Nostalgia: The glory of the game

Orchard Road was more than just an address — it was a living, breathing community where every house had a story, every family a heartbeat, and every laugh seemed to echo down the road long after the moment had passed.

Our little home at 23 Orchard Road sat right next door to the Cann family — and what a family they were.

Mr. Cann, the grandfather, was the sort of man who carried quiet authority. He didn’t need to shout to make himself heard — his presence on the touchline said it all. Always in his flat cap, hands behind his back, eyes scanning the pitch like a general watching his troops. He ran Hele Rovers Reserves, and I had the honour of playing for him before I drifted back to rugby. He was old school — knew his football, knew his players, and had that rare gift of making a young lad feel ten feet tall.

His passion was infectious. He had Colin and Shirley, with Moena, Gena, Roger, and young Darren, and David — the Cann family were woven into the very fabric of Hele Village life. We had some laughs together over the years, good times that you only appreciate later in life.

It was my brother-in-law, Derek Chalk, who talked me back into playing football after Roger Cann left Hele to join Watcombe. Derek could be persuasive when he wanted to — always half-smiling, half-serious, and he reckoned the team needed a steady hand at the back. I agreed, though I had no idea how much fun we were going to have in those days.

Hele Rovers might not have had the glamour of the big clubs, but we had something far more valuable — heart. And players who could really play. Joe Mead, for one — what a talent. He could bend a ball with the outside of his boot as sweet as any professional you’d see on Match of the Day. Keith Stuckey, pure class, the sort of player who made everything look effortless. He should’ve gone professional — I’ve no doubt about it. Then there was Alex Roffey, calm and composed; Carl Blockridge, who could boss the midfield; Phil German, dependable and steady; and Roy Stuckey, strong as an ox and as loyal as they came. We had a side full of quality and spirit, and you felt proud to pull on that shirt every Saturday.

One match still stands out clear as crystal in my mind — a game down at Meadowbrook. They had this lad known as Clicky — tough as nails and talented to match. I was in goal that day, the pitch was heavy, the game on a knife’s edge. A cross came in from their winger, the kind of teasing ball that goalkeepers dread. I got my fingertips to it, just enough to push it out to the edge of the box. Clicky was waiting there like a coiled spring. He met it first time — a thunderous volley that was destined for the top corner.

Time seemed to slow. Instinct took over. I leapt, arched my back, and somehow, with one hand, managed to flick the ball over the bar. For a second, no one moved — then the whole team erupted. Derek ran over shouting that he’d never seen a save like it. He said Peter Bonetti had nothing on me that day! Keith Stuckey still reminds me of it even now, though he’s quick to point out that I could save the impossible — and somehow let the easy ones in!

That was the joy of it though — the unpredictability, the laughter, the camaraderie that bound us all together. We weren’t playing for fame or money — just for pride, for the shirt, and for the sheer love of the game.

And around the football, the community thrived. Hele was alive in those years — Freddy King ran the Vivo shop, always good for a bit of banter when you popped in for a loaf or some flags. Mr. Clements had the fruit and veg shop, his displays on the pavement as bright and tidy as his personality. May and Colin ran the paper shop on the corner, and if you went in on a Saturday morning, you’d be sure to hear someone chatting about the match later that day.

The pubs were our meeting points — The Standard Inn, The Buff, The Con Club — places where stories grew taller and saves got better with every retelling. Hele had that kind of magic: everyone knew everyone’s business, but everyone cared too.

Looking back now, it feels like a golden time — when loyalty still mattered, when a pint and a good laugh were enough, when football was played for joy. Hele Rovers, Hele Spartans, Acorn Youth — it didn’t matter what team you wore the colours for; the pride was the same.

Sometimes, I walk through Hele now and catch myself glancing toward Orchard Road. I can still see the Canns’ house, hear Mr. Cann calling from the touchline, and feel the sting of that Meadowbrook volley on my fingertips. Those memories haven’t faded — they’ve settled deep, like roots that keep you grounded no matter how far life takes you.

Orchard Road was more than a street — it was a chapter of my life I’ll never forget. A place where neighbours were friends, football was a way of life, and laughter echoed long after the final whistle.

They say you can’t go back, but sometimes all it takes is a memory — the smell of cut grass, the sound of studs on gravel, or the sight of an old teammate’s grin — and for a moment, you’re there again. Back on the field. Back in Hele. Back where it all began.