East
Fife Mail, December 11, 1991
Remember when Scotland won the World Cup in 1967?
I know the tournament was in 1966 but then we beat the champions, though for the life of me I can't remember their name so, fair's fair, the title was ours.
Well a few months later Leven Prom set the scene for a local sporting triumph which, until this day, has never been recounted.
The venue for this this great spectacle was the stretch of grass between where Doriano's hut stood and what is now a car park at the west end.
On one side were a group of local lads and on the other, well they were off one of the buses which visited Leven on regular day trips from the west.
We used to wait and watch them roll in and roll off, winklepickers, Brylcream, sharp suits, accompanied by wives and girlfriends in high-heels and short skirts.
The Glasgow boys, after a few refreshing glugs of Export, would treat their women to a Sweetheart Stout and an ice cream, then off would come the jackets, in piles a few paces apart, out would come the football and, suddenly, it was Hampden.
That was our cue.
“Fancy a game,” one of us would shout.
“Aye, a'right then”, a Brylcreem-slicked winklepicker would usually reply and we'd duly line up, with a few of the day trippers swelling our ranks.
This time they were a motley looking bunch and I was given the job of marking this wee red-haired fellow on the wing who was always latching on to long passes from the big midfielder, whom everybody seemed to listen to.
There's no doubt about it, they had a few good players but we got stuck in under the shadow of the power station.
The Glasgow boys, after a few refreshing glugs of Export, would treat their women to a Sweetheart Stout and an ice cream, then off would come the jackets, in piles a few paces apart, out would come the football and, suddenly, it was Hampden.
That was our cue.
“Fancy a game,” one of us would shout.
“Aye, a'right then”, a Brylcreem-slicked winklepicker would usually reply and we'd duly line up, with a few of the day trippers swelling our ranks.
This time they were a motley looking bunch and I was given the job of marking this wee red-haired fellow on the wing who was always latching on to long passes from the big midfielder, whom everybody seemed to listen to.
There's no doubt about it, they had a few good players but we got stuck in under the shadow of the power station.
I remember they took the lead and this red-haired winger was giving me all sorts of problems but, whether it was because of the Export or my boots with only two studs, he seemed to fall about laughing a lot and, come the second half when we swapped ends, we got on top and, by tea time, after 20 minutes one way and 130 minutes the other, I'm sure we were in front 23-17.
By this time the women had lined up and were giving our opposition some stick so it was decided to call full-time.
Their wee goalkeeper, agile but without teeth, as he joined the rest of his mates to return to the bus, apparently said to Tom that theý thought we should have been playing in Lishbon.
“What's Lishbon?” Tom asked on the way up the road.
“Do you no ken what Lishbon is?” said one of the others. “That's that new continental formation wi' a skaffie.”
“Ye mean a sweeper, ye puddoch,” said someone else.
“Aye, but whit he was sayin' was that we should've been playin' it,” came the exasperated reply.
“Who were they anyway?” another asked. “They had some decent players.”
"I asked the wee goalie," said Tom, "and they were a works team, I think, fae Glasgow, but I cannae mind their name. Oh aye, they said they was fae Sheltick."
By this time the women had lined up and were giving our opposition some stick so it was decided to call full-time.
Their wee goalkeeper, agile but without teeth, as he joined the rest of his mates to return to the bus, apparently said to Tom that theý thought we should have been playing in Lishbon.
“What's Lishbon?” Tom asked on the way up the road.
“Do you no ken what Lishbon is?” said one of the others. “That's that new continental formation wi' a skaffie.”
“Ye mean a sweeper, ye puddoch,” said someone else.
“Aye, but whit he was sayin' was that we should've been playin' it,” came the exasperated reply.
“Who were they anyway?” another asked. “They had some decent players.”
"I asked the wee goalie," said Tom, "and they were a works team, I think, fae Glasgow, but I cannae mind their name. Oh aye, they said they was fae Sheltick."
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