The old turf of Salvesen Boys Club in Edinburgh holds memories that time has failed to erase. As I look back, the sepia-toned recollections flood my mind, each blade of grass whispering tales of triumph and camaraderie. The year was 1977, and our youth team was more than just a collection of lads kicking a ball; we were a brotherhood, bound by a shared passion for the beautiful game.
The pitch, bathed in the golden glow of countless afternoons, was our sanctuary. Every step onto that hallowed ground felt like a pilgrimage, the promise of victory lingering in the crisp Scottish air. The iconic red jerseys adorned with the Salvesen emblem became our armor, donned with pride and a touch of youthful invincibility. The whistle's shrill call to arms was our cue to dance with the ball, to create symphonies of movement that echoed the dreams of every young footballer.
We were more than a team; we were a force, a collective manifestation of unbridled enthusiasm. Our coach, a seasoned mentor with wisdom etched into the lines of his weathered face, instilled in us values that transcended the boundaries of the pitch. Discipline, resilience, and the pursuit of excellence were the pillars upon which our victories rested.
The trophies, oh, the trophies! They glittered like treasures in the dimly lit clubroom, reflecting the dreams we had nurtured since our first tentative kicks in the back alleys of Edinburgh. The league titles, the cup triumphs – each piece of silverware told a story of relentless dedication and the sweet taste of success. We were the kings of our realm, and Salvesen Boys Club was our kingdom.
Nights before the decisive matches were a tapestry of anticipation and nervous laughter. The camaraderie in those pregame huddles was an elixir that fueled our determination. We shared dreams of emulating our footballing idols, our voices rising in unison, forging a pact that echoed through the tunnels of time.
On the pitch, under the gaze of the roaring crowd, we played with hearts afire. The ball became an extension of our very beings, moving seamlessly between us as if guided by an invisible hand. Victory tasted like sweet nectar, and defeat, though rare, was a bitter reminder of the fragility of our pursuit.
The triumphs were not just etched in score lines but in the laughter that echoed through the post-match celebrations, in the pats on the back and the embraces that spoke volumes in silent camaraderie. We were not just winning games; we were forging memories that would linger in the recesses of our minds, a tapestry of youth woven with the threads of shared victories.
As the final whistle blew on those halcyon days, the echoes of our glory resonated far beyond the pitch. Salvesen Boys Club was not just a football club; it was a crucible where friendships were forged, dreams were realized, and the indomitable spirit of youth blazed like a beacon, lighting the path to a future unknown.
Years may have passed, but the memories of those victories remain etched in the annals of my soul. Salvesen Boys Club, where youth and passion converged, leaving an indelible mark on the canvas of my past. Every kick, every cheer, every shared moment – a testament to a time when we were kings, ruling a realm measured in goals and dreams.
I started out youth football with Tall Oaks Boys Club in Edinburgh. I excelled at the game and was quickly signed by Salvesen Boys Club after a couple of trials. After a few years and many trophies won, I moved clubs to Edina Hibs. Edina Hibs is a youth football club located in East Edinburgh, and the main aim of the club is to provide a safe, fun environment for boys and girls of all ages to play football and love the game.
The club was originally founded at the Jewel Miners Welfare Club in 1965 and currently uses the modern facilities at Jack Kane Centre and Castlebrae Community High School.
Edina Hibs have been active in the local community for over 50 years, and thousands of children have played at the club during this time. In the team at Edina was John Robertson, his nickname was 'Pops,' as he would pop goals in from anywhere regularly. He later signed professionally and had a very successful career with Heart of Midlothian Football Club.
Through the ranks of youth football, the journey was marked by trials and triumphs, by sweat and sacrifice. The allure of professional football was a siren song that pulled us all, but the reality of the game demanded more than just skill; it required heart, resilience, and an unyielding passion.
Looking back, the path from Tall Oaks to Salvesen Boys Club to Edina Hibs was paved with countless hours of training, with early mornings and late evenings spent perfecting our craft. It was a journey of growth, both as footballers and as individuals, learning the values of teamwork, dedication, and perseverance. Almost every weekday evening, I could be found outside playing keepie uppie, keeping the ball in the air and doing tricks. I got to the stage where I could keep the ball up over 500 times and could add in a few juggling acts; it took a lot of practice.
I always wanted to play professional football. From the moment I kicked my first ball in the neighbourhood park to the countless hours spent honing my skills, the dream of donning a professional kit lingered in the backdrop of my youth. My heroes were legendary figures who had etched their names into the annals of football history – Pele, Johann Cruyff, Franz Beckenbauer, Kenny Dalglish, and Georgie Best.
As a teenager, my heart beat in sync with the cheers at Easter Road, the home of Hibernian, or Hibs as we affectionately called them. Every Saturday, I found myself standing on the terraces, eyes fixated on the pitch, dreaming of the day I would step onto that hallowed ground. Stanton, Schaedler, Blackley, O'Rourke, Brownlie – their names were etched in my memory, providing a soundtrack to my dreams.
The day I signed my professional football forms at the tender age of 16 was nothing short of a fairy tale. Alongside my Mum and Dad, and perhaps my brother Euan, we were invited to the stadium. The Directors box, an elevated perch that seemed to touch the sky, became our front-row seat to destiny.
My heart yearned to wear the green and white of Hibs, to follow in the footsteps of the heroes I had admired for so long. However, fate had a different club in mind for me, Berwick Rangers. I joined Edina Hibs, the feeder team in Edinburgh. Leaving behind Salvesen Boys Club, where I had won every honor at the schoolboy and boys club level, felt like stepping onto a different path.
As I pen these memories, I recall the irony of that day I signed for a major club. The first team, the embodiment of my aspirations, was on the pitch, battling in the Scottish Cup against none other than Hibernian. Among their ranks stood George Best, a footballing icon at the twilight of his career. At 40, he was still a maestro, gracefully orchestrating the game with his precise passes. The man was a class act on the field, his magic undiminished by the passage of time. Little did I know that I was signing my forms on a day that would be etched in my memory forever.
George Best was a Northern Irish professional footballer widely regarded as one of the greatest players in the history of the sport. He was born on May 22, 1946, in Belfast, Northern Ireland, and passed away on November 25, 2005.
Best gained prominence as a forward for Manchester United in the 1960s, where he played a key role in the team's success. He was known for his exceptional skill, balance, and ability to score goals. Best helped Manchester United win two English First Division titles (1964–65, 1966–67) and the European Cup in 1968, marking the first time an English club had won the prestigious competition.
Despite his on-field success, Best's personal life was marked by struggles with alcoholism and other issues. His career at the top level was relatively short-lived, but he left an indelible mark on the sport. Best's playing style and flair made him an iconic figure, and he remains a legendary figure in the history of football. Best had a brief playing spell with Hibernian in Edinburgh, Scotland.
He joined Hibernian in 1979, and he played for the club until 1980. During his time at Hibernian, Best's performances were marked by moments of skill and brilliance, but his impact was limited compared to his earlier years with Manchester United. His time at Hibernian was part of the later stages of his career, and he struggled with fitness and lifestyle issues.
The Legendary George Best Signs For Hibernian, Edinburgh, Scotland
Two years later, after toiling through the ranks and proving my mettle, I found myself standing on that same pitch. The dream I had harbored since childhood materialized as I made my first-team debut in the Scottish League Division 1. The roar of the crowd, the scent of freshly cut grass, and the weight of the jersey on my back – it was a culmination of years of hard work and unwavering determination.
The rain descended upon Edinburgh with a vengeance, transforming the Royal Mile into a glistening ribbon of cobblestone. On holiday for a couple of weeks back home in Scotland, Anne and I, arm in arm, sought refuge under a narrow awning, our plans for leisurely sightseeing momentarily dashed by the Scottish weather. The majestic architecture of the city, adorned with tales of history, blurred under the assault of the downpour.
"Looks like we're in for a good old Scottish soaking," Anne chuckled, her laughter mingling with the rhythmic drumming of raindrops on the umbrella.
"Indeed," I replied, glancing down the Royal Mile where the once-bustling streets were now populated by brave souls dashing between awnings and doorways.
With our spirits undeterred, we decided to hail a cab to take us to the bus station for the journey back to Peebles, where my mother awaited our return. The taxi appeared through the misty rain, and we eagerly climbed in, grateful for the warmth and shelter.
The cab driver, a middle-aged Scotsman with a friendly demeanor, initiated a conversation as he navigated through the winding streets slick with rain. "Where are ye two from?" he asked, his thick accent adding a layer of charm to the question.
"Canada," I replied, exchanging a glance with Anne. The mention of my home country sparked a shift in the conversation, steering it toward a topic that resonated deeply with my past.
As the cab made its way through the damp streets, I found myself recounting my days as a youth player for Edina Hibs Boys Club. Memories of training sessions and matches flooded back, and I couldn't help but share a story about a talented teammate named Stewart Rae. A prodigious player who never made it to the professional ranks, Stewart's potential was overshadowed by peculiar training methods under Bertie Auld at Hibernian.
The cab driver's interest piqued. "Stewart Rae, ye say?" he inquired, glancing at us through the rear view mirror."
"Aye, that's the one. Unbelievable talent. Spent some time at Hibernian, but things didn't pan out," I explained.
The cab driver's eyes widened. "You're not Stevie Connor, are ye?"
Surprised, I nodded. "Aye, that's me. How did you...?"
The cab screeched to a sudden halt, and the driver turned around with a grin spreading across his face. "Stevie, it's Micky Donnelly! We played together at Edina Hibs!"
The realization hit me like a thunderclap. Micky Donnelly, a teammate from my youth, was now the man behind the wheel. What were the chances?
We embraced like long-lost friends, relishing the serendipity of this unexpected reunion. Micky, in his generosity, refused to accept payment for the cab ride. The cab became a time machine, transporting us back to the camaraderie of our youth.
We snapped a photo together, capturing a moment that would forever link the past to the present. As Micky dropped us off at the bus station, the rain still cascading around us, I marveled at the remarkable twist of fate that brought us together again.
Coincidences, it seemed, had a way of weaving through the fabric of my life, leaving me in awe of the unpredictable dance of chance. As the bus carried us away from Edinburgh, I couldn't shake the feeling that, in the midst of the rain-soaked streets and shared memories, the universe had conspired to remind me of the enduring magic of connection.
The autumn wind carried whispers of opportunity as I stood at the crossroads of my teenage years. The letter on the kitchen table, adorned with the Notts County Football Club crest, spoke of dreams materialising, of a future carved on English soil. But at 16, nerves tangled with ambition, and my heart hesitated, unwilling to abandon the familiar streets of my Scottish upbringing.
Don Masson, the stalwart Scottish international and captain of Notts County, was extending a hand that could have propelled me into the realm of English Division One football. The allure of that path was undeniable, a journey with the potential to etch my name in the annals of the sport. Yet, as the ink on the contract beckoned my signature, doubt lingered like a spectre in the recesses of my mind.
The allure of the familiar held its grip, and so I chose to remain on the hallowed Scottish grounds. A decision etched in my history, a path diverged but not forgotten. Football might have been my first love, but the comfort of the Highlands was a siren song that echoed in the chambers of my youthful heart.
The twists and turns of fate guided me to a different field, one where the grass was replaced by the haunting melody of bagpipes. At 23, I bid farewell to the echoes of a football stadium and embraced a new rhythm. My boots were exchanged for the traditional attire of a piper, a path illuminated by the notes that resonated through the Scottish air.
A few years later, another encounter from my past would blow my mind.
To be continued...
Episode 4