Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley (3 page)

They say revenge is a dish best served cold. Unfortunately for me, this was literally the case when I encountered my first junior school bully. I had just entered the first year, and was one day sitting down to eat my dinner, when the resident bully homed in on some new prey, and fired a mouthful of spit on my plate. There was no segregation or special privileges for first-year kids in those days – we had to eat our dinner with the rest of the school, meaning that this little incident was likely to repeat itself again and again. I’m not ashamed to say that at that age I was scared shitless and didn’t dare say boo to a goose, at least not to this bully, who was three years above me. I kept quiet about it and didn’t even tell my parents, but such silence inevitably starts the ball rolling, and soon enough your pretending to have a stomach ache
or various other medical problems in order to get out of going to school.

It kept on happening. It must have made the fucking pig feel tough, even though he was picking on someone much younger than himself. Eventually I told my parents. Like my initial scrap with the bully on the street corner, I enlisted their help to take yet another bully’s scalp. My parents were good friends with the family of an older lad at the school called ‘Collo’. His real name was Michael Collins and, like his famous Irish namesake, he knew how to have a scrap. Dad must have said something as he came back the same night and instructed me to go over to Collo tomorrow at playtime, tell him who I was, and point out the lad picking on me. He went on to say that Collo’s father would be putting Collo wise as to the situation. The next day, at morning break, I looked for Collo because I couldn’t bear the thought of another dinner with spit in it. I certainly needed to beef myself up, but at this rate I was slimming down like a national WeightWatchers champion! I spotted Collo in the schoolyard and went over to see him.

‘Hi,’ I blurted out, ‘I’m Richard and my dad was at your house about someone spitting in my dinner.’

He replied, ‘I know, show me who he is.’ We looked around the yard. I spotted him instantly and yelled out to Collo, ‘THERE HE IS!’

The tables had been turned against my predator.
Collo ran over and grabbed him. He pointed at me and then growled in his face, ‘If I were you, I would stop picking on him. And don’t ever spit in his dinner again.’ Then followed an unmerciful beating. And I mean unmerciful. Collo gave the bully one hell of a savage walloping, and practically kicked him from one end of the yard to the other. You should have heard the pig scream! Excuse the pun, but I can only admit that the bully got his just desserts. Nevertheless, while this should have filled me with happiness, I could only feel like shit, as I felt like I had been the cause of it all. Then again, Mam and Dad were glad when I told them what had happened. If Collo ever reads this, I’d just like to say ‘thank you’, you did me a big favour. By taking out this bully, you allowed me to eat all my dinners undisturbed!

As a general rule I can’t tolerate bullies, but I guess you could say that even fairly solid people have a tendency to do the odd bit of bullying. There was a lad called David who lived at the end of our block, who used to bully a kid called Tommy from over the road. David kept on calling him names, nothing physical mind, but then again, these were some nasty names! David didn’t realise, however, that Tommy had a boiling point, which he hit one day after a flurry of insults. Tommy had had enough. The lid on the pressure cooker blew right off. He ran over the road like a madman and started laying into David, ramming
home a flurry of fists in his face. David ended up in tears, but he did learn a valuable lesson that day. To my knowledge he never picked on or underestimated anyone ever again.

After that little lesson, David and I got to be good friends. We used to ride our bikes together around the neighbourhood. This wasn’t long after the film
Easy Rider,
which exerted quite a bit of influence on me, and instilled a longing for a Harley Davidson chopper motorcycle. I wanted to imagine myself as one of the film’s lead characters, either Wyatt or Billy, played respectively by the excellent Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper. The closest I got to realise this dream was back in 1971 when the Chopper bicycle was the craze throughout the nation. The big padded seat was comfortable for your backside, and even had gears! It really didn’t take a big stretch of the imagination to think of yourself as one of the gang from
Easy Rider
on a Harley. Every time that I saw someone riding a Chopper, I just used to stare at the bike and wish that it were mine. Luckily for me, I didn’t have to wait too long.

Christmas mornings followed a familiar pattern in our house. Just as the sun was rising, my mam and dad would shout up to me from downstairs to look out of the window. They’d shout, ‘There’s Santa.’ Dad would ring a bell and pretend that it was the sound from Santa’s sleigh.

I would excitedly jump out of bed, and look out of the
bedroom window into the dark morning, fully expecting to see Santa and his reindeers magically flying through the air. Maybe he would even spot me and give a wave. ‘I can’t see him,’ I’d proclaim in sadness. Then the bells would stop. He must have gone to someone else’s house, I would think, but I also knew that he hadn’t forgotten me. I’d run downstairs and into the room whilst still in my pyjamas, and start opening the prezzies. The excitement was unbelievable and my parents used to buzz as they watched my face beaming up at them in joy.

This Christmas, however, was slightly different. I was playing with my presents when my parents told me to go into the kitchen to see what I wanted for breakfast. ‘You just pick me something,’ I snapped, but they insisted I had a look. I rushed to the kitchen just to get this chore out of the way so that I could get back to my prezzies. ‘I’ll have Ready Bre …’ I was then frozen in my tracks by the sight of something that I shall never forget! There it stood in its entire glory, gleaming, brand spanking new and blue. This was the present I had been dreaming of, the one I had asked Santa for in my letter to him, but never thought I’d actually get. A Chopper bike! There was a card attached to it that read: ‘From Mam, Dad and Santa’. I wanted to jump straight on it and go out for a ride but Mam and Dad said, ‘Have some breakfast first, and then get ready.’

Were they kidding or what, have some breakfast first?
I couldn’t wait to get out on it and show it off to the other kids. I gulped down my brekkie, and rushed out the door on my Chopper. I went straight over to David’s, eager for him to see my new Chopper, so that he’d wish that he could have one just like it too. David’s door opened and I waited in anticipation for him to come out. He came out first and then his dad followed with … David’s new bike! When I saw it, I nearly fell off mine. I couldn’t believe it. It was a brand spanking new gleaming blue replica of my Chopper! What? He had one too! They were so similar that you couldn’t tell them apart. In the end, David’s dad got him some stickers with his name on in order to tell the two bikes apart so that we would stop fighting over whose bike was whose.

This, however, did not put an end to our fighting. One day we each had a rope with a knot in the end, which we started swinging at each other with complete abandonment. The idea was to try and land first blood. We were aiming full-blooded swings at each other, gradually getting closer to the target. Then BANG! I caught him square in the face with my knot. The screaming soon followed, and his dad came out and took him inside for much-needed medical attention. We didn’t fight much after that. As I went home victorious, I knew I wouldn’t be having any trouble with him again.

Some things never change. Sport will always exert a big influence on boys, and I was no different. My love affair with football began when I was six. My dad would take shots at me with a football on the grass outside our house. I loved being a goalkeeper, owing in the main to my idolisation of the current England goalie, Gordon Banks. I had a big scrapbook dedicated to him. Dad got in on the act too, as every time he took a shot he would shout, ‘Save this one, Banksie.’ I was shattered when Banksie lost an eye in a car accident in 1972, at the height of his abilities, when he was undoubtedly the world’s number one. He did try to make a comeback in America for a time, but later said that he felt like a bit of a circus act: ‘Roll up, roll up! The world’s only one-eyed goalkeeper.’ And so he retired from football for good. If he
wanted another eye, all he had to do was ask and he could have had one of mine. That’s how much I idolised him.

All that practice with my dad eventually paid off, as by the time I was eight I had become an established goalkeeper, and was probably the best in the town for my age. Halfway through my first year at junior school, my parents sent me to another school, as they thought it offered a better education. My new school had a great football culture, where everyone would turn up to watch the ‘A’ team play – always a real occasion. The strip was light blue with a white hoop around the neck and wrist, light-blue shorts and socks – a Manchester City lookalike strip. The goalkeeper’s jersey, which I longed to wear, was solid black. My good performances in sports lessons quickly got noticed, and I didn’t have to wait long to break into the side.

By the time I entered the third year, I was getting games for both the ‘A’ and ‘B’ teams. And luck had it that my first game for the ‘A’ team was against my former school. This turned out to be a good baptism for me, and we came away with a 2-2 draw. Strangely enough, we played each other again a few days later when our ‘B’ teams met. The opposition started moaning as soon as they realised that I had played in the earlier game for the ‘A’ team. We argued back that the only reason I had played then was because the normal goalie was sick, which they accepted. Maybe they should have been more resistant, as we stuffed them 3-0!

Our school was Protestant, but right next to us there was a Catholic school, Saint Teresa’s. They, too, had an excellent football team, and were our bitter rivals. Needless to say, it was always a big game when we met them. Both teams wanted to win so badly – this wasn’t just a football match, it was a case of upholding honour and pride. I only ever played in one derby game. On that occasion we didn’t have a full team because some of our players were out with the flu. The St Teresa’s coach came over and mocked us, bleating, ‘I thought you were supposed to have a good team, your school?’ This was quite a provocation, so we rushed to the homes of our absent team members and begged them to play. We just managed to get a squad together. We returned to the pitch, where a good crowd had built up. As it was at their place, everyone was anticipating a Teresa’s win against an under-strength Rossmere.

The first half was very even, with both sides creating scoring chances. The difference was they couldn’t get anything past me. We were more clinical, and went into the half-time break 1-0 up. There was only one team in it in the second half, as they played us off the field. The pressure on us was relentless. Adding to this was the fact that the ref was also their coach; he slipped on an extra ten minutes. This paid off, as they equalised with the last kick of the game. They had got out of jail by the skin of their teeth. Our coach ran over screaming at
theirs and called him a cheat for finding an extra ten minutes from nowhere.

My love of football continued to keep me busy when I became a fan of our local team, Hartlepool United. Our Ruth’s husband, Dave, took me to some of their home games. Dave and his mates used to go every week and stand in the same place. They used to get right into it and gave the opposition players lots of verbal abuse. Although I followed Hartlepool United, Leeds United was my main time at that time. Mam and Dad were friends with a couple called Harry and Jean, who lived down the bottom of our street. Harry was a rough old sod, and used to grab me whenever we went to see them and give me a good tussle. To make things worse, he was a big Sunderland fan, a team Leeds played in the 1973 FA Cup final. Harry would scowl and blast torments at me, calling Leeds crap, bigging-up Sunderland, that kind of banter. Well, my nightmare was complete when Sunderland won the final 1-0. Five minutes later, there was a letter delivered to our house addressed to me. When I opened it, it read: ‘SUNDERLAND 1’. Underneath that in very small letters: ‘Leeds 0’. No prizes for guessing who had sent it.

What else influenced me as I was growing up? Well, certainly the community spirit of the 1970s. It might sound clichéd, but people did use to leave their doors unlocked. Then again, that could have been down to the fact that there wasn’t much worth nicking! That
community spirit still exists in Hartlepool, and above all in me, since its values have stayed with me. People cared for each other, and the family was the centre of your life. Like my mam and dad, my mother’s friend Annie Bobbin and her husband couldn’t have kids. In 1976 she finally became a mother when her and Jimmy adopted a beautiful baby girl, whom they called Joanne. When Annie went to pick her up and bring her home, my mam and Ken went along with her. She was a lovely child and never wanted for anything – in fact, she was spoilt rotten. When she was in her teens, she was diagnosed with kidney trouble and had to go on dialysis. We were all devastated. Eventually, she stopped the treatment and failed to turn up for her appointments. Obviously, this took its toll and, tragically, she died the week before Christmas in 2001.

Meanwhile, I had more family through my Aunt Lois, who was married to a Polish man called Bob Gers. They had four children, the oldest of whom, Janick – pronounced Yanick – was constantly playing his guitar. All he did was practise, practise, practise. I remember one day hearing him playing Rod Stewart’s ‘Maggie May’ in the front room, and realising just how good he was becoming. Janick was only young then himself. He played in a few bands, with Fish from Marillion and Ian Gillan from Deep Purple. He was such a brilliant player that it didn’t take long for him to get his first big break, when he got an audition for Iron Maiden. As soon as
they heard our Jan play, they knew he was the man they wanted. He’s now world famous himself and has been on numerous world tours. He played on the Number One hit single ‘Bring Your Daughter To The Slaughter’. His hard work paid off. No one deserved it more: a real down-to-earth family man.

Janick especially respected my dad – he once told me that he thought the world of him. Not long after the Leeds defeat, Dad was taken ill, which certainly put things in perspective for me. The hospital tests diagnosed him as suffering from kidney failure. He had to go in for dialysis three times a week. Mam went to the hospital with him and stayed for the full ten hours, so she could get trained on using the dialysis machine. At that time, we were still living in a two-bedroom house, and had to apply for a three-bedroom house so that one of the rooms could be made into a dialysis room. We eventually moved into a three-bedroom house, which made life a lot easier for Mam and Dad as they didn’t have to do all the travelling to the hospital. Then again, one good thing did come of it all: a sister on the ward had a brother who was in the Leeds United Supporters Club, who got me some memorabilia signed by the Leeds striker Allan Clarke.

It wasn’t much longer before I attended my first big game at St James’s Park, the home of Newcastle United. Jim McKie, a great bloke from Scotland who was Tina’s father, the girl I stopped from getting bullied, took me
and Tank to see a game against Leeds on Boxing Day 1973. I couldn’t wait. The crowds were unreal; I’d never seen this many people in my life. We queued for what seemed like an eternity – I’d seen a dole queue move faster than this. For some reason, Jim had asked his mate to look after us, and said he’d see us after the match. Just before we got to the entrance, the bloke at the turnstile shouted, ‘No More! The ground’s full.’ I was devastated! What could we do now? Suddenly we spotted another way in. I slipped my way through and all of a sudden, there they were! My heroes in the flesh, who I’d only seen on telly and in the papers before now. I was in awe, dumbstruck at seeing them in the flesh!

I took a moment to behold the sight I was seeing amid the pushing and shoving legions of football fanatics. The threat that violence could erupt at any moment was prevailing – you could smell it in the air. I watched Ian McFaul, the Magpies’ goalkeeper, who was featured on the opening credits of TV’s premier football programme
Match of the Day
for a while. Then I kept an eye on the Leeds goalkeeper, David Harvey, analysing how he masterfully controlled his back four. After a while though, the section we were in got too crowded, so Tank and I prised ourselves out and headed into the streets of Newcastle. We just walked and talked, always checking that we didn’t stray too far from the ground. Darkness descended early and, as
full-time
approached, we made our way back towards the
ground. Leeds had won 1-0 from a goal by Paul Madeley. The pubs were quickly filling up, with heaps of empty Newcastle Brown Ale bottles strewn across the pavements. After about 15 minutes, we spotted Jim, who looked harassed and very glad to see us.

Football wasn’t the only sport I was interested in. I used to love the school sports days. I remember one in particular when I competed in the 200-metre sprint. It was a lovely day. As soon as the starting pistol went, I shot off like a rocket. My heart, legs and lungs were on fire! Coming into the home strait my lead was drastically reduced. As a few started to pass me on the run-in, I collapsed in a heap exhausted, eventually finishing last. Yeah, I sure showed them what a fool I was.

So I didn’t win the race, but at least I was good with a baseball bat. Those were the when days I used a baseball for just playing rounders, not as a weapon of defence. We all loved playing rounders. I think I might have made a baseball player if I was a young lad living in the USA. I was also pretty handy at cricket, but sometimes my fielding left a bit to be desired. One game, my friend Tony I’anson whacked a ball my way – either I would catch it or it would go for six. In a split second, I decided to go for a spectacular catch and dived as if I was in goal. Then there was a mighty thud as the cork ball hit me smack in the eye. Instant pain isn’t the word! I might as well have been hit with a jackhammer. I had an absolute peach of a shiner that lasted for a while.

Despite all this fun, the future for some of us wasn’t to be too rosy. Years later, Tony got in with a wild crowd, and ended up going on an armed robbery. The police were there waiting, since one of their so-called pals had grassed on them. Tony got a nice twelve-and-a-half year stretch for his troubles. He kept his head down and served his jail sentence like a man, but it should never have happened. But I guess we never know what the future holds.