Claret Blue and Green
One of my indelible sporting memories is not a sight but a sound. I'm watching Aston Villa play West Bromwich Albion one grey day in 1977. The derby is always intense, but today there seems a kind of malevolence to the match, and to the crowd; you would not want to be out there. In the Villa midfield is a slight figure called Alex Cropley, a Scot who is in the form of his life. The previous season he had inspired Villa to a 5-1 win over Liverpool, the champions , and this afternoon he is making the Albion side - the team of John Wile and Len Cantello, one of the most uncompromising ever to take to a football field - look like park players.There is nothing of Cropley, he is in that mould of footballer that is quick and wiry, playing in spaces, seeing gaps, but he is fearless, too, never stepping back from a challenge. The Villa fans have a favourite song, through which, in the company of my dad, I tend to mumble, though I appreciate the sentiment: ' Five-foot eight, not much weight, Alex Cropley's fucking great, la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.'In my memory, I'm half-humming this and straining to see the pitch when a ball falls from the sky exactly between Cropley and an Albion player named Ally Brown , both running at full pace from opposite directions about 10 yards apart; an instant later Cropley meets the ball and Brown meets Cropley with all the force at his will, a force that seems to have built up steadily with each challenge in the match , and is looking for a way to escape. It is then I hear the sound, an other-worldly noise, easily loud enough to silence 35,000 people in a state of high excitement, like the gunshot that starts a race. This is not a start, though; it's an ending of sorts. It is the sound of Alex Cropley's breaking leg, a sharp crack that snaps tibia and fibula and leaves the lower portion of his shin skewed at a vicious angle to the upper part.I can still hear it now, that crack that seemed to echo in an absolute chill quiet . I don't remember any of the goals of that game, or of that season, but I'll never forget that sound; it was the first moment in my life as a spectator, I suppose, when sport suddenly seemed like mortality. Major injuries always announce themselves immediately; teammates know the worst has happened, so do fans, so does the player. The suspension of disbelief that surrounds the match is punctured, the injury allows a different, messier register of understanding back into a stadium. What has seemed play, suddenly is real; where all before was speed and recklessness, now all is care and slowness.Cropley, who was 26 , played a few times more, but not with any of his previous grace and pace; what had once looked wiry about him and his legs now looked as if it would easily snap. The more heartless Albion fans developed a chant about the incident : 'Alex, Alex Crippley.' Cropley drifted out of the game; he had played for Scotland twice
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Topic: Alex Cropley RIP (Read 749 times)
