Looking through back copies of First and Last I was struck by the numbers of the entry who played hockey at Halton .I hadn't played the game previous to joining the RAF, I doubt few of us had?

At junior school in London I played football. In fact I played for my school, [Ladbroke Grove, North Kensington]. I modelled my play on that of Stanley Matthews; my team mates said I played more like Stanley Laurel [how cruel the young can be]

At my first secondary school, in Hartlepool [then County Durham, Teesside now] rugby was played. After a couple of terms at Hartlepool my family moved to York, where once again the winter sport was rugby. At this school I was quizzed as to which code of rugby I had played at Hartlepool [a town which has a reputation for eccentricity as it is where they hung the monkey]
I didn't know there were two codes, or which of them was played at Hartlepool. In fact I had never played rugby, of any code, whilst at Hartlepool. The few times during the winter months when the pitches were playable, i.e. not under 3 foot of snow or suffering permafrost; the fog rolling in off the North Sea stopped any play, as you couldn't see your hand behind your back. No matter, the fact that I had attended an establishment that might have infected me with Rugby League was enough to have me banned from playing Rugby Union at the school, thus avoiding me passing on RL Disease to others. Instead I was sent cross-country running, along with the other geeks and misfits. Fortunately my family soon moved again, this time to Lincolnshire, a county not known for prowess in any sport [it's one claim to fame being that Scunthorpe United FC once had Kevin Keegan AND Ian Botham on it's books,]

I played for the school's Under 14's rugby team [union, I think!] not long after my arrival at The King's School, which shows the level of skill present on the playing fields of Grantham, as I didn't have the slightest grasp of the rules of the game [still don't]. I couldn't get my head around the fact that you ran forward but threw the ball behind you! The school didn't care what code one had played previously; as long as you had two arms and two legs you were qualified to play, anything!

In the first few years of playing I had an advantage over my peers in that I was tall and willowy [' skinny ', as the more pragmatic would describe. " Yer' like 2 yards of pump watar" as one unkind spectator once remarked] and fast on my feet. I kept out of trouble, far out on the wing, and the few times I got the ball I would scoot like a rabbit and evade all tackles. Unfortunately as time went on my peers grew taller, heavier and faster than me and so I spent at lot of time during my last year at school face down in the mud, being scragged, ragged [sometimes debagged] mauled, rucked and generally manhandled. I was offered the chance to play in the scrum, at second row, but the thought of having to put my head between the sweating flanks of two of the most malodorous of my classmates ensured that I continued playing out on the wing; getting bloodied, studded and muddied every game was preferable than having to pack down with the likes of them.

On my arrival at Halton I noted the size of the average apprentice and deemed it an opportune moment to hang up my boots and retire from the sport that I had (dis) graced for so long. I had spent too many years away from playing football [and I didn't want any more comparisons with Stan Laurel] so I decided to take up that girlie game of hockey.

It didn't take me long to discover that maybe I should have stuck to cross country running as my sport of choice. True I didn't get to be covered in mud and blood from being decked, on the other hand I discovered the new experience of being cracked on ankles, shins and sometimes head [the latter always from an Irishman who had been brought up on shinty] by a freely wielded stick, or worse still by a swiftly moving, very hard, ball. Running along with an egg shaped ball tucked under your arm was relatively easy, except for those opposing players intent on burying you. However running along whilst trying to keep a small hard ball going in the same direction as you, with only a hooked stick to assist, is another kettle of fish. Your opponents may not have wished to bury you but they were not averse to crippling you for life, or at least maim you for the foreseeable future, by splintering ankle or shinbone.

Keeping the ball attached to the stick was a skill I never mastered. There were players [Reg Leusley of the our entry springs to mind] who could abruptly change direction around an opponent while travelling at full speed and the ball seemed to be stuck to their stick [I did check the stick Reg had used after one game but no glue or adhesive was found.] For the majority of us it was a case of whacking the ball and galloping after it. As for the arcane mystery of hitting and controlling a ball using reverse stick; I would stare in amazement as this feat was accomplished, at high speed, and with an accuracy I never attained, by ' real ' hockey players I managed to represent 2 Wing and gain a BK medal but my contribution was more in hindering the opposition [probably unintentionally] and getting in the way of goal bound balls [definitely unintentionally]

In Germany I played for RAF Geilenkirchen, which was no great feat as there were only a dozen of us on the camp who played the game. We played other RAF stations, whose level of skill and fitness was on a par with our own. Most station teams had at least one Anglo-Indian [the more the better the team], and an Irishman. The latter would seldom last the entire game. Lifting sticks above the shoulder was taboo and Paddy tended to revert to hurley playing mode when the blood was summoned up, leading to a sending off. Army teams were fitter than us and usually had at least 3 old sweats [some must have been nearly 35 years old!]. What these veterans lacked in mobility they made up in reading the game and employing some sophisticated body blocking techniques. One game, at Rheindalen against an army HQ unit, was notable for the marl pitch and the distance I flew when body checked by some grey haired old staff sergeant as I attempted to run past him. " Sorry mate" he said as I bounced off him and landed on the next pitch in a tangle of arms legs and stick. [I don't think he meant it, the sorry bit]

What surprised me when out in 2 TAF/RAF Germany was that the local German and Dutch civvies played hockey. In my ignorance I assumed hockey to be a solely British sport, introduced from India and confined to UK and the sub continent; what an insular upbringing I had had. The German and Dutch sports clubs ran 2 or 3 teams of skilled hockey players and of course both countries are past World and/or Olympic champions. RAF Geilenkirchen may have managed to beat these local clubs occasionally but we looked forward to the après game festivities rather than the game itself.

When posted to RAF St Athan I was unable to get a place in the station team. There was an abundance of riches at St Athan; The School of PT was a unit on the camp whose hockey playing Muscle Mechanics not only represented the RAF but also Wales. In such august company my BK medal counted for naught. Anyway I blew any chance I may have had when in a practise match I managed to cripple the RAF St Athan team captain by a mistimed, and misjudged, tackle. He was not best pleased and I was never invited to play again [I did say "sorry mate" but maybe he didn't hear me as he hobbled off the pitch to sick quarters]

Shortly afterwards I met my wife- to- be and that was the end of this sporting life.