The Gatow XV from 1968. To the best of my recollection 8 of the side were present or future linguists: Barney Keenan, Paul O’Donnell, Sean O’Farrell, Wayne Morgan; Ron Williams, Brian Leonard, Bill Thompson and Ian Wilson.

The Gatow team taking on the visiting side from Treorchy at Easter 1969 had 7 present or future linguists in the side: Paul O’Donnell, Sean O’Farrell, Mick Mulvaney; Bill Thompson, Brian Leonard, Ron Williams and Lynn Howells.

In the picture of the side which won the RAFG Rugby Cup at in 1970 there are 6 linguists on the photo: Jim Clark, Mal Ferguson, Mick Mulvaney, Paul O’Donnell, Sean O’Farrell and Brian Leonard. I believe that the photographer was also a linguist player, but for the life of me, I cannot think who that could be.

Note: Jim Clark was in the team that made it a Gatow clean sweep the following day by winning the RAFG Football Cup.

In 1974, six linguists had also transferred their services to the North Luffenham side which won the season-opening ‘Binbrook Bomb’ knock-out tournament. Team members here were Harry Dodd, Brian Leonard, Dave Hyam, Steve Todd, Tony Hendley, and Paul Marchant.

So, as can be seen, languages and sport apparently do mix. It is so sad that so many of my former teammates pictured in these photos are no longer with us.

My love of games started early in life. What else could happen in a sports-mad town like Huddersfield? Off the top of my head, I can name three Olympic gold medallists who originate from our metropolis: Anita Lonsbrough (Swimming), Ed Clancy (Cycling) and Nicola Adams (Boxing). This is in addition to Trevor Cherry (England Football Captain), Arnie & Ryan Sidebottom (England Cricket), as well as a hatful of rugby stars. And I grew up with people who could still remember Huddersfield Town winning the First Division title three years in a row. It could be said that this success was because there was nowt else to do in the area; I wouldn’t disagree.

If you have ever seen the 1963 film “This Sporting Life”, directed by Lyndsey Anderson and starring Richard Harris in an Oscar-nominated role as a rugby league footballer, you may have seen me in the background. However, I was only 14 years old at the time and, although I have watched the film a few times, I have never spotted myself.

If I recall correctly, it was during the Easter holidays of 1962 when our junior rugby league team was invited to go to the Belle Vue ground of Wakefield Trinity RLFC, to form part of the background crowd for a film being made there. The segments we saw being filmed were game ‘action’ scenes, where we recognised the well-known player Neil Fox being used as Richard Harris’s body double. 

After a while, the weather worsened, filming was called off for the day, and we all went home. We were later given the offer of repeating our extras presence on the same film at the ground of Halifax RLFC, but none of us had the desire to stand around in the cold doing nothing again, so we dismissed the proposal. Perhaps the scenes filmed in Halifax were the ones with recognisable faces in the crowd.

I recall that great significance was placed locally on the fact that our homegrown sport had been recognised through this portrayal on an international platform. As the film had an age-restricted classification on release, it was many years before I actually managed to catch up with it. I wasn’t over-impressed.

I still recall my first rugby training session at North Luffenham. I was pleased to note that I was not shamed by the fitness of others. After the session, we started to get to know one another. When asked about my rugby background, my new teammates reacted as if there was a bad smell under their noses. “Don’t broadcast that around” I was told. Why? Because I had quite truthfully mentioned my rugby league upbringing.

Nowadays, at a time when top class rugby union players have been paid for several years, it is perhaps difficult to recall that – in living memory – there was a long period when, outside the north of England, the league version was considered to be fully professional, and bad, whilst the union version was totally amateur, and good. Thus, no respectable union team of that time would knowingly have a league player in their ranks. Obviously, the military was an exception to this perception, but I learned there and then to be careful to whom I revealed my rugby league heritage. I’m pleased to be able to say that this prejudice has since disappeared; the RAF now even enters a team in the Rugby League Challenge Cup competition.

One major advantage of sport is that it provides a good way to get to know people. On leaving the RAF, I played for the local St Neots rugby club, before moving back to Huddersfield. I tried a couple of matches of rugby league at my old club, soon realising that it was now too fast and brutal for me. In my absence, it had become a younger man’s game.  Instead, I settled in the veterans side of my local union club in my newly discovered role as a kicking fly-half. This team was strengthened by former league players, who were participating under pseudonyms. During games against other northern veterans teams, I recognised other previous professionals playing for the opposition. You knew these, because once they’d flattened you, they’d immediately extend a hand to help you back up onto your feet.

Taking part purely for the love of the game, I almost achieved my ambition to play after my 40^th birthday. A week before the date, during a pre-season warm-up game, I dislocated my collar bone (an unrecommended, extremely painful occurrence). It was ironic that my rugby career was ended by a mistimed tackle; tackling was probably the one aspect of the game in which I got near to excelling. Yet, all in all, happy memories.

I have always believed that you should back the team from where you originate. With this in mind, I have been to new Wembley twice: to support the Huddersfield Giants in the 2009 Rugby League Cup Final and then to cheer on Huddersfield Town in the 2017 Championship Play-Off Final. We lost the game we were favourites to win, then were victorious in the match we were expected to lose.  Such contrary outcomes are totally in line with the downbeat mindset required of a true hometown fan.

Until I joined the RAF, I had never come across such a wide selection of team supporters together in one place. It was also the first time I had encountered committed team addicts. The standard of my home team may well explain why I had never found this locally. 

Anyone who was at Luffenham in the late 60s is likely to remember Mick Clubley, who was Chelsea through-and-through. One time he returned late after visiting a mid-week game where his team had lost. Around 11.45pm, when we were all asleep, our barrack room door crashed open to Mick’s cry of “Two offsides and a bleedin’ penalty!” Now that’s a devoted fan.

During our time at Training Wing, we found out that Leicester City were due to play Manchester United in a mid-week match. We decided to put together a party to go. On Wednesday 30 November 1966 we set off to join the 39,000 crowd at the Filbert Street ground, keen to see some recent World Cup winners, plus Denis Law and George Best, in action.

Of course, memory can play tricks on you, but to this day I am convinced that we witnessed a piece of George Best magic that night. Midway through the second half he received the ball level with us, outside the penalty box. Without even the hint of a reactive movement from England and Leicester’s goalkeeper Gordon Banks, the ball was suddenly in the back of the City net. We all asked “How did George do that?” However, without the modern advantage of video replay, we only have our imaginations to refer to. 

To add to the occasion, this was the winning goal in a 2-1 victory for the United side. In 1968 George Best was chosen as the European Footballer of the Year. How lucky we were to witness him in his prime. I cannot recall who went with us from Luffenham. Does anyone else remember this game?

On the pitch that night were three members of England’s World Cup winning team: Bobby Charlton, Nobby Stiles and Gordon Banks. As well as George Best, there was another folk hero, Denis Law, who scored the first Manchester United goal. I had come across Denis before. When playing previously for Huddersfield Town, he had lived locally in a house we passed daily on our way to school. I saw him from time to time in the morning, apparently putting his school-ready children into his car. He had a normal semi-detached house. Even footballing superstars lived in our midst in those days.

At last, I can vent my spleen on a sporting injustice handed out to me on the fields of Gatow. One time, playing cricket for C Watch against the Sergeants’ Mess, I was given out caught by a ball which obviously came off my upper forearm. I protested that I could not be given out in this way, but the umpire – a linguist from another watch – insisted I had to go. But he added to my irritation by commenting “Leo, I know you’re a rugby player, but I’ve played cricket for years. You’re out”. 

How dare he say this to a Yorkshireman? We precious few, who are taught at our mother’s knee never to play back to an off-spinner. I probably played cricket for as long, if not longer, than he. That’s not saying I was a better cricketer; I just preferred to concentrate on rugby. But his decision was wrong then, and still is.

The only permanent sports scar I have comes from my days as wicketkeeper for my local club’s second team as a sixteen-year-old. A fast ball skipped off the batsman’s bat onto the top of my gloves and then straight up into my right eyebrow. A cut requiring seven stitches was inflicted. As I went down, I still remember vividly that someone shouted out “Catch the ball!”. We took our cricket very seriously in Yorkshire.

On the subject of the Yorkshire religion of cricket, I was once found guilty of a cardinal sin. I walked. That is, although being given “Not Out” by the umpire for a claimed catch, I fully realised that the ball had in fact touched my bat on the way through. So I corrected his mistake and, putting the bat under my arm, walked off. The opposition were initially shocked, then broke into a spontaneous round of applause for my honesty. My team, however, were not so understanding. “Tha never ever walks!” I was repeatedly informed after the match. I continued to play cricket on and off in friendly games until I was 48, but would I do the same again? Probably.

Like, I am sure, most of Gatow’s veterans, at the end of the 60s I took advantage of our newly built 9-hole golf course. Whilst not the worst player ever to walk the greens there, I must certainly have been in the bottom ten. The hole which caused the most problems for me was the long one next to Queensway (the 8^th?).

I recall how one Scottish linguist friend – who shall remain unnamed – came into the Airbridge Club one evening to inform everyone “I did the 8^th in 4 today!”. Knowing his capabilities, we all expressed delight in this par performance. “Ah… That’s lost balls, not shots” he explained. I was not alone in my incompetence.

When I first went to the RAF Careers Office in Leeds in 1966, it had been my intention to apply to be a PTI. The wise recruitment sergeant – who had been requested to look out for potential linguists – said to me “If your intention is to play sport, you’ll find more opportunity to do this as a linguist than as a PTI. Your pay and promotion prospects will also be better.” His advice sold it for me. And he was right.

Brian Leonard