albion. The weather was like today, and just over 4,000 braved the cold. Sim played centre-forward that day, and he was up against Paul Mooney, their centre-half, who was very strong in the air. It was a dour struggle between two mid-table sides, and early on there was a clash of heads between Sim and Paul Mooney as they both went up for a cross. They both went down, but the magic sponges seemed to do the trick and they got up and got on with the game. Then, during the second half, Sim collapsed near the centre circle. There hadn’t been anyone close to him. The trainer came on, and this time the magic sponge was to no avail. In stunned silence we watched as a motionless Sim was carried off on a stretcher. They took him straight to St Bart’s Hospital in Rochester.
“As often happens when there is a serious injury, the appetite goes right out of the game. The players more or less played a training match for the minutes that were left and it finished 0-0. Everybody’s thoughts during the evening were with Sim and his family. Just as I was going to bed Bert knocked at the door to tell me the terrible news that Sim had died in St Bart’s just before ten o’clock that night. Surgeons had fought for hours to save his life, but he had never regained consciousness. I don’t mind admitting to you SunBoy that we held onto each other and wept.
“It was the same the next day as we walked to church. People stopping you to ask if you had heard. If you can remember what it was like the evening President Kennedy was assassinated, that’s how it was with Sim, although this had the additional intense shock of a local tragedy and raw grief for a man who many of us knew personally. The vicar, who was a big Gills fan, made one of the most powerful and moving speeches I’ve ever heard, and that includes me having listened to people like Churchill and Lloyd George. We prayed for Sim, and for his wife and young son, and for his family, and we didn’t forget poor Paul Mooney. He had done nothing wrong, and he was so devastated that I’m told he never played football again.
“A few days later we learnt that the coroner’s report showed that Sim had died from a haemorrhage due to a blow on the most sensitive part of the skull. They took him back to Hull and buried him there, amongst his own. Bert was in Hull just after the War, and went to put some flowers on the grave. It was beautifully kept, as it has been to this day. There will be flowers there today, for sure.”
There was a long silence. Then with his usual defiance he said “People go to football matches to enjoy themselves, they don’t go to watch people die, either on the pitch or in the stands. Y’know, what really hacks me off sometimes is those who claim they are Gills fans through and through, and to try and prove it they shout at you through a haze of beer breath and into your face ‘I love this club so much that I’d die for it!’ Or claim that a player never gives less than 110%, 150%, or 200% even. What is 200%? Would they like to tell me what percentage Sim Raleigh gave to this club on that fateful day? Like all my mates on the Western Front, he gave the most precious thing he had. No greater love hath any man than to lay down his life for his club, and on Saturday December 1st 1934, that’s exactly what Sim Raleigh did”
There was nothing more to say. But Grandad, who was from a generation that had seen and faced death so many times in two World Wars, knew how to properly honour a fallen hero. “Light the candles and stand with me, will you SunBoy?” And so we stood together before Sim’s photo as Grandad’s silver pocket watch ticked off the full two minutes silence awarded to those lost in battle, and then we sat together quietly with our thoughts. After a time, he murmured “He could have been one of the greatest.” I looked across into his face. His eyes were gazing far into the distance, through the window and across the golf course into the gathering darkness. It was as if he was still watching Sim play.
This chapter of “Tales From Grandad’s Tool Shed” is dedicated to the memory of Sim Raleigh – Gillingham Inside Forward.
Born Brinsworth – March 24th 1909
Died St Bartholomew’s Hospital Rochester – December 1st 1934
A footballing life unfulfilled.
Eccles
Tales from Grandad's Tool Shed
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