1985-94 Jez Sherman
Mr Wobbly And Co Take Charge
What makes a great team? You could fill a book on that one and some have tried. To me, it is many things. But one thing is sure — the Polytechnic side I was privileged to play for from 1985 to 1994 was great. It was a team with a strong bond — and its own language! This was largely unintelligible either to the players or anyone else and led by the still largely unintelligible Fred Eastman, who refused to call anyone by his proper name.
The side comprised a mix of university students, ex-graduates, the unemployed (Andy Wheatley, or Half Price as he was known) and the unemployable (Phil Gilham and Phil Hallwood, aka Tandoori and Punchbag, now captains of industry). Change was sweeping through the club as Terry Bensted was just about to retire from coaching (or abusing the team) and Punchy, having realised his playing days were over before they even started, was taking over.
At the outset, there were Jerry Birmingham, Rob Eastman, John Clark, myself, Phil Gilham, Kev Roberts, Fred Eastman, Chris Taylor, Andy Knight, Phil Hallwood and Aris the Greek — Mr Wobbly, Snobby, Rambo, Baldrick, Tandoori, Rhino, Frodo, Ethnic, S4B, Punchy and Aris. Later, Gary Simons, Alan Anderson, Barry Davison, Pete Love and a string of others joined us. Not a bad team really!
Poly were constantly accused of being a clique. And we were — it was one of the things that made the team. Here was a core of guys who trained together every single day. Sessions could be explosive. The mix of the arrogant, the self-righteous, the foreign and downright bloody-minded meant that everything was done at 100 per cent.
I remember resurfacing from the pit following a good thumping by one of the senior pros, wondering why I hadn't been given a foul. The answer was obvious — at the other end, Malacca (another foreigner) was reffing and, having thrown the flags at a player for arguing with him, had promptly jumped in (still fully clothed) for a dust-up. This kind of event was commonplace.
By 1988, every Poly player was involved in a national team of some description, bringing us into touch with foreign coaches such as Pete de Schwartz and Rob Haemskirk. Pete loved the old style coaching — shouting, fear, bullying and occasionally encouraging while Rob was into mind games and yellow brick roads (a blast from the past for those of you who were there).
However, both taught us that the game is played from basics and encouraged us to improve our techniques. The first time we were told it was possible to get across the Palace in three leg kicks, we looked at him as though he was a bug-eyed monster (Drugsy later went on to conquer one of those after a particularly bad session in the London Hospital bar). We took these techniques (and monsters) back to the club and worked on them as a group.
Another great Poly strength was an ability to drink together. Every Friday night, we met in the Hospital bar. Many years later, the head barman informed us that the polo boys drank more Stella over a weekend than the rest of the union consumed during the week. Jerry's consumption was legendary, as was that of his drinking partner Rambo. Snobby was the swiftest over eight while Ads was usually a mess after five. Nevertheless, ten was always the target. I always felt the ability to drink was related to the amount of training we did. The harder we trained, the more we could drink. Boy, those Sunday afternoons after GB training were heavy!
Dedication to training and strength in depth started to produce results. When the Deep Water Championship was launched in 1987, we lost out on goal average one year and goal difference the next after some great battles with Portobello, Sutton and Penguin. Incidentally, referee David Bathurst was at his best at this time, perfecting his “I’m going to give a penalty for that” decision. Mind you, most were justified. Funny thing was he used to argue the toss over them. Ah, how we miss the good ol’ days.
Finally, we managed to crack the title — with five more in a row to follow. We also won the league and cup numerous times and became the first club to do the triple.
Poly also attracted numerous foreigners. This was because we played European competition every year — and were one of few English clubs people had heard of. Main aim was to reach the European Cup second round. With two great pit men in Jerry and Snob, we made the mistake of going 2-1 up against the Russkies when Snobby scored a left-handed back-hander. Despite Freddie's “don't panic” reassurances, we still lost 15-3.
Playing in Europe required a zone, playing at home a press — and therein lay a quandary. Whenever we practised a zone in small UK pools, we gave goals away — yet in large pools abroad we were never strong enough to mark the pit man when pressing. We mastered several zones, but the strength of the outside shooters abroad always exploited us. We played all the big teams — Spandau, Ferencvaros, Dinamo Moscow (cries of: “You try wrestling with The Alligator — he’s too big for me” and “He was too big for me as well’), Barcelona etc. These guys were no better than us technically — they just practised more (up to six hours a day).
In 1993, we cracked it - second place after beating the Finns and Slovenians. Ah, but not quite ... because, as the Slovenians had played only two foreigners against us (not the four they brought), the delegate ordered a 9am re-match the following morning. After that, we were to face Spandau at noon. Needless to say, we had a few beers and, deciding we were being persecuted, refused to play. Funnily enough, the game was awarded to the Slovenians and we were back to square one, even after appealing. It's true — they are out to get you.
Whatever the situation we always had a laugh. I recall when our fiscal directors (Messrs Gilham and Knight) lost a lot of our dollars exchanging them for a few Rumanian sheckles in some dodgy Bucharest back street; there was the great Muesli disaster of 1987 (ask Rhino); camel riding and earthquakes in Cairo; Sizzo and Rhino’s asses bobbing up and down whilst head to head in a camel race. One year, we drew Porty away in the cup and drove to Edinburgh. Aris, who could never make it through a game if David was reffing, commented: “In Greece we fly” — and another great catch phrase was born.
We were true amateurs (paying approximately £1,000 to play for GB in 1991), travelling all over Europe and having a great time. The experience certainly broadened our horizons — playing at the Olympic Stadium in Barcelona shortly before it opened, for example, but also in some of the nastiest, dirtiest pools in existence in Bulgaria and Malta (the sewage used to float along the bottom of the old Sliema pool, which always encouraged us to keep our feet up, even when resting). But through it all, we managed to play some decent polo.
At the time, polo was our lives and girlfriends all got left behind (apart from the odd sharing of ex's — strange that!). One thing stuck out above all the training and coaching — AWARENESS. You can't teach it!
Jez Sherman, from NWPL The First 40 Years, June 2002