Rowing Against the Tide - A career in sport and politics (10 page)

There followed three special meetings of the National Council, but because there was no mechanism for overturning the selection committee’s decisions, and with everyone knowing how outrageously unfair the process had been, we all felt deeply frustrated and angry for the athletes who were being denied the once in a lifetime chance of representing GB in the Olympic Games. I do not recall any member of the National Council, speaking up for the selectors view, and all were angry at their intransigence. It was the worst possible example of an establishment group, imposing it’s will on what was at the time the first properly and democratically elected National Council.

Our four which had been unbeaten until the regatta in Amsterdam, had finished third in an affected lane, beating the Italians who went on to win the Bronze medal in Mexico. Our President at that time was Harold Ricketts, and I felt he was genuinely sympathetic to our case. He however took me to one side and pointed out what damage I might be doing to the Association. Whilst thanking him for his genuine courtesy I had to reply that perhaps the Association should consider what damage they were doing to the athletes involved. I had written to Denis Howell, then Minster of Sport, and Harold and Freddie Page went to see him. Given his view that the resolution of selection was a matter for the Association, he did give his consent for its review. The Minister agreed that the National Council at a third meeting, should have a chance to review the selection. Harold therefore allowed the calling of that third Council meeting, and with the Minister’s nod in our direction favourable, I had great hopes the logjam would be broken, but all to no avail. Porter would not budge, and our crew, and a coxed four from the Poplar and Blackwell Club were told at that third Council meeting that nothing could be done.

What made it worse, was that Porter had written to the Council making what many would see as a racist reference to my background, and therefore what did I know compared to him. Jack Beresford our five times pre and post war Olympic Champion contacted me and felt I had every reason to sue on the basis of the letter, but I thanked him for his concern and support, but felt I would not climb into the same gutter as Colin Porter. Whatever odium I might have suffered, it was nothing compared to the disappointment for the crew that had sweated for months to achieve their Olympic goal, only to have it snatched away by a selector who had been chosen as a champion of the athletes. All that was achieved by this debacle was that the system was changed, and selection has since been vastly improved, but nothing can take away the bitter taste that must remain with the members of the two crews who were denied a lifetime ambition to represent their country at an Olympic Games.

Asking awkward questions, and “not knowing my place” had it’s downside, for I discovered some years later that somebody on two occasions had nominated me for membership of Leander under the over 40 years of age and services to Rowing criteria, but had been requested to withdraw the nomination to avoid a Black Ball situation. Unaware of this, and never likely to meet the outstanding rowing performance criteria, much as I would have been honoured to have been elected, it simply didn’t concern me, I discovered this sometime in the early seventies when taken to one side by Graham Ricketts, Harold’s brother, whilst in the Steward’s Enclosure at the Regatta. He was most concerned for me, since it was clear that someone had suggested my nomination again and whilst acknowledging my contribution to the sport, he did not wish to see me publicly embarrassed. Sally was with me at the time, and was furious, and said that we had never sought to be where we were not welcome, but that would certainly not deter me from the work I did for Rowing. A few years later, I had a most generous and welcome letter jointly signed by Desmond Hill and Richard Burnell, who had discovered, what they described as this grave injustice, and whilst they would understand if I rejected their offer, they would be pleased to be my sponsors for a fresh application. Coming from two of the most distinguished members of Leander, I was delighted to accept.

Like most amateur sports, raising money was a necessity, for subscriptions would never cover the cost of boats and equipment, and quite fortuitously when Sally and I became engaged in 1963 we had a party at the clubhouse, with a group, the name of which I’ve long forgotten. But what it did was to highlight the possibilities of running gigs at the club, and raise money that way. Our neighbours at the “Boat” did the same, and at one stage on a Friday or Saturday night, when all three clubs had gigs, I’m certain there were more people down on Trentside, than had ever attended the Cavern – Beatles or no Beatles. The honours board that still hangs on the wall in the clubroom, testifies to the famous groups that played at the Union throughout the sixties.

One Saturday night when all three clubs had gigs on the go, and the clubs were crowded with revellers, three thugs decided to come down to the river and disrupt and cause trouble at one of the clubs. Why they passed by both the Union and the Boat, and choosing to tackle the Brit will be something they doubtless just about survived to regret. Three or four of the Britannia members enjoyed professional wrestling as a sideline, and proceeded to take the thugs apart. Kevin Bruton, who was running our club event at the time, became concerned for their lives and phoned the police. Having explained what was happening, and assuring the police that the clubs were fine and it was the thugs that were taking the hammering, and were ending up in the river, they said that all seemed well and that they would therefore just call down in about thirty minutes time. The word must have got around for neither of the clubs had any trouble thereafter. Would that modern policing would allow such sensible reaction to people defending their property and functions.

I travelled with our club crew to the World Championships in Denmark in the autumn of 1963, and the sight of six lane racing whetted my appetite, not only to find a site in England, but to study and obtain an International Umpires Licence. The crew of Richard Waite, Carl Unwin, Mike Gillott, and John Garton had won the Wyfold event at the Royal for the first time in the club’s history, and this was the first major Championships in which our club had ever featured since we had represented the UK in the 1928 Olympics in Amsterdam. Sadly that lack of experience showed in a performance we knew was well below what they could and should have achieved. My former aim was achieved in 1971 and being the first of it’s kind in the UK it forms a small chapter later in the book. The latter was achieved in 1970, and I held that licence until I retired under International rules when I reached 65. That year I believe was when Egypt and Syria briefly formed the United Arab Republic, and they brought an eight to the championships held on a lake just outside Copenhagen. Their coach was a big guy called Fayaz Yakan, with whom I eventually became quite friendly. The laugh was that as his crew came into the landing stages, the whole British contingent was standing some thirty yards away watching them disembarque. Fayaz scanned the crowd and made a beeline straight for me, requesting that he wished to meet the British Chief coach or Chef de Commission. I politely steered him to Jack Beresford, and when he was out of hearing, our group chuckled that out of some thirty Brits, the one guy the Arab picked out, was the only Jew in the team. Fayaz heard about this later, saw the funny side and came to shake my hand and establish a friendship which lasted for many years until his death. Fayaz had been a brigadier in Nasser’s army, and he regretted that he’d never made it to the Golan Heights. However we met up when Sally and I visited Egypt some years later, by which time he had become a travel guide, and explained that now there was peace between Israel and Egypt, he’d finally made it to the Golan Heights.

Holding that FISA licence, allowed me to join the Association’s International Umpires Committee, which had the responsibility of training and approving candidates for the new National Multilane Umpires Qualification, and to recommend one or two each year for training and recommendation to the International (FISA) commission for the granting of licences to allow those qualified to apply for and hopefully be granted duties at International Championships. Since those days, training and experience has moved on, and you frequently find FISA candidate and qualified umpires travelling to national regattas all over Europe, both to gain regular practical experience, and to ensure an ever higher standard of regatta management.

A charity row with the lads

One example of how practice brought about change, was our experience at the 1986 Commonwealth Games Regatta at Strathclyde. Prior to this event, the official starting and race control was conducted in French, with Attention - Et Vous Pret - followed by Parte. It was never satisfactory, for multi-syllable words inevitably caused false starts. To add to that problem was the rule that the starter could not start the race if just one hand was raised in any of the crews, which in an eights event was a chance of 54 to 1 on, that someone would indicate they were not ready. We agreed that at the Commonwealth event we would stick to English with, Attention – Set – Go. That was simple and should have been sufficient, but in the final for the Blue Ribbon event for the eights, I had charge of the start assisted by Mike Walker. The wind had got up, and being across, the crews were having great difficulty attaching to the start pontoons. After considerable delay the New Zealand crew, understandably getting cold and wound up, set off on a false start even before any orders were given. When they reattached, I did as politely as I could, suggest that they might wait for the others next time. What I did not know was that all our instructions were live over the public address, and it caused some laughter in the stands. The real problem then arose, for as I called Set, the crews on either side of the Canadian crew set off on a false start. The procedure had to begin all over again, but Mike and I could not understand how that false start had occurred. As we came down from the start tower, a Scottish official who had been behind the Canadians, confirmed that their Cox had shouted Go, as I called Set. Not aware of this subterfuge until after the race was well underway, we could do nothing about it. Fortunately they did not medal, and finally admitted they had deliberately caused the false start. As a result of this chaotic affair, we brought in the simple start for all our domestic events, and took away from crews the ability to delay starts by raising hands during the last two minutes of the procedure which then came under the full control of the starter. Within a couple of years FISA had seen the sense of our changes, and brought them into the International Rules. Of course things have moved on since then, and now all major courses have electronic starting, and false starts are largely things of the past.

The Championships were held in Moscow in 1973, and I attended both as an umpire and as a journalist for the Nottingham Evening Post. We flew from Luton, but were delayed due to the time it took to open the front section of the plane, to allow the loading of all our boats. A great friend and distinguished rowing journalist, Desmond Hill, had just arrived home from a family holiday in the West Indies. He opened his mail and panicked feeling he would miss the flight, threw fresh clothes in a bag and high tailed it for Luton. He looked in a bad way, having not slept for 24hours, and slept little on our flight to Moscow. Arriving two hours late, we were deemed to have somehow missed our slot, and since the airport closed at midnight we had to circle for what seemed ages, before we were allowed to land. Our boats were unloaded and put on a trailer, but since at that stage we had no towing vehicle we had to leave it on the tarmac under the care of Jimmy Wallis our boatman. When we left for town, he was promptly arrested and locked in a small cell until his status could be established. He had bought one of those packets of three or four biscuits at Luton, and sat in his cell wondering how long he would have to make those biscuits last, for we were there at a time when our view of the Russian regime was not exactly warm and friendly. However all was sorted when the West Germans took their trailer out to the airport and brought Jimmy and our boats to the course.

We were taken to an old hotel The Centrali on Gorky Street in central Moscow, and in our exhausted state refused to be called at 8am, and certainly Desmond was not going to be roused without having a good nights rest. We came down for breakfast at about ten, but in common with some French Hotels, it did not run its own restaurant, and we traipsed next door where meals for the hotel were served. We were all still weary eyed and Desmond’s generous features were still such that you could hardly see his eyes. As we sat at our table we were puzzled by rude noises coming from the waitresses who were setting out the tables for lunch. They were spreading clean white cloths on the tables, and then having filled their mouths with water, they sprayed the cloth in order to remove the creases. In out tired state, we all just collapsed with laughter at this improvised method of ironing out the creases in the linen. Our group of officials and wives were well chaperoned by a young girl, Violetta, whose English was excellent, but who had never been further than 25 miles from Moscow. When out of interest we enquired about travelling to Leningrad, she said it was not possible, for additional visas would be needed, indeed as a Russian she could not travel there without a permit. I could not help but gently probe her with questions about their way of life, and who could and who couldn’t join the Communist Party. She indicated that only a few million were actual Party members, and when I mischievously pointed out that it was about the same percentage of the very rich that controlled all of us, she felt I was just pulling her leg. When we suggested that we sent her some books or magazines once we returned home, she thanked us for the idea but made clear she would not be allowed to receive them, and any acceptable books would have to be cleared for inclusion in their library. As the two weeks came to conclusion, we all agreed to invite her to join us for a farewell supper. During the meal, and not as a result of any serious political conversation, she leaned across to me and said “Mr Brandon-Bravo you have left me very confused”.