BAZ BALL

Going from watching a professional on the terraces to partnering him in central defence is a dream fulfilled

By GLEN WILSON Illustration STEVE BEERLING

I’m 17, standing on a shallow-stepped terrace behind the goal at York Street, struggling for a decent view as beneath a damp autumnal gloom, Boston United are really hammering home that, once again, this won’t be Doncaster Rovers’ year. Hopes of a return to the Football League dashed before the clocks go back. Three-nil down, the game gone, this is no time for heroes. We get one anyway.

Onto the field strides an unfamiliar figure, blond hair in curtains, upright posture, kit pristine white while all about him are a muddy mess. The new signing doesn’t look like a defender; doesn’t play like one either. He’s calm and he’s composed, traits that, as a teenage Doncaster supporter, I’ve never witnessed in a centre-half before – ordinarily they’re brutal, clumsy or panicked, more often all three. Not this man. This is Barry Miller, and for the next two seasons he’d be the best thing in our Rovers- supporting lives. He started the next game, and the next one. Before the season was out he was captain and none of us could remember who he’d replaced. The lads on the Main Stand terrace, believing the only rock comparable to Barry was that of Gibraltar, nicknamed him “Covered in Monkeys”. The fanzine, ordinarily cautious, carried a special back cover pronouncing him a god, and on the Pop Side we worshipped him, literally; we’d extend our arms and bow our heads, chanting fake words of praise (“halaam, halaam”) whenever he glided past. An aspiring defender and one just about still young enough to harbour dreams of partnering him at the back, I’d ask myself “what would Barry Miller do?” as I lumbered round park pitches for the Donny R’sonists (Rovers’ supporters’ team). There was no better mantra, no better talisman. Barry repelled attacks without breaking sweat, led his team without alarm and joked with the fans as he did so. He lost his rag only once – sent off at Northwich for lamping Jimmy Quinn, and that was fine, we all wanted to.

Nothing could stop us so long as we had Barry Miller. And then his knee went, and went again, and he missed the entirety of what turned out to be our promotion season. Rovers let him go and as we moved on, up through the divisions, poor Barry hobbled on in the Conference for a couple more seasons until the pain no longer felt worth it.

Onto the field strides an unfamiliar figure, blonde hair in curtains, upright posture, kit pristine white while all about him are a muddy mess

I’m 31, waiting at the entrance to the Keepmoat Stadium. Under the guise of an interview for the fanzine I’m about to meet Barry for the first time and I’m fearful those who say you should never get close to your idols are right. What if my first club hero is actually a terrible human being? What if he’s a moron or he thinks I’m one? He’s Rovers’ club chaplain now, but that only really lessens the fear of the former.

Thankfully, inevitably, Barry proves great company. So much so that we become acquaintances. Whenever he sees me selling the zine he stops for a chat; at matches he calls out to me across stands (he shouts to me!); we stand together to watch a defeat at Wimbledon. I try to tempt him to turn out for the R’sonists, and he says “maybe, one day”. But then comes Covid, and the fanzine takes a back seat, and I move further away, and our paths cease to cross.

I’m 43 , sitting on a train to Doncaster, bracing my ageing limbs for a weekend football tournament with that same Donny R’sonists side, when our team WhatsApp pings. “Yeah, Baz’ll play.” It can’t be. Not that Baz. The message was too nonchalant. Not so much as a fire emoji. Nah, it won’t be.

Yet, come Saturday morning, there he is, sitting in the shade of a tree, knee strapped to the hilt as he ties on a pair of boots last worn in the Conference. I manage to play it cool; a handshake, a catch-up, the usual two-decade-old banter with the rest of the team. Then the line-up for our opening game: “Middle of defence, Baz and Glen.” I don’t hear the rest. Barry is 50 now, but he’s still Barry. He still floats across the pitch with a calm confidence, still reads the game like it’s in 72-point font. His positioning is perfect, and on the two occasions it isn’t, he sweeps up deftly, executing sliding challenges with such precision that I’m right back on the Pop Side – it’s hard to get into position for a throw-in when in your head you’re “halaam”ing the man next to you.

I’m a ropey centre-half these days, I only play 11-a-side once a year, only play football of any kind bi-monthly. But with Barry beside me proffering a stream of sage advice – “step this way”, “go to him”, “you can leave him” – I’m flush with newfound confidence. I win headers; I intercept passes; he says “good decision” to me! I control a ball falling from the clouds on my instep; I nutmeg a man. I don’t think I’ve nutmegged anyone since the 1990s.

Together we forge a near-formidable partnership; five games played, only one goal shipped. And sure, we’re doing so on a welfare ground dustbowl rather than the Belle Vue turf, but football is football. I’ve kept a clean sheet with Barry Miller; 43-year-old me is giddy, teenage me finally fulfilled. Maybe we all get what we wish for in the end. Not only should we go ahead and touch our idols, we should befriend them and defend corners with them. It’s what Barry Miller would do.