JOHN MACLEOD: A cup final derby to savour - if only the Hebridean rain would let up Click here to visit the Scotland home page for the latest news and sport By John Macleod Published: 15:59 EDT, 21 August 2024 | Updated: 15:59 EDT, 21 August 2024 e-mail View comments It has rained for most of today. For most of August. And, indeed, for most of 2024.
But, stoutly clad, this Friday evening I throw caution to the winds and do something I have not done in many years – attend a local football match. It’s Harris versus Westside, the final of the Co-op Cup – the coveted Lewis and Harris League trophy – and I am not sure who to support. My mother is from the West Side of Lewis, and I have deep roots there – but I lived in Harris for 12 memorable years and hold that high heart of the Hebrides in deep affection.
In the event, my mind is made up for me. By the time I reach Stornoway’s Goathill Park – the rain is now light and vertical – Westside fans, radiant in blue, have taken command of the only covered stand and I am stuck with the massed Harris support on the terraces. The Western Isles, although scenic, are often dogged by poor weather And there are a ton of Harris children, many very small, in red and black scarves, under red and black toories, waving little red and black flags and, in some engaging instances, even in red and black face paint.
And oozing hunger: Harris haven’t laid their mitts on football silverware since 2011. There are lads of voting age who cannot remember when a cup was last triumphantly borne home over the Clisham; one of tonight’s team was then still in Pampers. Though in strict geography the southern part of the same island, Harris is in many respects another planet.
Divided by lofty mountains, it was the 20th century before there was anything between Lewis and Harris one could dignify as a road and the two communities evolved quite separately. Harris folk are generally darker, speak different Gaelic, have a more classical West Highland accent and – thanks to some brutal 19th-century history: there were appalling Clearances – have a shyer, wilier approach to life than the loud, brash Lewisman. And, when their football team is on a roll, anything can happen.
Football is, of necessity, a summer sport in the Western Isles and its roots go back to the Great War when thousands of Hebridean lads were introduced to the beautiful game amidst respite from fighting the Kaiser. The sport fast took off at home on their return – Harris FC was founded in 1920; Westside in 1933 – and gave meaning and even dignity to many lads during the hungry Thirties. I eschew a seat, lean on the rail – the rain is now diagonal – and applaud with everyone else as the teams take the field.
In a touch that brings a lump to the throat, the Harris players stride out each with a child in hand and in a matching mini-strip, to the manifest discomfiture of their opponents. The wee ones rush excitedly back to Mam and Dad, and we’re off. Within minutes, it is evident Harris are playing better football and the pressure is on Westside, not least as one of their key defenders (sorry, cuz) is getting on a bit.
There was a good turnout for the Harris versus Westside cup final at Stornoway’s Goathill Park Meanwhile, a Harris sub, Kieran McNally, has chosen to jog gracefully round and round the perimeter rather than seize up on the chilly bench. He sails by me every three minutes, like the motorbike in Local Hero, as his dad and grandfather gaze proudly on. I glance back at the massed Harris support and recognise many faces.
Silvered hair, doubled chins, droopier countenances and generous tummies these days. No doubt some look back upon me and murmur, ‘See that Johnny Journo? He’s fair let himself go..
.’ There is some drama, a collision of studs and ankle, and a Harris player drops to the deck in writhing and entire agony. The referee, without hesitation, whips forth a red card.
The Westside villain leaves the pitch in downcast humiliation as the victim makes an entire recovery in a miracle of medical science. Westside are now down to ten men and, minutes later, Harris score, as we cheer and bay and ululate. The rain is no longer diagonal.
It is horizontal and water is already filling my boots. Westside do manage a couple of charges on the Harris goal. Unfortunately the Harris keeper is a magnificent Spaniard, a vision in fluorescent green and built on the lines of a small house.
Pedro Lagarto’s parents evidently didn’t stint on the jamón Ibérico and he makes two sensational saves. It’s half-time and I have lost all feeling in my feet. But, as play duly resumes, something is going seriously awry.
The pitch is awash. Every scurrying player has water fountaining from his boots, like a demented Gene Kelly. Amidst the cries of ‘Man on,’ and ‘Hanbaw!’ as the bored referee shakes his head, the ball is now refusing to roll.
Skied to a team-mate, it plops feet away and dead. There are desperate lunges. Players crash into each other, or lose their footing and topple backwards.
Amidst one midfield drama, three players fall on their muscular behinds at once. And then there is an odd lull. As we await a goal kick, there is no whistle.
Click here to visit the Scotland home page for the latest news and sport Advertisement The referee retires to confer with his linesmen. ‘What they on about?’ I guess immediately. ‘Abandonment of play? It’s getting pretty dangerous out there.
..’ Managers are now being consulted and, sure enough, minutes later the abandonment of the match ‘for player safety’ is announced.
And at once corrected. There will be a ten-minute break. At this point two little men emerge with a weighty roller and try to wring out the pitch.
It is now raining in rods. The roller advances with a bow-wave that would credit the Ullapool ferry, in an exercise as farcical as trying to save the Titanic with a mop. There follows half an hour of totally wasted time, as officials and coaches try to negotiate.
But behind this is stark Fifa-rules reality. This is not cricket or tennis. If the match is resumed, Harris – two goals and a man up – will almost certainly win; there are barely 27 minutes on the clock.
But, if the match is formally abandoned, the rematch will start nil-nil and with Westside fielding their full team. You don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to imagine who is pressing for what. In fact, the League had taken the precaution of booking an alternative all-weather pitch, not five minutes away, for this eventuality.
Harris youngsters are soon hollering, ‘Smith Avenue...
Smith Avenue...
’ To no avail: at a quarter past eight, the match is indeed abandoned. Westside lads smirk. Sodden, and understandably gutted, the considerable Harris support retire to their cars and buses.
I squelch back to my own motor, by the overflowing gutters. Days later, the rematch is confirmed: at Point Football Club, Garrabost, a week this Saturday. Hopefully one of those still, balmy August evenings we all know so well, the sky a bit hazy and without a puff of wind as lots of lads in shorts take to the field.
Every midge in the Outer Hebrides is already licking her lips in anticipation. Scotland Share or comment on this article: JOHN MACLEOD: A cup final derby to savour - if only the Hebridean rain would let up e-mail Add comment.
