Retro Sport with Roger Mann: From a fondue suisse to a pint in the South Hams

Gordon and I had been invited to be late replacements on Canterbury City’s 1973 tour of Switzerland. We had won the first match, and I had almost single-handedly lost the second one. Now we faced our last test.

Today was a rest day, and time is a great healer.

After Gordon had supervised a training session at a nearby park, I had almost forgotten my errors of yesterday, and the two of us set off on a sight-seeing stroll around Berne.

The day passed quickly, and the evening was spent in the hotel bar, laughing and joking with friends, and our new team mates.

The barman didn’t mention the hair restorer once, so we guessed that he must have realised that he was doomed to be bald for the rest of his days!

Next morning, after breakfast, we were taken to the station, and, accompanied by flurries of snow, we boarded the train to the beautiful town of Interlaken.

Although the journey took only an hour, I will always remember the stunning scenery as we skirted around lakes, and passed under the shadows of high mountains!

FC Interlaken was founded in 1904, and its facilities were typically Swiss.

A tidy playing area, surrounded by advertising boards, spotless changing rooms, and a club restaurant which was warm and welcoming.

For someone like me, playing my football on the slopes of Stoodley Knowle, and Easterfield Lane, it had all been quite a culture shock!

Our morale in the changing room was one of optimism and determination.

This was our last match, and we were going to give it our last drop of effort!

As always, on this tour, we lined up on the centre line to shake hands with our opponents, and exchanged pennants before the referee set the match in motion.

I had decided to change my usual tactics, and, today, moved much closer to the man who I was marking.

In the early exchanges it appeared to be working, and he was clearly uncomfortable as he felt my breath on his neck!

After about ten minutes, the referee seemed to trip up and damage his ankle. There was a long delay before he was carried off, and a big dark chap, whom we were told was a local referee, took his place.

After 20 minutes, we took the lead, and were beginning to play well, when, suddenly, I witnessed one of the strangest moments of my footballing life.

One of the red-shirted Interlaken players collided with the referee, and both fell down in a heap.

To me it had seemed entirely accidental, but, as they both got up, the referee punched the player in the stomach, and knocked him down again!

After a few minutes with the trainer, and his magic sponge, the player recovered only to be greeted by the referee shouting at him in German, and pointing to the touchline. We couldn’t believe that he had been sent off for being hit!

Although obviously distraught, the Interlaken lads were well disciplined, and accepted this strange decision without much more argument.

Perhaps the incident persuaded us that, after all, we could win this contest because, by half-time, we were 2-0 in front.

We went on to dominate the second half, and ended our last match as 4-0 winners!

Afterwards, in the restaurant, we were treated like royalty.

Although we couldn’t understand what was being said, it was clear that we were not being blamed, in any way, for the strange incident that had scarred the match.

The post-match meal began with two huge bowls of 'Fondue Suisse' and ended with bottles of lager and endless indiscernible toasts.

As Gordon and I walked through the main street, back towards the railway station, with 20 people who, a week ago, we had never met, I couldn’t help reflecting on the wonderful camaraderie that team sports foster.

Once seated in a corner seat of the railway carriage, I had time to reflect on my own short flirtation with higher grade football.

I had loved every moment of the experience, but concluded that effort alone was not enough to succeed at this level.

My first touch, second touch, and third touch, would all need a drastic overhaul!

A week after returning home, I was playing in the South Hams once again.

It was only then that I realised how much I would miss the thick red mud, the tin baths, and the post-match pints of scrumpy in front of roaring pub fires.