A little side on the bit
Jordan O’Brien, a self-styled “supporter of a big four club” — but why be so coy, sir? — provoked a lively thread with his admission that he has what he calls a “second, hobby team”, something he defines as “a team that you have an affection for and root for whenever they are not playing against your own club.” The response to his missive indicates that most people pick their hobby side for either the most arcane of reasons or, better still, for no good reason whatsoever. Typical of the latter is my good friend, the Long Suffering Liverpool Supporter.
“Colchester,” LSLS instantly replied, when I asked if he had a hobby team. And for why? “No reason,” he admitted, “I just picked ‘em.” There’s no arguing with that. Nor, seemingly, with his dad whose hobby team is Sheffield Wednesday. “He texts me their results,” LSLS revealed.
This gets to the heart of love affairs with “the other team” for, as Tina Turner should have asked: “What’s logic got to do with it?”
I like to think I came by my hobby club in a manner which was both vaguely logical and logic-defying, an ideal approach to such a momentous life decision. Before revealing their identity, it’s important to understand that my first and only team were Shamrock Rovers, a youthful love affair which flourished as their great six-in-a-row side was completing its historic run in the FAI Cup. There was still a lot of glamour attached to the League of Ireland in those days so opting for the glorious Hoops was hardly an eccentric choice, even if most of my mates continued to plump for the usual suspects from across the water. Consequently, I did have to endure the rite of passage of being repeatedly asked who I “really” supported, as if my hero-worship of Milltown marvels like Mick Leech and Frank O’Neill could be dismissed as a mere affectation.
Still, I could see that it would bolster my credibility if I too had a “hobby” team, and while I would have dearly loved to name, say, Manchester United (“Yeah, I like to keep an eye on their attendance figures”), such sophisticated mind-blowing was beyond the ken of this nine-year-old.
Then, one fine day, the decision was made for me by the chance discovery that Queen’s Park Rangers had a player in their team who went by the name of... Mike Leach.
Okay, so it was Mike not Mick and Leach with an ‘a’ rather than a double ‘e’ and, of course, he didn’t score half as many goals as our beloved Leecher — but, no matter, he sounded almost perfect and, better still, his team played in hooped shirts too.
So QPR became, as it were, my little side on the bit, and an appropriately flirtatious choice they were too, failing to do anything hugely significant but always happy to parade a cast of great, maverick and occasionally wayward talents at Loftus Road, among them Rodney Marsh and the peerless Stan Bowles, not to mention El Tel, flying winger Dave Thomas and Ireland’s very own goal machine Don Givens.
But Mike Leach remained my core spiritual connection with the West London club and it was always a secret joy to see him name-checked in reports or, after grabbing a goal, pictured being congratulated by some of his more celebrated team-mates.
So who was he and what became of him? Local lad Leach was at Loftus Road for about 10 years, then had a stint in the States with Detroit Express before returning to England to finish his playing career at Cambridge United. His last job in football was a spell as a coach at Chelsea before, sadly, he died from cancer, aged just 44, in 1992.
On a Rangers website, a fan called Peter Koeing explains that he had been determined to attend every QPR game in the 1968-69 season and recalls how that ambition almost came a cropper when he had his wallet stolen on the train from London to a match in Manchester. Loudly pleading with an Old Trafford steward to be let in, he was unaware that the visitors’ bus had just pulled up alongside until he felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It was Mike Leach and, drawing Koenig to one side, he not only arranged a match ticket but also gave him enough money to get the train back to London, a journey all concerned with Rangers were only too eager to make after United had handed out a walloping 8-1 defeat.
On the final day of the league season five weeks’ later, Peter Koeing waited patiently outside the players’ entrance at Loftus Road to repay his debt.
“But Mike refused to accept my money,” he relates. “Instead he gave me enough cash for a few drinks and apologised for the team performance at Old Trafford — and suggested that it would have been better, for me, if I had never been there.”
It’s kind of hard to imagine such a scene nowadays, even if — indeed, especially because — Loftus Road is awash with filthy lucre as never before. No matter.
“Money comes, money goes,” writes Peter Koening, “but generosity and memories live forever.”
Sounds like the right choice was made for me.
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