VICTOR BARBE'S PASSION FOR SOCCER
Written by R.V.H. Barbé ‚ - May 10, 1996
Return to "A Grandchild's Heritage" Barbé Line
I remember as a lad my father's ability with a soccer ball. He could keep a ball in the air, seemingly forever, tapping it from toe to toe, from knee to head, never actually working too hard at it and making it look so easy. He could kick a ball and make it do crazy things. I recall watching from behind the net one time when he took a penalty shot. He walked up to the ball, he never ran, kicked it, and it flew toward the right side of the net. Naturally, the goalkeeper leapt to the right, only to watch as the ball took a big sweeping curve and ended up in the left hand corner of the net. He could kick what he called a "daisy cutter". The ball would be bouncing along innocently, not going too quickly, when all of a sudden the spin that he had put on it would cause the ball to shoot ahead with a sudden change of speed. Sometimes, a ball was kicked over his head (it didn't take much as he stood only 5'1"). He would watch it go over and then at the last second, reach back and slam it back down the field, using his heel.
He would, on occasion, play with all the neighbourhood kids in the field across from our house. The game was keep away; Dad versus all the kids. He would flip the ball up and then head it into the air. When the ball came down, he was there waiting for it. Our favourite thing though, was when Dad would be dribbling the ball, hopping and stepping in all directions at once, and tapping the ball in various ways to keep it away from us. All of a sudden he would give us a head fake, stop the ball and then run away from it. Naturally, all the kids would chase Dad and just leave the ball sitting there. He used to do it regularly, but we seldom learned to resist his illusion of having the ball with him.
St. Martin's UFC Guernsey, Jersey Easter 1921 - Victor front, centre with ball
He had been a play maker when he had played serious ball when he was younger, and his ability to keep the ball away was not limited to kids. At one game in Lindsay, he came off the field puzzled and asked Mom why one player on the other team had been so mad at him. Mom replied that anyone would have become angry having been made to look like such a fool. Apparently, Dad had been looking for someone to pass the ball to, and had not even been aware of what he had been doing. He had been playing keep away as easily with this opposing player as he had with us kids, and the guy hadn't appreciated the humour of the situation.
Dad learned to play soccer as a kid in Guernsey. He told of kicking a stone or a can or something to school every day. He was so accustomed to using his feet instead of his hands, that when he would play catch with me, me with my baseball glove, if the ball wasn't right to his hands but off to the side, a foot would snake out and knock the ball down to his feet. He would then bend over to pick up the ball to toss it back to me. The reflex to use his feet was too strong. He just couldn't force himself to reach out with his hands.
Dad began to play senior league soccer in the "Old Country" when he was 15 years old. He, along with some friends, was at a game when the local team was missing one player. Rather then default the game, the coach asked the local kids, "Do any of you have your cleats with you?" Dad did. He played for the senior team that day, wearing a jersey that hung down to his knees. They won two to one. Dad had scored the two goals. He was from then on a member of the team.
St. Yves FC, Guernsey, 1912 - Victor front, second from left
Dad was not a teetotaller, but he seldom drank more than one beer, and that only in company. At Christmas, when neighbours would drop in, Dad would offer them a beer and sit and visit and sip on his beer. When they left, he would cap his beer and return it to the fridge. When the next neighbour dropped in, Dad would get this neighbour a beer and retrieve his already started beer to continue it. Therefore, it seemed out of character to hear of the following story of when Dad was in the army, during World War I.
Being a good soccer player meant that Dad, a private, would often receive a quick temporary promotion to Lieutenant Barbé when the officers' team had a game with another outfit. One day, he and another ringer were to play in a game with the officers of their regiment. The day of the game, Dad and his buddy apparently got loaded before the game. The officer in charge, the coach, knew that with his two ringers, the other team didn't have much of a chance, so, just before the game he instructed them to win but not by so high a score as to embarrass the other team. After having scored a couple of goals, Dad and his chum remembered the instructions too well. So, when they would work the ball down the field and approach the opponents' net, since they knew weren't supposed to score any more, their inebriated brains had them work the ball back down the field toward their own goal. This went on for a considerable length of time, up and down the field and the other team ended up being more embarrassed than they would have been by a high score.
I didn't learn to play soccer well, in spite of Dad's example. It was ethnic at the time and I was Canadian. So my games were hockey and baseball. There weren't organised soccer leagues for kids back then either. None the less, I wasn't able to completely ignore soccer, and because I could run fast even though I didn't really have a clue about the game, I ended up somehow playing for the senior team in Lindsay one year. We had a match against the "Old-timers", former players in their late thirties and early forties. Dad was playing with them too. He was 63 at the time. That would make me about 20. We lost the game 1 to 0. They were lucky enough to score a goal. We couldn't get near their net. Dad was playing back. He had an instinct for where the ball would go, and without seeming to rush, when the ball arrived at a certain place on the field, there he was waiting for it. We would laboriously work the ball down the field. (I say "we" as I was a member of the team even though I wasn't much use at this part of the game. Because of my speed, I was designated the role of ball retriever.) Once the ball arrived near the other goal, it immediately became Dad's ball. There would be a loud "whump" and the ball would be back at our end all over again. Dad wasn't wearing his glasses, so to him, the far end of the field was just a blur of coloured jerseys. Even though he didn't realise it, he made me look good that day. He would glance down field, find a group of friendly coloured sweaters and boot the ball in that direction. The lone opposing jersey was mine. I was able, therefore, to frequently use my one skill to retrieve the ball and quickly pass it to someone else who knew what they were doing, to start the next rush down the field.
Lindsay Legion FC, c1948, Victor front right, Ron - mascot
Ron Barbé
RR# 1, Codrington,
ON, Canada
K0K 1R0
roanne@reach.net.
This page last updated January 8, 2002