Accrington Web - Roy Whalley

I might end up regretting this, but I wanted to get something down before the day was out. My Dad died this morning after a couple of years grappling with the hellish condition that is stomach cancer. And I figured that this was the most appropriate place to say a few words, as he’s one of the main reasons that I call myself a Red.

He was one of the old school in that he was happy to see any of the local teams doing well, and from the age of six I was taken around the grounds of East Lancs every Saturday afternoon, the decision as to where to go often dictated by the opposition in town. I didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, but thanks to him (and my Mum’s Dad, too) I saw some of the great sides of the era: Robson’s Ipswich, Clough’s Forest, Paisley’s Liverpool, and Saunders’ Aston Villa – all on the cusp of their greatest achievements. But there was always an eye on the non-League sides too, as if to say: these lads deserve your support as well. We saw Great Harwood defeat Altrincham, easily the best non-League side of their day, and I remember a mad dash from school to get to the Crown for a teatime kick-off when Stanley faced Burscough in an end-of-season promotion clash. How many youngsters these days get that sort of football education?

But amidst the pleasure that he took from taking me around the local grounds, there was also a pessimism that I’m sure was rooted in 1962. He used to play at Peel Park for what I think was the version of the school town team, he used to call it the Accrington Juniors. There are a few photos of him in the 1950s de rigeur goalie’s uniform of roll-necked sweater and woolly gloves. He was an Accy lad who went to the Grammar School and lived and worked in the town until his 40s. But when he could occasionally be persuaded to talk about Stanley’s demise, his demeanour would change. He would lament the needlessness of the loss and the shame of resignation, and this instilled a sense of fatalism about his town that never really left him. And I don’t think he was the only one, not by a long measure.

Which makes me today happy at least that he lived to see Stanley return to the Football League. He never expected it to happen. Just before he left for a new life in Spain, we had happily watched Stanley finally make some progress under Phil Staley, but our last match at the Crown before he flew out was an evening game at the Crown where Stanley played out a draw in front of little more than 400 spectators. That was the natural state of things, it seemed.

But, of course, we were wrong. Despite the distance between us, he would phone most weekends wanting to know just how Coley kept on getting the results, marvelling at this new, steely Stanley side that began to establish themselves, first in the NPL, then the Conference, and then, scarcely believably, in the Football League. He threw a small party for the Bournemouth FA Cup replay, not suspecting the long drama that lay ahead – a small house in the south-east of Spain celebrating wildly (after far too many beers) as a penalty struck in the north-west of England rippled the net. He did make it back to the Crown for a League game, and, by an unlikely coincidence, saw Stanley play in Spain as the Reds turned up for a friendly against the local semi-pro team. (Unfortunately, the sangria had been flowing rather too freely, so he left that game rather unimpressed by some of the antics, but he did remark to me that he thought that only the lack of a few inches prevented Bavs from being a top keeper.)

But by the time of these last couple of games, the illness which would eventually take his life had probably started its murderous mission. He felt listless, used to get cold very easily and began to run short of the patience and toleration that he taught me were the prime virtues of the genuine football fan. He taught me much more too – to always give of your best, to be honest and fair, and to be kind to animals – and in that sense I hope I’ve never let him down. But in bringing me up as a football man, he never once contemplated that we might be better off going down the road to Old Trafford, and that lesson plays just as big a role as any of the others, and I’m just as thankful for it.

So: the next time you have a glass in your hand, feel free to raise it to Roy Whalley, an Accrington lad departed.