Brixham’s Golden Boys: A Tribute to the Sporting Legends of the 60s

There are moments in life that stay with you, memories so vivid they never fade, no matter how many years pass.

For me, the summer of 1964 is one of those times—a golden era of football, friendship, and dreams that seemed within reach. Brixham was alive with the energy of sport, and at the heart of it all were the lads who gave everything to the game, the boys who turned our little town into a place of ambition and pride.

One of those names that will stay with me forever is Gerald T. Howshall. I remember that day up at Astley Park like it was yesterday. The sun hung low in the sky, stretching our shadows long across the grass, as I wandered past the clubhouse.

There, against the wall, was Gerald—lost in his own world, practicing with a dedication that few others possessed. Every pass, every touch, every shot was measured and precise. Even then, you could see he was something special.

Gerald was born in Stoke on October 27, 1944, but he had made Brixham his home. He attended Furzeham School, playing for the Jupiter house team, and his natural talent on the pitch was undeniable.

It wasn’t long before his abilities caught the eye of Jack Rowley, the former England striker and then-manager of Plymouth Argyle. Jack signed Gerald up in the summer, right before the new season began. But Jack’s departure from Plymouth didn’t mean the end of Gerald’s journey—if anything, it was just the beginning.

In 1961, Jack personally recommended Gerald to West Bromwich Albion, and by July 1, 1962, at just 17 years, 7 months, and 4 days old, he officially became part of their ranks. For five years, he wore the colours of West Bromwich Albion, proving himself against some of the best players in the game.

Then, in November 1967, another chapter opened for him when he was transferred to Norwich City, where he played until July 1971. He was one of ours—one of Brixham’s finest—and we watched his career with immense pride.

But Gerald wasn’t the only lad from our town to make a name for himself. The 1960s were a golden age for sport in Brixham, and we had no shortage of talent.

I think of Billy and Trevor Harris, two gifted players who could turn a game in an instant. Bill Lorham, a rock-solid presence on the pitch, always reliable and fearless. Barry Mitcheson, with his dazzling footwork and sharp instincts. Dave Hazelwood, who had a knack for finding the back of the net when it mattered most. Tony Stoyles, a player with a natural elegance in his game. Tony Davis, a powerhouse with an unstoppable drive.

Then there was Jonny Mosedale, a name that could have been spoken in the same breath as the greats. He had the chance to sign for Manchester United Youth, a dream most of us barely dared to imagine. What might have been, we often wondered.

And Stuart Gibson, a player of rare pedigree. He had once been part of Manchester United’s Busby Babes, a team of legends, before fate brought him to Brixham.

The names keep coming, each one a part of our town’s sporting history: Bill Ivey, Roy Thompson, Dave Farley—all of them boys who gave their hearts to the game, playing for the love of it, for the sheer thrill of competition, for the pride of Brixham.

Football wasn’t just a pastime for us back then—it was our passion, our way of life. We played on grass that was more mud than pitch, with goalposts that had seen better days, but none of that mattered. We played with a fire in our hearts, running ourselves into the ground until the sun dipped below the hills.

I can still hear the echoes of those games—the shouts of team-mates calling for the ball, the cheers when someone scored a screamer from outside the box, the groans when a shot clipped the post. I can still feel the sweat on my brow, the sting of a tackle, the sheer elation of winning a hard-fought match.

And when the games were done, we’d walk home together, boots slung over our shoulders, still talking about that one moment of brilliance, that one goal, that one chance that could have changed everything.

Those days shaped us. They gave us friendships that lasted a lifetime, taught us resilience, teamwork, and the kind of unwavering determination that only sport can instil.

Brixham may be a small town, but in those years, it produced some of the finest footballers I have ever known. We weren’t just kids kicking a ball around—we were part of something bigger.

If you go back a little earlier, I can still see myself, Phill Todd, Alan Lamswood, Peter Cahill, and many others playing on the little bit of waist land by the park before the Rugby club bulldozed the hedge away to make the top pitch.

Even now, when I pass by Astley Park, I can almost see us there again running, laughing, dreaming. Those days will never fade. And neither will the names of the boys who made them unforgettable.