Born to Fight--The True Story of Richy 'Crazy Horse' Horsley Read Online Free PDF

his name on in order to tell the two bikes apart so that we would stop fighting over whose bike was whose.
    This, however, did not put an end to our fighting. One day we each had a rope with a knot in the end, which we started swinging at each other with complete abandonment. The idea was to try and land first blood. We were aiming full-blooded swings at each other, gradually getting closer to the target. Then BANG! I caught him square in the face with my knot. The screaming soon followed, and his dad came out and took him inside for much-needed medical attention. We didn’t fight much after that. As I went home victorious, I knew I wouldn’t be having any trouble with him again.

CHAPTER 4
HONOUR AND PRIDE
    Some things never change. Sport will always exert a big influence on boys, and I was no different. My love affair with football began when I was six. My dad would take shots at me with a football on the grass outside our house. I loved being a goalkeeper, owing in the main to my idolisation of the current England goalie, Gordon Banks. I had a big scrapbook dedicated to him. Dad got in on the act too, as every time he took a shot he would shout, ‘Save this one, Banksie.’ I was shattered when Banksie lost an eye in a car accident in 1972, at the height of his abilities, when he was undoubtedly the world’s number one. He did try to make a comeback in America for a time, but later said that he felt like a bit of a circus act: ‘Roll up, roll up! The world’s only one-eyed goalkeeper.’ And so he retired from football for good. If hewanted another eye, all he had to do was ask and he could have had one of mine. That’s how much I idolised him.
    All that practice with my dad eventually paid off, as by the time I was eight I had become an established goalkeeper, and was probably the best in the town for my age. Halfway through my first year at junior school, my parents sent me to another school, as they thought it offered a better education. My new school had a great football culture, where everyone would turn up to watch the ‘A’ team play – always a real occasion. The strip was light blue with a white hoop around the neck and wrist, light-blue shorts and socks – a Manchester City lookalike strip. The goalkeeper’s jersey, which I longed to wear, was solid black. My good performances in sports lessons quickly got noticed, and I didn’t have to wait long to break into the side.
    By the time I entered the third year, I was getting games for both the ‘A’ and ‘B’ teams. And luck had it that my first game for the ‘A’ team was against my former school. This turned out to be a good baptism for me, and we came away with a 2-2 draw. Strangely enough, we played each other again a few days later when our ‘B’ teams met. The opposition started moaning as soon as they realised that I had played in the earlier game for the ‘A’ team. We argued back that the only reason I had played then was because the normal goalie was sick, which they accepted. Maybe they should have been more resistant, as we stuffed them 3-0!
    Our school was Protestant, but right next to us there was a Catholic school, Saint Teresa’s. They, too, had an excellent football team, and were our bitter rivals. Needless to say, it was always a big game when we met them. Both teams wanted to win so badly – this wasn’t just a football match, it was a case of upholding honour and pride. I only ever played in one derby game. On that occasion we didn’t have a full team because some of our players were out with the flu. The St Teresa’s coach came over and mocked us, bleating, ‘I thought you were supposed to have a good team, your school?’ This was quite a provocation, so we rushed to the homes of our absent team members and begged them to play. We just managed to get a squad together. We returned to the pitch, where a good crowd had built up. As it was at their place, everyone was anticipating a Teresa’s win against an