Roy of the Rovers - Total Football

Part 5

A superb Declan McKaffree free-kick rescued Walford Rovers from defeat against an Oldfield side forced to pay the price for missed chances.

Paul Bent set up Malick Diop's easy header for the opening goal before Andy Church headed home at the far post to level before the break. Bent's 51st-minute strike seemed to have secured victory for Oldfield. But McKaffree stepped up two minutes before the end and sublimely found the top corner to secure a valuable draw.

Walford looked likely to be heading towards their third league defeat of the season until McKaffree, their most creative force during an entertaining match, scored his first league goal for the club in his debut match. McKaffree's dramatic strike was even more of a surprise as the west Londoners have struggled in front of goal this season, scoring just once in the league before this match.

The draw will be a bitter pill for Oldfield manager Paul Rawson to swallow as his team, a constant threat on the counter-attack, were wasteful in the final third and failed to close out

The draw will be a bitter pill for Oldfield manager Paul Rawson to swallow as his team, a constant threat on the counter-attack, were wasteful in the final third and failed to close out the game when victory was nearly theirs.

Three points over his former employers on Rawson’s first return to West London since his sacking in November 2012 would have been a victory the former Portdean and Stroberg man would have savoured more than most.

Earlier this year, Rawson said he will continue to be judged on the 12-match winless run he had with Walford before his dismissal. But he has gradually restored his reputation at Oldfield, guiding the Northerners to a ninth-place finish last season, and even the draw ensured Oldfield, unbeaten away from home this season, are now enjoying their best run on the road since April 2010.

It was a ruthless counter-attack which gave Oldfield their opening goal. Boyhood Rovers fan Bent, minutes after ruining a great move with a poor pass, climbed above Andy Church to head across goal towards the unchallenged Diop, who headed home from four yards. Buoyed at scoring only their third goal of the season, Oldfield continued to break forward at pace through Bent and Ishaq Aknoulla. The latter nearly doubled his team's lead, shooting fractionally wide of the bottom corner after being put through by the energetic Aknoulla.

The Oldfield blueprint was going to plan, while Walford had to deal with the added complication of rising star Ross Warren departing the field in the 31st minute because of injury. But clumsy defending of a McKaffree corner before the break ruined Oldfield's game plan. Robert Young allowed Church to drift towards the far post and the defender headed home from an acute angle, despite the presence of three Oldfield players near the line.

After a breathless opening to the second half, Walford were soon in trouble again. Injury struck once more, with Maximiliano Molto replacing the injured Matthews, and the hosts were soon behind as a result of Bent's first league goal since March.

Aknoulla and Bent were again an irresistible combination as the Dutch winger, stealing the ball on the left, set his striker free to sweep home with a left-footed strike. A thunderous Joe Springer effort drew gasps from the visiting fans but Walford did not fall apart.

McKaffree and Nicky Morris went close, while questions will be asked of Young's man-handling of players inside the box. The hosts, however, could not manage a shot on target until McKaffree struck in the 88th minute to score the twelfth Premier League goal of his career against Oldfield.

Walford Rovers manager Kenny Davenport: "It was a vital point for us in the end. When you're 2-1 down with just five minutes to go you're delighted to come away with a point. It was a difficult day, it's been difficult all week. Ross Warren hadn't trained much, Phil Matthews hadn't trained for two weeks and Santos was injured on Friday. We were short in some areas but I thought we showed great character to keep going. It's good for the spirit that we didn't get beat."

Oldfield manager Paul Rawson: "There's a bit of frustration because, at the end, we haven't got maximum points which we deserved. Given that we feel our home form will improve markedly, we've got to be encouraged by (our away form). In terms of what we produced and chances in open play, we were the better team on the day but you need to manage the game and that's what we need to learn from."

* * *

As Declan McKaffree left the field at Walford Stadium he glanced gleefully into the main stand. Among the standing and clapping crowd were three blond heads, his wife Diana, her father Roy Race and his nephew. It was the youngest Roy’s first ever football match, who would have thought it, a Race making his debut anywhere but Mel Park? The Irishman took off his shirt, declining the offer of a swap with his former Rovers team-mate Robert Young, “Gotta give this one to the boy, Rob, sorry mate!” The Oldfield skipper laughed. Footballers were a funny bunch, in any other profession your first day at a new firm would not mean much, but to McKaffree making a new start in London, in the twilight of his career, in front of the nephew who idolised him, Walford Rovers 2 Oldfield 2 and his brilliant goal was a critical point in time.

After a quick shower, Dec asked his manager, the fierce Scot Kenny Davenport for permission to shoot off. Diana was going to have their housekeeper cook up a feast while the boys watched the evening match, Kingsbay versus Melchester Rovers. In spite of his reputation Davenport was a fair man and had no problem with players wanting to spend time with their families. If a younger player had asked to leave promptly he probably would have refused, citing the likelihood of a big night out. But with the message to keep it quiet, Declan was soon in the car park with his family.

“Great goal Uncle Dec!” young Roy shouted as his hero made his greetings, “No keeper in the world would’ve stopped that. It was the best free-kick ever!” As ever the boy exaggerated his uncle’s achievements, but the boy’s enthusiasm for the game was typical Race. “I dunno about that, little

man. Your Granddad scored plenty of good-uns for the Rovers! Thinking of Melchester, how long have we got to get home? It will be good to see how they get on, this season they’ve been a bit dull.”

Dull was quite the understatement, in their three league matches so far Melchester Rovers had been defeated by Castleton, two-nil, and drawn the next two games nil-nil. Johan Seegrun’s famed free-flowing football was yet to yield a goal. The Mel Park faithful were growing impatient and they were rumours of discontent in the dressing room. Following the goalless draw at home to Oldfield, boos again rang around the famous stadium. Seegrun had dropped the ineffective new signing, Marco de Loon, yet sensing his pace could change the game, withdrew club captain Jake Cheetham on the hour, switching to his preferred 3-4-3 for the first time in a competitive fixture.

“Do you think Jake will start today?” Declan asked Roy, “That was a strange decision to take him off last week.” Fifty-five thousand fans had gasped when the number nine appeared on the fourth official’s electronic board, “I hope so! If Johan doesn’t pick him, then my doubts about him will treble! But Jake has been poor this season, as have Powell and Lyons. Maybe the press are right, if they don’t want to play Seegrun’s way then he has to drop them! Either that or change his tactics and that would look weak. Knowing Johan, I expect him to play 3-4-3 tonight and really go for it!”

The McKaffrees’ new home was only a short drive from Walford Stadium. The smart family house was located on what had become known as “Millionaire’s Drive.” Dec had picked up the property for a bargain price from former Walford player Adil Tamer who had moved onto Portugal and was desperate to sell. While some of the Moroccan international player’s tastes were dubious, the Moorish style bathroom, spa and gardens had delighted Diana.

The living room, on the other hand, was ghastly, pale orange painted walls, faux tiled floors and shocking zebra throws over the three piece suite. Diana had already ordered the renovation, but for the time being the family would settle down among safari knickknacks and enjoy the build up to the match. The housekeeper was already cooking, fittingly fragrant North African smells drifted into the lounge; healthy, but interesting, the kind of food that Roy loved. He also loved Melchester Rovers and he was genuinely worried about the lack of progress shown under Seegrun. The Dutchman was supposed to be one of the very best managers, a unique character and great tactician. But it just was not working, Declan’s transfer to Walford revealed Seegun’s biggest weakness; man-management.

Strangely for someone who was a flair player, Johan was a disciplinarian as a manager. He had strange and sometimes illogical rules that his players had to abide by. He was big on fines, penalties ranged from discretions like not doing up a top button to wearing headphones on the team bus. The press loved it, Seegrun was putting the spoilt brat footballers back in their place. But many of the squad were quickly growing tired of his moodiness and school-teacher like approach. Divisions were emerging, senior players, Steve Daley and Nathan Daniels in particular, were fully behind the manager, while Richie Lyons and most of the other young stars were sick of the constant dressing downs and tellings-off.

Training was just not as fun as it had been when Derek Mostin was around. Results were poor, the matches themselves so dry and devoid of action. Melchester Rovers had always been a club that players longed to represent, to be a part of such a great institution was motivation enough. But Seegrun had made clear his desire to change the very soul of the club. Roy, Declan and family were now going to watch his latest attempt.

* * *

Locals will say that early September on the Costa del Sol is the most pleasant time of the year. Temperatures nowhere near as fierce as July and August, the sea is warm, the skies always bright blue and ripe figs can be plucked from their trees. John Rogers was enjoying the fruits of his own labour, as the overgrown gardens he had transformed into an allotment over the last month were already beginning to produce. Only radishes for now, the fastest growing vegetable, but John loved them, the perfect fresh and peppery accompaniment to an ice-cold bottle of beer. John was now drinking Alhambra Special that came in an ornate green glass bottle and was extra strong without losing its crisp taste. What a beer, he thought, “Why did I waste so much time on San Miguel?” he said aloud as he took a big swig.

Things were quieter now, British journalists reporting on the tragic traffic accident and death of five holidaymakers had long gone. Salares was in off-season mode, not that it really had a tourist season, but even the steady stream of walkers, in boots, carrying rucksacks and walking poles, had now reduced to a trickle, perhaps one group per day. But Rogers was not completely switched off, the plan of moving to the mountain village had been to live a quiet life, not to find himself in a situation where he had committed another incredibly serious crime. Yes, he would get away with it, like he had so many times in the past, but that was not what worried him. He was taking his medication again, the pills made him think rationally, meaning the return of guilt, meaning he had to drink heavily to numb his overactive brain.

His favourite way of switching off his mind was to reflect on simpler times. So again, under a parasol in his backyard John Rogers reached for his special folder:

July 31, 1991

STILL THE DARLINGTestimonial match – Eastgate 2, Glenrath Celtic 2

UNSEASONAL though the occasion may have been, one would not have dared say so to more than 10,000 Glenrath Celtic supporters who spent most of last night's John Rogers testimonial match at Eastgate Stadium in green-and-white celebration of their club's cause. This was important pre-season business for Eastgate too, but the London club took half the game to respond to their manager Peter Telford's warning that another battle with relegation in the forthcoming season would not be acceptable. With Jock McNab directing and another former Eastgate favourite, Alec Marshall, in suitably impish mood, the tone was set for a quick, slick and committed first half from the Scottish side to entertain a crowd of about 28,000 who provided £150,000 for Rogers.

Only nine minutes had passed when Marshall swerved a 25-yard shot on to the top of the bar; a minute later the former darling of the East End was celebrating, his shot having surprised Richards inside his near post after a clever one-two with Penny. Eastgate laboured despite having most of the possession but still managed to find Mears in promising positions. Twice Rogers fed him superbly, but each time, as with Karlsson's cross just before the interval, the striker could not find last season's predatory finish. Telford’s interval words had the immediate desired effect when Wdowczyk unaccountably passed straight to Rogers in the first minute of the second half and the resulting cross was jabbed simply home by Jones. Twenty-five minutes later Eastgate were ahead, after the substitute Dumfries pulled Jones down. Rogers’ penalty was blocked by Worthington, only for the veteran striker to force home the rebound. Celtic, as their fans

demanded, were not finished. Their response to the legions could hardly have been better: a superb 30-yard free-kick from Minski that beat Richards for sheer pace.

Eastgate – Richards, Miller, Martins, Giles, Graham, Eve, Mears, Poole, Jones, Rogers (Rose 89), Karlsson (Geofrey 46).Subs not used: Buchanan, Orchard.Scorers: Jones 48, Rogers 70.

Glenrath Celtic – Worthington, Stone, Kiernan, McNab, Brown (Dumfries 45), Minski, Packer, Penny (Derrick 80), Knox, Marshall, McCombie. Subs not used: Lee, Bruce, McLean.Scorers: Marshall 11, Minski 75.

Rogers thought a report on his testimonial match would have at least included some praise for his achievements over a long career. His contemporaries, Raich Williams and Steve Holland, although better players and regular international had never shared the affection of the Eastgate and wider football community that Rogers had. So he thumbed onto the last print out in the folder, his profile from the official Eastgate website:

John RogersJohn Rogers is a member of a small, highly-talented and yet highly unfortunate group of Eastgate players.

The cultured forward rose through the ranks in the East End and played 447 times during a 17-year spell - but he never got his hands on a medal.

Was he the best Eastgate player never to win a cup? Probably!

Rogers turned professional in 1976 and seemed feted to have a successful Eastgate career from the off. His debut came on April 17, 1977 when Bert Naylor’s much-changed side won 2-1 at Elm Grove.

He was a regular over the next ten or so seasons, becoming a firm crowd favourite in the process. His main weapons were his powerful shot, his agility and his fierce loyalty to the club.

Rogers played throughout the successful Littlewoods Cup run in 1985 but picked up an injury in training in the week of the final and sat out the dramatic day at Wembley, thus not receiving a winner’s medal.

He missed only one game in the side that was relegated in 1986/87, but was more of a peripheral figure in the seasons that followed. He was released in June 1992 and played five games at Brentfield before hanging up his boots for good.

He remains one of the most popular players to represent the Club in the past 30 years.

WHAT THE FANS SAID

"I remember John Rogers as a very cool, calm and collected player who had a great first touch and a thunderbolt of a shot. He could also put his foot in. Very underrated player who played a huge part in the success of the early 80s. A true Docker!" Barry Easton, Mile End

"I saw John make his debut as a teenager at Elm Grove in 1977. A week before the FA Cup Semi-Final with Carford it was a game in which Eastgate fielded six 'reserves'. Rogers played absolutely superbly in a 2-1 victory. Eddie Hamilton later recalled that this defeat was his most embarrassing derby day defeat ever." Duncan Bradley, Brentfield

Obviously John Rogers the footballer was held in high regard by the fans of Eastgate. However few would ever know of his other transgressions. The reasons why in the early 90s he found himself involved in the last years of old-fashioned organised crime in Central London. Between 1988 and 1994 the balance of power was shifting. Gangland bosses from the 60s were serving long sentences and those that were not had lost the appetite for risk. They had made their money and were happy to live a quiet life in the suburbs.

Throughout his career, Rogers had been associated with one of the nastiest crime families in the country. Proud Eastgate fans, the Flaxens were a fearsome bunch, who of course adored John, their club’s longest serving and most loyal player. For the last eight years of his career, John had his kit sponsored by Tommy Flaxen, the gang’s leader and enforcer. During this time they became quite close. For Rogers it was always an uneasy relationship, he knew what the Flaxens were doing and the methods that they used to achieve their goals. While not in the Premier League of London criminals, Tommy Flaxen had ordered killings, had beaten rivals himself and probably, although never confirmed, pulled the trigger on at least one of his foes. He had that classic gangster aura, appearing confident and jolly one moment, but always capable of switching to monster-mode the next.

It was a typical Sunday in the spring of 1992. John Rogers was invited to join the Flaxens at an East End pub to celebrate Eastgate’s victory over old rivals Gatesfield the previous day. Of course he could not refuse and risk offending a dangerous man and his family. So reluctantly at around six o’clock in the evening, John arrived, parking his Jaguar outside the rundown pub. A tall ginger man in an ill-fitting suit and dark glasses was guarding the collection of five or six classic or expensive cars lined up in the side street beside The Eight Bells, and he nodded at Rogers knowingly, “Car will be safe here, Mister Rogers!” John handed him a rolled up fiver and shook hands with the man he knew only as Lee.

John looked around nervously, as he always did before entering this particular pub. The street was near deserted, rubbish and litter from the popular street market that had packed up a few hours before, blew haphazardly between the parked cars. A piece of plastic wrapped itself around John’s left leg; he tried to kick it off, but to no avail. So he stopped, leant against a parking meter and pulled the cling film away, tossing it into the breeze.

He did not know it now, but moments later, John would realise that slight delay to his arrival would prove pivotal to the rest of his life. There was a commotion, glasses breaking, aggressive shouting, swearing and finally a loud bang or perhaps two. Two masked men barged their way through the saloon bar door, splintering it on its hinges. A small glazier’s van sped into view, screeching to a halt just yards from Rogers. It was now the footballer realised what a problematic situation he was facing. The pub was emptying rapidly, half a dozen of the Flaxen clan armed with chair legs and snooker cues were organising themselves into a fighting mob. John was blocking the only route to the getaway vehicle, Lee appeared beside him looking up for the fight, snarling, tie loosened, “Come on then! You want some?” the big ginger man screamed as he bounced from foot to foot like a deranged Muhammad Ali.

The mob from the pub had grown to two dozen. They advanced in an organised manner, breaking into a semi-circle, two deep, most with weapons in hand. Lee was skipping, in boxer mode, hands up, ready. John stood like a lemon, he thought, hands draped by his side. He could not have looked less up for a fight. Then it was on, the two gunmen broke into a sprint, aiming straight for Rogers. The mob roared and charged, bottles flying, none connecting with anything but pavement. Then another loud bang, an ear-splitting sound from the rear. Rogers span around. Leaning from the open rear doors was another masked man, this one holding a shotgun, sawn-off, smoking.

There was silence. Who was shot? No-one, thought Rogers, he was leaning flat against the closed shutters of a newsagents, Lee was sprawled over a parked car’s bonnet. The two rival gunmen were already in the van, which soon sped off. The mob stood stunned, the only noise coming from heavy breathing and various weapons being dropped onto the floor. Then in what seemed like seconds, sirens. The Police, no ambulances, an unmarked car, two unmarked cars, no four arrived in no time at all. Suspicious, thought John, how? No-one from the pub would have called and residents in this part of town would have known not to. Something very dodgy had just gone down and he was a big part of it, a key witness. A famous footballer, a former England international, mixed up in a gangland shooting, it would not make good press. But that was the least of his worries, right now he was being shoved into the back of one of the police cars, pools of blood forming in the palms of his hands as handcuffs applied far too tightly tore into his wrists. He surveyed the chaotic scene on the street outside. He counted; there must be over thirty policemen buzzing around. Most of the mob were sat in plastic cuffs in a circle in the road, which was now cordoned off. Fifteen minutes must have passed before a copper joined John in the car, “What are you doing here? Don’t worry John we’ll have you away in minute of two.” John nodded appreciatively as an ambulance finally arrived. The paramedics were not rushing, suggesting there was no need to, either no-one was seriously hurt or the one man missing from the gang outside, Tommy Flaxen, was dead already.

Rogers was driven home by the same member of the Flying Squad who had first arrested him. The policeman was very apologetic about the cut wrists, but insisted that they had to rough him up to avoid any hint of favouritism. These gangsters were a paranoid bunch, if John was let go or seen to be treated differently they could draw all sorts of conclusions, the most dangerous one being that John Rogers was a grass. If that was so, he would soon follow his friend Tommy to an early grave. But that was exactly what did happen, Rogers was a wanted man. Not wanted by the police, but by his former friends. Not the most educated or brightest of people, the remaining members of the Flaxen gang somehow managed to blame John for the murder of their father figure. His inaction in

the face of two armed killers was seen as a betrayal. Tommy’s volatile son, Paul, made it clear that it was Rogers who prevented the immediate revenge and justice that the police would never dish out. As time passed and no-one was charged, the Flaxens’ anger grew. Rogers took the flak. He tried to be calm and carry on as normal, but wherever he went some gangland character would make himself known: in a restaurant, in the training ground car park, in his local pub. Unable to sleep and suffering from interminable paranoia, there was only one solution: a face-to-face meeting with Paul Flaxen.

Paul, the new general of the fading Flaxen gang, lived in a modest townhouse in the Docklands, real Eastgate territory. The only evidence of his family’s wealthy past, his ageing red Ford Capri, was parked up in his personal space. John pulled his Jaguar alongside. Ginger Lee stood casually on the doorstep. “Alright John?” he asked. “Not too bad, just need to sort this out. Clear the air.”

John followed Lee into the lounge, Paul got up from his chair, a false smile and handshake followed. Wearing a tracksuit and brilliantly white trainers, Paul Flaxen had never been as smart as his father, this look and his near illiteracy had made the younger Flaxen the laughing stock of gangland London. Petty feuds and numerous brawls were Paul’s way of showing who was boss. Tommy would have been cutting business deals rather than cocaine and faces. This meeting was not going to end well; Rogers knew he would end up handing over a massive amount of money, being beaten or agreeing to do something daft.

Sat in the corner at the dining table was a man who John recognised but had never officially met. Paul spoke, “Let’s cut to the chase; you let me down, John, and you need to repay me for that.” The thug slumped back into his chair, “Things haven’t been going well; we’ve lost face, we’ve no money and I need money. We need something fresh, a new start somewhere else. I want revenge and then I want to disappear. All of us are in on this, even you. Remember you owe us!”

John did not dare speak, “We’ve got a plan. I’ll let Geoff here explain. Have you met?” Rogers shook his head, “Well, this is Geoff Miles, he’s our intelligence man. He reckons that we need to act fast, before someone pops me off!” Miles turned to face the window, gazing out, “Here’s the plan; we need funds, that’s where you come in,” he nodded at John, “You’re a rich man and you’ve lots of rich friends at that football club. I want names, addresses, assets, things you already know. If you don’t know, find out and soon. I want times, when will their homes be empty? Training schedules, away games, holidays. Got it?”

“You’re going to rob my friends?” the question was rhetorical, “I know what’s coming next, so don’t bother telling me. I’ll give you that info, but then you leave me be, yes?” Miles shook his head, “Maybe,” he muttered, “That will be down to Paul.”

The following week seven of the Eastgate first-team squad were burgled. Geoff Miles’ contacts sold on furniture, electronics, flashy cars, even medals. There was no trail. Paul Flaxen had his money, so went after his enemies. In one night, three dead and two seriously wounded. In the next twenty-four hours, the Flaxen gang had disappeared completely. Only one man remained, John Rogers, he dealt with the police, telling them everything they needed to know. In return he was given anonymity, never to be publicly revealed as a witness or perpetrator. But he knew he would never be safe, he too would have to move on. After a short spell at Brentfield, John Rogers was gone too.

Storky Knight

NEXT – Melchester Rovers versus Kingsbay and a shock for John Rogers!