Nostalgia: The memories of Mike Stumbles

From Black and White to Green and Gold — A South Devon Football Life

I never chased stardom. Never looked for headlines. But I lived for Saturdays. For changing rooms that stank of liniment and mud. For the rhythm of studs on concrete. For pulling on the black and white of Dartmouth United — and, in time, the colours of Meadowbrook, Stoke Fleming, and Harberton Forde.

When I look at that old newspaper cutting from the South Devon League — yellowed, dog-eared, stained with time — I don’t just see names. I see chapters of my life.

It All Began at Stoke Fleming — A Lad of 15

They threw me in the deep end. I was 15. Still had a mop of hair and knees like coat hangers. Stoke Fleming took a chance on me. I played two full seasons there — learned to tackle, to scrap, to stand tall when the wind howled in off Start Bay. It was men’s football, no hiding place. My first full 90 minutes ended with a black eye, two bruised shins, and a grin that lasted all week. I was hooked.

Dartmouth United — Where I Became a Player

That black and white kit — God, I loved it. Pulling it on felt like pulling on armour. Dartmouth wasn’t just a club; it was a brotherhood. Over 300 games I played for them and Meadowbrook combined. Every one mattered. Coronation Park wasn’t much, but it was ours. Gulls' overhead, the river behind the goal, and a slope that you cursed one half and blessed the next.

That game against Newton Rangers still burns in the memory. We were underdogs, clinging to a 1-1 draw. I made the tackle — a full stretch slide that took the ball so clean it sang. The referee gave a foul; their striker winked at me. “Old school, eh?” he said. I just nodded. That was Dartmouth football.

“Bowls Star John Helps Upton Off the Bottom”

John Evans was in the headlines that week. Top-class bowler, but he could shift on the football pitch too. Helped Upton Vale beat Newton 66 — 3-0. I remember watching him glide past defenders like they were fence posts. Upton had been rock bottom, but with John in the side, they looked like title contenders. That match showed what one player — one leader — could do.

Kingskerswell and Totnes — the Sharp End

Kingskerswell were the big chasers. Quality outfit. They turned over Totnes Town after going behind, and I respected them for it. Totnes had quick lads, but Kingskerswell had guile. When they came to Dartmouth, we gave them hell for 90 minutes. I walked off cramping in both calves and couldn’t feel my toes for two days. But it was a 0-0, and we took it like a trophy.

Moates and the Torquay Hungarians

You’d see the name “Rob Moates” in the paper and shake your head. He’d bagged three again. Against Newton Dynamos, it was a 7-1 hammering. I faced him twice in my life. He left me for dead the first time. The second? I stayed tight, never gave him space — and still he slipped a ball through my legs and created a goal. One of the greats, that lad.

Bee Sands Rovers — Late Goal Specialists

Graham Davis scored in injury time again that week. He always did. Beesands had a knack for dragging you deep, then twisting the knife. We lost to them more than we should’ve. Once, I thought we had them — 2-2, 89th minute. Corner came in, Davis rose like a salmon and buried it. Game over. He patted me on the back after: “You boys played well.” He meant it. Classy guy.

From Dartmouth to Meadowbrook

Later in my career, I joined Meadowbrook. Still in black boots, still old school. They gave me a new lease of life — different faces, same beautiful game. We weren’t world-beaters, but we fought. I played over a hundred matches there. Got a couple of goals too — both headers, somehow. One came off my ear, but they all count.

Harberton Forde — The Last Dance

I was 45 when I finally hung them up. Played my last matches in green and gold, for Harberton Forde. Slower legs, wiser head. They called me “Grandad,” but when the whistle blew, I gave as good as ever. That last game — final whistle went, the lads clapped me off. Someone handed me a pint before I’d even taken my boots off. That’s how it ends, and that’s how it should end.

The Les Bishop Cup and the Little Moments

We had a run in the Les Bishop Cup once. Beat Newton 66 on penalties. I buried one — third taker. Bottom corner. Our keeper saved the last, and we all piled on like kids. It wasn’t Wembley, but in our world, it might as well have been. You don’t forget those moments.

Mike Stumbles — Left-Back, Number 3, Always There

That was me. Across fields from Stoke Fleming to Meadowbrook, from Dartmouth’s muddy corners to Harberton Forde’s gentle hill, I was always there. Shoulder taped, socks rolled down, giving it everything. I didn’t win leagues. I wasn’t famous. But I was reliable.

And I belonged.

Now, when I look at that old page, I don’t just see scores. I see lifetimes. I see every game, every tackle, every soaked-through shirt. I see my mates. The laughter. The grief. The pride.

Mike Stumbles “He played with heart, for the badge, and for the love of it — 30 years, 4 clubs, over 300 games, and one unforgettable life in boots.”