Archie Moore takes up the story in his own words, His reminiscing will surely bring back memories of what it was like back then:

I was a soccer nut at school, in the ‘A’ group for the afternoon double games and played in the school soccer teams. However on a couple of occasions, in a misguided attempt to teach this group the finer points of the oval ball game, I can honestly say I hated it. I think the group’s lack of eagerness about rugby also got through, and the sports master and his staff gave up on us. I remember two things about those lessons, one was being in a scrum which I felt was an excuse to have one’s head ripped off and as a forward (in a soccer team) I continually roamed up field and I couldn’t grasp the principle of getting behind the ball. I later learned that if it did come my way it was as a result of a forward pass or a kick putting me off-side. So it was no surprise that I was a non-participant and I was also shouted at by the sports master a lot of the time, which was another thing I didn’t like and if the ball did come to me by chance I had no idea what I had to do with it.

I was 15 at the time and if someone had told me then that in four years’ time I would be playing in the town’s first XV, they would have received a hollow laugh and I would be supressing a snigger before excusing myself and going round the corner to piss myself laughing.

But I get ahead of myself.

I left school with three ’o’ levels and if I had one other for each sport that I represented the school at, I would have tripled that total. I was in the school’s football, cricket and basketball teams, I threw the javelin in the interschool sports and for two years running won the area schools competition with my doubles partner at tennis, and on a school trip I gained a bronze medal at skiing. All this had a consequence on my education but I made up for it in later life, gaining engineering and management qualifications to graduate level and studies at the Open University.

Upon leaving school I entered upon an engineering apprenticeship at High Duty Alloys Limited (now Mettis). It was here that I met a guy called Phil Troth who was a fellow apprentice. At the earliest opportunity he had passed his driving test so he was mobile. He had a friend called Tony White who in turn was a friend of Phil Vaughan. Phil V. lived just up the road from me so the friendship ring had come full circle as I knew Phil well because we went to school together. So the four of us apart from Phil T., were all under-age drinkers in 1966 through early 1967 which meant that our Friday night excursions had to be out of town, consequently we visited several country pubs, the favourite being the Three Witches in Stratford.

In the autumn of 1966, Tony and Phil V. had started playing for the newly formed Redditch Rugby Club whilst Phil T played for Alcester. Naturally the conversation on our Friday night sojourns turned to rugby. Tales of derring-do, who they played the week before, who they were playing on the morrow and all interspersed with socializing, comradeships and monumental piss-ups, they were an abundantly happy trio. The return journey sing song was also a revelation.

My Saturdays were a complete contrast. I was to be found most Saturdays on the terraces of Villa Park or other (then) first division grounds up and down the country. Unlike England whose football team had just been crowned World Cup winners on that famous day in July 1966, my team served up a cocktail of occasional joy but more often than not misery, hopes dashed, despair and disappointment. But something else was growing, the menace of football violence. It was the days of low profile policing, they only seemed to skirt the pitch stopping the odd idiot who decided to invade it, crowds were non-segregated, with some fuelled by alcohol and it was a disaster waiting to happen. I witnessed scalding Bovril being thrown over a group of away supporters, fists were thrown and it almost became a ritual for many to engage in the finer points of unarmed and later armed combat with bottles and bricks. I was a biggish lad then but more often than not it was a flee for your life situation. I was unwittingly part of but apart from fearful glass in your face situations and running battles. I felt I was being drawn into this cycle and it was for me only a matter of time before I interested either the emergency or the police services. I did what a lot of fans did in those days and voted with my feet. My football viewing was limited to televisual offerings but there was a big gap in my life on Saturday afternoons.

So coming back to my Friday nights with the rugby boys, a germ of an idea formed in my mind and when put it to the boys their enthusiasm was evident coupled with an ‘about time’ having listened to my tales of woe.

And so on the first Tuesday of July 1967 I presented myself at the club’s Bromsgrove Road Headquarters for pre-season training. I vaguely knew some people there from my school days (they were much older than me) and judging by what was on the car park I was now mixing with well-spoken and well to do professional people some of whom were nuggety looking individuals who you would cross the street to avoid. I was a long-haired, gauche 18-year-old off the local council estate, an unknown quantity whose only virtue was that I was a soccer convert. I was a boy amongst men.

I thought I was reasonably fit, since school I had played for the college basketball team, tennis to a reasonable degree (I had been selected to play in a team for Redditch against Auxerre) and of course my apprentices’ soccer team, but I was totally unprepared for rugby training.

I had never heard of the expression circuit training but that was the rugby club’s pre-season menu. We trained on the field (through the gate) that was then Bridley Moors’ cricket field. It was about 100 metres on each side and we were tasked with moving from one corner to the other by various means, jog, sprint, hop, crawl etc. Upon reaching the corners and mid-points we had to engage in multiple repetitions of various exercises, squats, press-ups, sit-ups, star jumps and more. Oh! And not being satisfied with that we had to do ten, yes TEN bloody laps!!!!!! I was soon chugging along at the rear with a group that could only be described as willing but social and when I started to be lapped as I was bent double hands on knees, I began to wonder if I was making a mistake. But what I didn’t count on, amongst the myriad of accents was encouragement from a number of complete strangers (who later became good friends) who confided in me that I had done much better than expected for a first timer.

It still hurt to walk down stairs for the next three days!

But I came back for more the following Tuesday, to the surprise of some, determined to give it another go. Training sessions got easier as fitness improved and at the end of some sessions we engaged in practice games. I am not a tall guy but right from the start I was put in the second row with the simple instructions to start with to push in the scrums I suppose it was their way to blood a rookie and be in a position where it was damage limitation for my team. I do recall however, a line out. Not really knowing what to do at first there was a tap down on my side to the scrum half who was running back to retrieve the ball. Suddenly some big bugger gave me a shove and started to come past me to clobber my team mate. Realising in an instant what was about to happen I grabbed this guy’s arm and yanked him off his feet. He punctuated a glare with an expletive saying that I was unclean and of dubious parentage or words to that effect until I stood my ground with clenched fists. I had no idea who he was but later I discovered I had just been introduced to the chairman of selectors, Gus Glanville.

On another occasion as I waddled from one set piece to another and always arriving just in the nick of too late, I came upon a loose maul and the ball dropped out of the rear. Basic instincts took over and despite a pair of hands appearing in my peripheral vision I did what came naturally and swung a boot at it anticipating a foot rush to the posts but intent and result did not match. The ball ricocheted off the mass of bodies in front and looped to the opposition’s outside centre who immediately booted the ball down field, an attacking position was turned into desperate defence. The voice attached to the pair of hands yelled ‘Archie! You’re not playing f****** soccer now’. I told him to go forth and multiply, for all to hear, which could have been a bad move because I’d just said hello to Roger Westwood, the second XV captain, who was one of the first guys that I met at training and frankly scared the s**** out of me.

However, I learnt quickly, got reasonably fit and soon the season was upon us. The numbers at training had grown to the point that it was clearly going to be easy to field three teams (or occasionally more) each week and considering that in its first season the club had put out three teams on only three occasions, this was a considerable growth of playing strength.
The rugby season starts on the first Saturday in September and goes on until the last one in April, but in 1967 there was a Wednesday that was September 1st a third XV fixture had been arranged against Hewell Grange, the local young offenders institute as a season opener when Redditch would field a number of unknowns, I was one of them.
We met at the Bromsgrove headquarters and a convoy of around 20 cars made the short 3-mile journey. There were that many because most of the other two team’s senior players were there as well as selectors and supporters.

The YOI was based in an old manorial house with outbuildings and grounds and as we pulled up on the large circular drive, I made my first ‘mistake’. Everyone was milling around unsure where to go. ‘I know where the changing rooms are’ I chimed and set off to some outbuildings to the right of the mansion house. In past days they had probably been stables or servants quarters. I didn’t notice one or two raised eyebrows and exchanged glances. Around the corner it opened up to a concrete paddock. Our opponents (the boys) were all changed and waiting for us, after all they were ‘at home’ come to think of it they always played at home. Suddenly from a window a head appeared and a rich Liverpudlian voice shouted ‘Hey it’s the footballer! How you going Archie lad?’ I smiled and waved, my second mistake, but being ahead of all the rest I failed to notice the quizzical looks or heed the unspoken thoughts.

I sat in a bubble of silence in the changing rooms and noticeably on my own. My experience at this point of team games was banter and bubbling conversation. I was told rugby players start to focus, getting in the zone I think you call it now, either way I thought this lot were a miserable load of buggers.

We had to walk about 200 yards to the pitch and on the way one of the officers still in uniform spoke to me, we exchanged a few good natured words. I still didn’t ‘clock’ the looks of all from Redditch.

I remember very little about the game. We won 13 nil and whilst I thought I contributed reasonably well in the set pieces and I was a presence in the loose. It was a typical start of season game which was littered with errors not helped by 15 strangers playing together for the first time. I thought it ironic that I’d left the disorganized mayhem of the football terraces for the organized mayhem of the rugby pitch.

I came off the field to a couple of ‘well dones’ but again I sat in the changing room on my own. It was then that I heard someone say ‘you ask him’, ‘no, you ask him’. Suddenly I sensed a number of pairs of eyes riveted in my direction. Within a minute or so some club official sidled up and sat next to me. I had no idea then who he was and I could see he was consumed with embarrassment. I feared he was going to give me bad news ‘I don’t know how to put this’ he started – yes it was bad news? I thought, not good enough? I thought. ‘It’s just that well…..’ the words came out in small chunks ‘when we arrived you knew where the c hanging rooms were that lad knew your name and then you spoke to that officer who seemed to know you’.

‘Yes?’ And then he said ‘Well…..’ He was clearly struggling ‘Well what were you in for?’ Which came out in some sort of strangulated way.

For a moment I was speechless then the penny dropped. By now all eyes were on me and I just exploded.

I am afraid I swore profusely, well, abundantly and if any selection criteria were involved I would have been selected as a swearer for England. I figured that the circumstantial evidence, along with my appearance, background, and soccer-convert image had enticed everyone to think that two and two equals four. The sum total of their maths, however was nearer seven.

‘If you must know I played soccer here only four days ago against the staff, so I knew where the changing rooms were. I played directly opposite the officer I spoke to and the remarks were about Sunday’s game. As for the lad recognizing me – I scored a goal and he along with all his mates picked up on my name as well as others in our team. They naturally wanted us to kick shit out of the staff. Now f*** off. Go and talk to Ian Johnstone (then the first XV skipper and my ex teacher) he’ll tell you where I was until I was 16. Then speak to Tony Carr (I knew he was a policeman and club founder) ask him if I’m known to the law, then have a chat with Phil Troth. He’ll tell you I’ve been an ever present as an apprentice at HDA since leaving school.’

My tirade over I threw my boots on the floor clearly upset, by now the riveted eyes had disappeared and the official disappeared mumbling apologies.
I guess my reaction would mean that I definitely wouldn’t play another game for Redditch and to be honest, I didn’t care. I sat head in hands for a moment almost in tears and sensed someone sitting next to me a hand rested on my shoulder ‘You alright?’ It was Pete Wilkinson, the days captain ‘I have to ask…..’ he began.
‘Not you as well’ I thought.
‘I have to ask if you are available for Saturday, if you didn’t know it, everyone thought you had a good game and I’m going to recommend you be in the seconds this Saturday.’
‘After what I’ve just said?’
‘Even more so’ said Pete ‘now come on let’s go and have some beers.’
I couldn’t help but laugh and did have a few beers and a number of people did come up to me and say ‘well done’. Later the club official, who after all had probably been pushed into asking me the awkwardest of questions and in a way had bravely done so, apologized again.
I didn’t realized it then, nor could I have anticipated that I would be playing rugby and later refereeing into the 1990’s, thus stepping on to the rugby field in four decades.

Dave Eley responds to a question as to against whom did we play our first game:

Steve, it was a little unusual. After meeting, I think in July 1966 or thereabouts we trained through the summer. The first game, if I remember correctly, was against Hewell Grange but this was classed as a 'rehearsal. I did not play in that one. The next week we played Dudley Kingswinford Thirds I think. This was classed as the first match. Unfortunately for me I played in that one at wing forward marking a tall muscular gent who gave me the run around all afternoon. I think we may have played at Walkwood School. I can remember a few other names in the team but not all. Within next to no time we had two teams, then three and later four, even reaching five in the seventies. The exiles was eventually formed as a small rebellion, I cannot remember the year. There were by then a number of us who were rarely getting a game. A group of us were chatting in the bar. The suggestion came, I think, from Gren Betteridge, a strong front row forward but he had one arm very slightly withered giving him a disadvantage on occasions. The idea caught on so we could get games taking fourth team fixtures at first until a full circuit of vet's teams grew up in the area. The explanation of the name 'Exiles' should be obvious, the unwashed and unwanted plus in retaliation we were known to refuse to give players to other teams on occasions when they were short. I suppose we thought we had been neglected and we were in danger of becoming a ' Club within a Club'. However to our credit we always looked out for promising youngsters who after a few games we encouraged to go up the ranks as far as they could get. Most agreed to give it a shot but a few refused to leave the Exiles even though they had real potential, arguing that it was much more fun where they were. I could go on more about how Gus offered to run the Thirds and would drive round to young player’s houses asking their parents to let them play in the afternoon and I would browbeat students at Bromsgrove College of F.E. twisting their arms to play, Wally Bishton for instance. Schoolmasters also drew in players from their classes. That is enough of a diatribe from me, you only asked on simple question and you get all this waffle.

Archie carries on, and like Mike Lewis, remembers some of the pricing back in the day. It is a far cry from our card machine and contactless transactions. I remember working behind the bar and the expectation was that you kept the running total in your head and were able to tell the punter the total as you presented him with the last drink. None of the getting the till to add it up and calculate the change. Skippy

Excuse me if I stroll down Memory Lane for a moment and indulge in a few numbers but when I started playing rugby in the autumn of 1967 I was just entering my fourth year as an apprentice at High Duty Alloys Limited (now Mettis). I had just turned 19 years of age and my weekly take home pay was about six pounds. Subscriptions were 2 pounds 10 shillings (2.50 new money), match fees 2 and 6 pence (12.5 p), a club tie was 18 and 6 pence (85 p.), a pint of beer was less than three bob (15 p.), a gallon of petrol was 4 and11 (less than 25 p.) You could buy a tray of chips for 6 pence (2.5p.) and a second class stamp was 3 pence. (Just over 1 new penny) which brings me neatly to how we knew what team we were playing in.

1967 was pre mobile phones and in some cases (like me) pre landline phones. We couldn’t imagine e-mail or other modern communication wizardry, so unless you were at training on Tuesday night or popped down to the club to see the team posted on the clubhouse window you had to wait until Thursday or Friday when you received a pre-printed card informing you of where you were playing next or as a final back-up you could see the teams printed in the Redditch Indicator which came out on Friday. So if you were unavailable, injured or you had to cry off for other commitments there was little time to inform the appropriate skipper and he in turn and other skippers had little time to get their teams in order. More often than not this was done on Saturday itself because some players in the lower order teams who found themselves not selected turned up, kit in hand, in the hope of filling a gap. The real problem however, was if an away team was short there were only two alternatives travel a man short (in the hope your hosts will help you out by providing a player) or drag in a player due to play at home who could be ‘persuaded’ to turn up earlier than planned an at short notice (sound familiar?). There were not many who were able to do this, either because they were difficult to contact (no phone again) or lived too far from the club but I was one who could be dragged in at the last minute. I lived a 10-minute walk from the club (2 minutes by car if you are keeping notes) so it was not uncommon to have a knock on the door that prefaced a ‘come on you’re playing for the seconds let’s go!’

Personally I didn’t mind this although I realized that it wasn’t because I was:
a) the best player in the team below or
b) a straightforward like-for-like – it’s just that I was the easiest option to make up the numbers, easily picked like low hanging fruit.

Thus it was that for the first seven weeks of the season (I know this because I have referred to my fixture card where I religiously filled in the results of the games I played in). Thus it was that I seemed to play away nearly every week. One game I particularly remember was at Shipston on Stour, a place I had never been to before and a game that was very much in the balance right up to the last minute. This rural area had been subject to foot and mouth travel restrictions which had been lifted only a day or two earlier. The pitch we were due to play on was out of town, consequently there had been no opportunity to cut the grass to a playable level during much of the summer. We changed in a pavilion attached to the local sports ground and then we had to travel to some remote farmers field. Luckily, two lads in our team, Richard and John Mountford, knew the area well because their mother lived in Shipston and knew where we had to go. Then journey to the pitch was hilarious as John stood on the passenger seat with the upper part of his body poking out of the sunroof (as Dick drove) looking for all the world like a tank commander giving directions, startling cattle in adjacent fields and nearly forcing open-mouthed on-coming drivers into taking evasive action and not parking their cars in a hedge or a ditch.

As I mentioned earlier the grass had just been cut, not with a mower but with a side-mounted scissor scythe which just laid the grass in great two feet long swathes which really should have been collected for hay. There was no time to do this and the lines were creosoted over the lain grass. Needless to say within a short period of time as thirty rugby players chugged around the pitch the grass was kicked over and the lines disappeared. This was particularly a problem when deciding if a ball, or a player with a ball was in touch but a hastily convened committee meeting between the ref and both teams usually sorted this out (most often than not we needed a breather anyway).

There was however a player in our team called Graham Holmes (we later became very good friends) he was a biggish chap who could have been a front row on his own. I remember one occasion he ran laterally across the field handing off their entire back division one by one before flopping over for a try.
I was in the second row for this game and had just bought one of those ridiculous scrum-caps that tied under the chin. I wore it only once, for this game when an opponent grabbed It when I was in full flight (honestly!) and nearly yanked my head off.

But there were other considerations. Back to the grass, when it was cut it concealed it semi-dried piles of cow shit more often than not you emerged from a loose maul with grass sticking out of every nook and cranny and a dab of cow shit on the end of your nose.
There was a journo who worked for a Welsh newspaper, I think the Western Mail. He had written a book called ‘The Art of Coarse Rugby’ and this match could easily have sat in the pages of that tome.
We won 17-3, brushed off the pats of cow shit before we drove back to change and then to repair to one of those lovely half-timbered pubs in the middle of Shipston. The clocks had not yet been turned back so there was still a fair bit of daylight left when we went into the pub but it was well and truly dark when we left. The beer had been good, the company better and the juke box belted out the songs of the day. There was one that I had never heard before – it sounded like a group who had their nuts trapped when slamming down a dustbin lid. It was the first time I heard the Bee Gees singing Massachusetts and I had a bet that they would be a one-hit wonder!

Here’s another stroll down Memory Lane – go on indulge me! Then a try, a penalty and a drop-goal were all worth three points and a conversion two. There was none of this bend – touch – pause – engage business in the scrums, packs formed several yards apart and charged liked rutting stags, line-outs were a mess, bodies sometimes compressing into a space that you could cover with a blanket, lifting was illegal and I once saw a photograph in our local paper where all eight – yes all eight forwards were off their feet jumping at a line-out. You could kick the ball into touch from anywhere on the field and the ensuing line-out was from where the ball left the field of play. This particular law was changed (I think it was called the dispensation law) and I didn’t know it then but this was to have a very influential impact on my playing position in years hence, but I get ahead of myself. Archie refers to the Australian Dispensation which brought in the restriction limiting kicking out on the full to within the 25 yard line. This was played a couple of seasons in Australia before being adopted elsewhere in 1968 from memory. Skippy

Mike Lewis returns to give us his early memory of match days

We played several games on a farm at Mappleborough Green owned by Noel Green. Noel was a great supporter of the newly formed R.C. And went out of his way to help in any way he could.

What happened on these Saturday mornings was just a way things were and to be honest I can't see it happening today? At about twelve o'clock a group of players would go over to the farm and start work. The posts were got out of the yard, erected and then the markings were done somewhat haphazardly. Then those equipped with buckets and shovels would go round the pitch and clear away all the animal droppings.

We would then drive back to where we were changing that day, to meet the opposition and also to get changed ready for the match. At this juncture it could have been Bridley Moor, Walkwood or Lodge Farm.

Back out to Mappleborough to play the match at the end of which the posts had to be taken down!!! Then back to get changed and on to the Cricket and Hockey Club for a meal and quite a few drinks.

To be fair the meals at the beginning were probably some of the best on the circuit. No hamburgers etc., we had proper sit down meals. Wives, fiancées, girlfriends and mistresses all pitched in and formed a rota amongst themselves and organised the catering for the first couple of years. As I previously said the food was of the highest quality.

Drink driving had not yet reared its ugly head so late drinking was not a problem and it was not unknown for activities to go on until very late on most Saturday's. There was also a warning system in place which told us if there were any police cars in the vicinity!!!!

Looking back, ones social life was the club. It was small and consequently everybody knew everybody else and everybody mucked in, men and women alike which made the running of the club in those early years a happy and very memorable time for all concerned.

Redditch RFC