My hockey story started, as most stories tend to in this section, in the pub. I’d been out on a Mikey Rayer (ask your parents) and at about 6pm found myself in The Lodge Pub. I’m not sure what it’s currently called, but it’s the one next to the WIS. It was relatively quiet until a large and very rowdy group entered. I recognised one of them as a colleague of mine, Stuart Brookes. For those who know Brookesy you’ll appreciate he’s not hard to spot, and a possible candidate for this section. Anyway, I went over to chat and after about 10 minutes I started helping myself to the jugs of beer. The jugs seemed abundant and I figured no one would notice, plus they seemed an affable bunch so if they did notice the threat of injury was low. However, I hadn’t factored in the beady eye of Mark Shelton who’d been monitoring events and when I moved in for my second pint, he swiftly intervened. After a brief exchange, I’d convinced him that I was an accomplished hockey player and was asking Brookesy how I could get involved. At this point I should clarify that I was 37 years old and had never picked up a stick in my life. Shelts took my number, I didn’t think he’d call, I didn’t know Shelts. I played the next weekend and within 5 years I was first team manager and went on to have a number of committee roles including Chairman. I am currently Athletic Club Rep, a position I’ve held for 16 years. So be careful who you steal beer off people.

For the first few years I happily hacked and tripped my way from weekend to weekend sometimes even attending training. Until one fateful night when the afore mentioned Mark Shelton and his equally manipulative sidekick Bill Hunt approached me in the Beverley. I should have suspected something when they didn’t point out it was my round. After plying me with cheap session larger and showering me with compliments they convinced me that I would be the ideal candidate for 1st team manager for the upcoming European competition. I was obviously delighted and ran home to wake up my family and tell them how important I’d become. What the press gang had neglected to tell me was that this trip was to Brest in Belarus. For the non-geographers Brest is about 1000 miles from Chernobyl, completely unaffected by the well-publicised disaster but a strong candidate for twinning. To get there took 4 hours on a coach, a flight to Warsaw, taxis across Warsaw and a train from Warsaw to Brest, including a 4 hour wait at the boarder where I had to bribe numerous officials with t-shirts and badges. The competition was fierce, the boys played well but we ended up playing the first game on finals day. An 8am push back is not ideal at the best of times, but against a team of Russian giants on a sticky uneven pitch in cold Eastern Europe it’s about as hard as it gets. Within the first 10 minutes we’d lost Chris Shaw and Stuart Blake with broken fingers and a badly cut eye respectively but we hung on. The upside of an early start is the amount of time it leaves for the social side of the sport. By 3pm Tim Jones had tired of drinking the perfectly palatable local beer and instead had chosen to join the homeless winos under the stand and partake in their moonshine. The end result of this being Tim mistaking the pavement outside the hotel as a sit-down WC. We had to rush to the train station before he had time to change the boxers that got in the firing line. The family he shared a carriage with are still receiving emotional support. All my trips as manager with the first team were memorable, including two to Prague and one to Paris and Zagreb. And they are all filled with stories but there’s nothing quite like the first time.