I couldn’t decide what I wanted to write about for this module. Although I have had a happy and exciting childhood. No memories stood out to me. My mum suggested writing about my grandad, and the memories that I shared with him when I was younger. I didn’t think much of it. Yes, he was a footballer, and he had an amazing career, that spanned nearly two decades but to me, he was just my grandad.
Perhaps, if you are reading this, you may be involved in the beautiful game. You might have played on a Saturday morning. Trudging your boots through muddy, uneven pitches and side tackles from an aggressive defender. You might have been a taxi. Taking your son or daughter to every game and training session throughout their younger years. Picked them up when they lost and cheered alongside them when they scored the winning goal in the dying minutes of a game. Perhaps, you travelled up and down the country. Rain or shine. Cheering your team on from the sidelines, whatever the result was. For me, my love of football was because of my grandad. Growing up, if you didn’t like football, then you would become very bored in my family.
After all, whether we are the governing bodies, the multi million pound players, the rule making officials, former players or even the just the average fan in the stand, we all share a passion for a common goal, or at least we should. And that is the game of football.
The footballing family can be an amazing, powerful movement. They don’t take injustice lightly. They are stubborn. They fight their corner and know the right from the wrong. And most certainly, not frightened of taking on the rich and powerful.
So, this is my memory. How losing my grandad brought a greater change to the footballing world. How my mum helped many footballing families in despair. It was Justice for Jeff. A movement that acknowledged how the repeated heading of a football could lead to long term brain injury. A disease that cost my grandad his life.
He was the King of the Hawthorns. The fifth player to score in every round of the FA Cup including the final. A hero to so many fans at West Bromwich Albion football club. But to me, he was simply my grandad – the man with the annoying laugh.
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My grandad was born on the 13th of May 1942. In the small mining town of Eastwood, Nottinghamshire. Coming from a family of seven brothers and sisters, it wasn’t an easy childhood. He wore hand-me-downs and struggled financially. His father, my great-grandad died when he was only four years old, and like many other young boys of the time, he found his solace in football.
He told me once, that he didn’t own a pair of football boots for 10 years when he was growing up. He was always waiting for a pair to be outgrown by his brothers, or Jimmy Hartnall from down the road. But he would always wait at the local green for someone to turn up with a ball, and I suppose, that is where the magic happened.
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Every Friday evening, my mum would drop my brother and I off at my grandparents. It was my favourite time of the week. I loved listening to my grandad’s stories and the times he spent on Fantasy Football, singing a song to end the show – sometimes he was dressed in hilarious outfits, the empire state building being my favourite.
He would tell me of his start in football. How he was recognised at first by his old school sportsmaster, who in turn, recommended him to the West Nottingham School boys team.
“Did I ever tell you about how I got signed for Notts County Taylar?” He asked.
“Yes, but I’m sure you’ll tell me again anyway Grandad.” I replied, as my grandma laughed from the other room.
“We were playing a friendly game you know. And we won 22-0! And do you know how many I scored?” He asked.
“18” I replied in my head, waiting for him to continue with his story.
“18!!” He exhaled. “And I signed for Notts County that night. I was only 17.”
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My Grandad’s style of play was that of a classic centre forward and he was the ‘protégé’ or so he liked to believe, of the late Tommy Lawton. He moved to West Bromwich Albion on September 30th, 1964 and jumped from the old division four to division 1. Which today is more well known as the premier league.
“Did I tell you about my first game for West Bromwich Albion?” He asked. “I signed at 2pm and was told to get to Leicester City’s ground for a 6pm kickoff.”
“Did you think you were going to play Grandad?” I questioned.
“Of course, I knew I had the ability. But let me tell you a funny story. So…” He began. “I got to the ground dressed in a beautiful green blazer and turned up into the away dressing room.”
“I’m sorry lad.” Graham Williams said. “Coach drivers aren’t allowed in here.”
“Coach driver? This is Jeff Astle, our brand new centre forward.” Jimmy Hagan, the West Brom manager explained.
“New centre forward?” John Kaye asked.
“Yes, and give him your shirt would you. You’re on the bench. Jeff is playing tonight.” Hagan replied.
“The bloody coach driver.” He laughed. “That’s what they thought I was Taylar, the bloody coach driver. I told your grandma that blazer didn’t look right.”
And I laughed. I didn’t think it was the blazer. Grandad did look like a coach driver at times… And not a very good one at that.
Those were the times I cherished with my grandad. He loved to tell stories of his days at West Brom and the fun he had under Alan Ashman. Although, I’m certain that if Sir Alan was alive, he wouldn’t think it was any fun. My grandad was a notorious prankster and trouble maker. He never took life seriously. Like the time, he postponed the managers team talk, because he had a bet on a horse in the Grand National and wanted to watch the race before the game had started. It’s hard to believe things like that happened. I find it hard to believe the managers of today’s Premier League teams would stand for any of that nonsense. But that was just my grandad.
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After his footballing career ended, my Grandad became a regular on Fantasy Football with Frank Skinner and David Baddiel. He loved to entertain people and he had a good singing voice. His first sketch recreated his famous ‘offside’ goal at Ellend Road.
The sketch took place in my grandparent’s garden.
“Ok Jeff, so it’s Ellend Road 1971, take us through the goal.” Baddiel said.
“Well, Bobby Hope passed the ball to Tony Brown, and Tony Brown ran down field passing Collin Suggart, who was a good 20 to 30 yards offside, but he wasn’t interfering with play.”
“And you’re sure about that?” Baddiel laughed.
“The referee was sure, and that’s why he signaled play on!”
“The referee was Ray…” Skinner said.
“Tinkler.” My grandad interrupted.
“Ok, so I’ll be Bomber Brown, Frank you can be Ray Tinkler. Who can be Gary Sprake?” Baddiel asked.
“My wife will play Gary Sprake, and I’ll be Jeff Astle.” He replied.
And that’s what they did. They replayed the ‘offside’ goal that allowed West Brom to proceed into the next round of the FA Cup, with my grandma as the goalkeeper. She didn’t do a very good job, and the video haunts her.
I found the video on YouTube, a couple of months ago and I still watch it every now and again. There was a pitch invasion as the Leeds fans went mad. It was a decision that was to be talked about for years.
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As a family, we hold so many stories of grandads playing career. Of how he was a star in his prime. A prolific header of the ball and the leading goal scorer of the old first division, two years in a row. This was no mean fete, especially in the days of fellow goal machines such as George Best, Peter Osgood, Jimmy Greeves and Sir Geoff Hirst.
He was also part of Sir Alf Ramsey’s 1970 world cup squad in Mexico. But perhaps, his greatest achievement and his most notable goal, was scoring the winning goal in the 1-0 West Bromwich Albion versus Everton, 1968 FA Cup final. Where he became one of only seven players to score a goal in every round of the competition, including the final.
But to me he was just my Grandad. I loved him and he loved me.
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He was a larger than life character and he lived his life to the full. My mum described him as an electrical charge. You always knew when he was in the room. He was always laughing and joking. If you couldn’t see him, you most certainly could hear him.
One of his teammates, commented after his death that “you always knew if Jeff was in the room, you just followed the sound of people’s laughter.” And that’s how I remember him. Making me laugh.
In 2001, grandad turned 55. I was six years old when I noticed that my grandad was acting strangely. He had always been a larger than life character. The life and soul of every family event and party that we had ever held. He was restless. He couldn’t sit still not even for a moment. Even when his beloved horse racing was on the television.
He told me that he had once owned a race horse. Him and a couple of other players at West Bromwich Albion had clumped together to buy one. My grandma was anything but happy. I don’t think she acknowledged him for a week.
“That bloody horse.” He said when he started to tell me that story. “The trainer promised it would be the next big thing. Was it buggery. It was bloody useless. It came last in all 5 races we entered!!” He moaned.
“It was bleedin’ hilarious.” My grandma replied. “You should’ve seen us all at its first race. I don’t think I’d laughed that hard in ages!!”
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He couldn’t remember my brother’s name. He asked if his own mother was still alive. Grandma Coakley had died 12 years prior. It was questions like these that made me confused. I couldn’t understand what was happening to him.
One night I could hear my mum and grandma, begging him to see a doctor. But Grandad was adamant that there wasn’t anything wrong with him.
“What for?” He’d ask. “I’m fit as a fiddle.”
And he was. He was always chasing my brother and I through the garden, playing football with us and helping us to perfect our corner kicks. But as test and scans followed, it seemed that my grandads frontal brain cells were dying and there was nothing anybody could do. The brain is difficult. The brain doesn’t regenerate. So once a part of it dies, then that’s it. It’s dead.
I watched a film with Will Smith the other day. It was called Concussion. And he used an analogy to explain the trauma of the brain from the repeated impact of tackles in American Football. In a jar was a part of a brain surrounded by liquid, and he shook it repeatedly against the side of the glass. You could see the brain breaking. It is a process that is irreversible. At 55, my grandad was diagnosed with dementia and early onset Alzheimers.
And from that day I started to lose my grandad. He wasn’t the gentle giant that I loved. It was as if something had taken ahold of his body and started to strangle the life from it. The disease took more of a hold and my grandad became worse. He would eat things that weren’t edible, like my grandmas washing powder or bars of soap. He tried to get out of the moving car, as mum was driving me home from school. He became socially unacceptable. He was incredibly restless. He became aggressive, and was frightened to go outside. He would just move from the living room to the kitchen every twenty or so seconds because he couldn’t sit still.
And over the last year of his illness. Grandad began forgetting my mum, and my two aunties. But he never forgot my grandma. She was the one person that he never forgot. We lost a little part of him every single day and I endured the pain of watching helplessly from the sidelines, as my hero was taken from me.
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The 19th of January, is a bittersweet day in my household.
Firstly, it is my mum’s birthday. So, it was something that we would celebrate every year. But the 19th January 2004 was different. I remember it like it was yesterday. My grandad came shuffling through our front door, for my mum’s birthday party. He walked with a stomp and sat on the arm chair in the corner of the living room. He was 59 but he looked 159. The illness had aged him terribly and he was a shell of his former happy self.
My entire family was sat in the living room. We had just played a murderous game of trivial pursuit – we are an extremely competitive family. A trait that is most certainly passed down from my grandad. We go by the motto that nobody remembers second place. And that has since been my excuse for getting banned from every PE lesson from primary school to sixth form. You’ve got to play to win haven’t you. Whilst my grandad, as always, got up from the arm chair, walked around the kitchen table, and sat back in the arm chair. He occasionally muttered a few encouraging words, but for the most part he was silent. Exactly like he was sat in a room of strangers against his will.
That is was dementia did. It alienated my grandad from the people who loved him most. My family. He looked frightened and frail. Like he wanted to run away at any given moment. It was hard to accept.
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My grandad was eating a sausage roll when suddenly, he started to cough. And he wouldn’t stop. My dad tried to pick him up but my grandads legs buckled from beneath him. It was almost like a slow-motion scene from a film. My dad and my uncle took him outside, whilst my brother and I were ushered upstairs by my other grandparents.
I sat watching from the upstairs window as my mum and grandma screamed and begged for him to spit it out. But his brain was that badly damaged he just didn’t understand and he kept trying to swallow the remains of the sausage roll.
He wouldn’t spit it out. He couldn’t.
It’s hard to put into words what it feels like to watch your larger than life grandad, choke to death, on the patio outside your house. It is almost surreal. Perhaps, something that would only happen in a nightmare. But it was real.
I could hear my mum crying, and my grandma trying desperately to help him. My dad even tried to pry his mouth open. But it was too late. My grandad choked to death in front of his wife, his children and his grandchildren. And there was nothing that any of us could do about it.
We lost my grandad officially on the 19th January 2004. But we had lost him long before that. Dementia is a sickening disease that cripples the person and their families. It takes everything that you ever knew. Everything that you thought was normal and turns it on its head. It’s scary to think that something like that exists in the world. That there was no cure for it. And you would never really understand it. Unless it happened to you.
My grandad died at the age of 59.
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My mum went with my grandma to the coroner’s court in the November of that year. When I was old enough to understand, she explained to me how a leading pathologist stood up and described how badly damaged my grandads brain was. He described how he had found that there was considerable evidence of trauma to his brain, which was like that of a boxer. He believed that the main candidate for the trauma was heading footballs and that it was the repeated heading over time that was the main issue.
How could a footballer have the brain consistent of someone that boxed?
“We were sat in the stand Taylar, when the coroner got up and spoke.” Mum said.
“Mr. Astle’s dementia was extremely consistent with heading footballs and his occupational exposure made at least a significant contribution to the disease which caused his death.”
“What does that mean then?” I asked her.
“Well the verdict was ‘industrial disease’.” Mum said. “In other words, grandads job had killed him.”
It was a surprise ruling. I was devastated. The game that my grandad loved and mastered. The game in which he inspired so many others had ultimately killed him.
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The footballing authorities told my family that they would put in research to discover whether there was a link between heading footballs and dementia. They promised that my grandad’s death, and especially the circumstance of it, would not go unnoted.
However, in 2014, my mum was surprised to be contacted by a journalist, who revealed that no such research had been done. The research was stopped as all thirty young players they tested on, failed to make it to the professional stages of the game. It seemed like football was sweeping my grandad’s death under the carpet.
Perhaps in any other industry a ruling such as that of my grandads, would have earth shaking consequences. But football seemed unbothered. The game made millions. Its privileged self-governing system seemed to put my grandad to the back of their minds.
We didn’t want money. No amount of money would bring my grandad back. For my family, the question was simple. Was there a problem with former players and dementia?
It seemed like the FA and the PFA was failing my grandad. He gave everything to the game that he loved. And they couldn’t do the same for him. Also, it was possibly highly unlikely that this issue didn’t just affect my grandad, but other footballing families as well. Football had a duty to look after their former players, for they were the ones that had made the game what it was today.
It was then, that my mum, along with my grandma, started the Justice for Jeff campaign. It was supported by the supporters of West Bromwich Albion. She contacted a neuropathologist in Glasgow and asked him to reexamine my grandads brain, as it had been kept for neurological research.
Dr. Willie Stewart was one of the world’s leading experts in a disease named Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy or CTE for short. It was first found in the brains of NFL players, a degenerative brain disease that was caused by multiple concussions or low level repeated brain trauma – like heading a football.
My grandad was originally diagnosed with dementia and Dr. Stewart revealed that the original diagnosis was wrong. My grandad had CTE. He became the first British footballer to have died from it. Sadly, we knew, that he would not be the last.
This was now a real problem for football.
The Justice for Jeff campaign started small. A twenty-five-foot banner that was held on the 9th minute of every premier league game played by West Brom. The number nine being the shirt number synonymous with my grandad. The banner was welcomed at football grounds up and down the country. The football family was coming together for a common cause. The welfare of their heroes.
My mum appeared on national TV and radio, and she did interviews for newspapers. At one point, I don’t think our house phone stopped ringing for two whole weeks. She was adamant that this issue wasn’t going away. My grandad’s death was the starting point. Helping other families, and supporting former players was the new goal. Nobody should have to go through what we did.
Because of the campaign, the FA were to invite a panel of experts, including Dr. Willie Stewart, to discuss football related head injury. Its aim was to review guidelines and procedures for both professional and grassroots football. They were to look at the long-term effects that heading a football caused to the brain and the instances of dementia in former players.
The charity has footballing heroes as its patrons. Gordon Banks, Gary Neville, Frank Skinner and Alan Shearer to name a few. Its goal was simple. To support, educate and fund independent research into head injury. It would be a legacy for my grandad. One that would support players past, present and future.
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To launch the start of the Jeff Astle Foundation. We decided to do something special. To give back to the fans, for everything that they had done for us. Without them, perhaps, the FA would not have listened.
It was decided that the current West Bromwich Albion team would change from the blue and white striped kit, to a replica of the 1968 FA Cup final kit. The one that my Grandad wore all those years ago. It would pay honor to him and to his teammates.
It was the 11th April and West Brom were playing Leicester City. Ironically, the game that started my grandads long and prosperous career at the Albion. The kit that was so proudly worn by grandad and his team all those years ago, would grace the pitch of the Hawthorns once again. A fitting tribute to his memory.
The stadium was a light with renditions of Astle is the King from the Smethwick to the Birmingham Road End (the Brummie). People wore Astle shirts and I felt like I was in the 1960s. As the players lined up the tunnel, the screens flickered back and forth from the tunnel at Wembley in 1968 to the tunnel with today’s players. It was surreal. There was clips of my grandad shown, and pictures of the FA Cup final. It was special to witness. In everyday life, I forget that my grandad was a footballer, and that he won the FA Cup, because he was just my grandad.
As I looked across the stand, I could see grown men crying. They were also reliving their childhood. Perhaps, bringing back memories of loved ones that they had lost, and the memories of the 1968 cup final. It was special for them. Something that they could never relive.
My youngest cousin carried the football onto the pitch with my grandma and everybody applauded them. Even the Leicester City fans.
On the 9th minute of the game, the Brummie road, turned into a massive sea of red and white cards that came together to read ‘ASTLE KING’. It was something that I will never witness again. Every single person in that stadium was united in their love for my grandad. And my grandad loved them. Each and every one of them.
At half time, my mum walked out onto the pitch and spoke to the fans.
Every year since the death of my grandad, my family gave a trophy to the individual that we felt, had done a great service towards the club. It was the Jeff Astle memorial trophy.
“Hello everybody, my family and I would like to thank you all for being here today and for sharing with us this wonderful tribute to dad, and for helping us launch the Jeff Astle foundation. If we could ask you to always remember one thing it would be this. That dad loved you, the supporters of West Bromwich Albion, as much as you loved him. With that in mind, The Jeff Astle memorial trophy, goes this year to you, the West Bromwich Albion supporters. For your continued love and support.”
I wiped a tear from my eye. I had never gotten over grieving for my grandad. I can hear stories about him and feel fine. But when I see videos, I get sad. Because I was young and I can’t quite remember what he looked like. I especially don’t remember him in his footballing years.
There was a thunderous applause that echoed round the stadium. It caused a lump in my throat. For a long time, I have a had a giant grandad shaped hole in my heart. But the supporters of West Bromwich Albion were closing it. Without them, none of this would have been possible
Their love and their support for my family has really kept us going through some very difficult times. But more so, their love and their loyalty to my grandad. It never ceases to amaze me. The efforts that they go to keep his memory alive.
Sadly, football being football, we lost 2-0. Jamie Vardy was having a party and winning was not meant to be. But that didn’t matter. The atmosphere was electric as everyone came together to celebrate the launch of the foundation, and the love for my grandad.
And every home game, I drive past the Astle gates as a reminder that my grandad meant the world to a small club in the Midlands. He meant everything to the children of the 1960s, the ones who dreamed of their team winning an FA Cup and watched it become a reality. Things like that don’t happen often and on the rare occurrence they do, you should treasure it and hold onto it.
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The amount of heartache I still feel about my Grandad’s death is overwhelming. When he died, he took a part of each of us that will never be replaced. My family lost an incredible human being that day. And, although I feel he was taken much too early, and I wasn’t ready to let him go. I know that he is always with me.
Nothing will bring my grandad back. But if his life can teach one thing. It is that former players and their families need help. And football should not be shying away from this reality.
My mum’s goal with the Jeff Astle Foundation is to make others understand just how devasting the long-term impact of repetitive sports related trauma can potentially be. And that the awareness of these consequences will lead to a cultural change in how we perceive and respond to them.
My Grandad loved football but it didn’t define him. It was his larger than life personality that made him stand out. And I never saw in him, the suggestion that he thought he was better than anybody else. He had huge confidence in his own ability, and in turn, was incredibly proud of his achievements, but he never let success go to his head.
I’ve learned a lot from the way that my grandad carried himself. It is something that I strive to do every single day. He always told me that the ability to play football, especially at its highest level, was god given. And he was always grateful for his opportunity.
There are some things you can’t predict. Did my Grandad think at the age of 17 that football would take his life? No. Did I ever think I would have to live without my Grandad from the age of 6? No. Do I miss him? Terribly.
Everything that football gave my grandad. Football took away. And I would trade every cap, medal and trophy that he won for thirty more seconds with him. Just to see those startling blue eyes and hear that infectious laugh once again.
People say that time is a great healer. I don’t agree with that. It’s the rawness that gets easier. You’ll always want them back, even if it’s for thirty seconds. I watched my grandad die in front of me. And I could sit and cry for hours. But it does get less raw as time goes on. It doesn’t get easier. But it does get less raw.
For my family, the Jeff Astle Foundation, is the cornerstone for not only keeping his memory alive, but to help prevent this devasting disease so that footballs future never experiences its sheer brutality. And that their families do not have to sit helplessly on the sidelines, enduring the agony of simply watching. My mum always says, that it stands as an object lesson to us all. That the power of ordinary people, driven by an extraordinary cause can still wield, even in the face of extraordinary odds.
And if I could thank the ordinary fans of West Bromwich Albion every day for the rest of my life, it wouldn’t be enough. I was perhaps too young to remember everything about my grandad. But what I do have is the memory of others. To listen to their stories and see their eyes light up because of him is special. My grandad lives on through the fans. He was their hero. He made their childhood memorable. Just as he had made mine. And in the short period I had him in my life, it was great. I don’t think his legacy will ever die. He was Albion’s winner of the FA Cup – something unlikely to happen again. He was the King of the Hawthorns. And forever, the Brummie road will sing his song. Astle is the King.