Duncan said . . .

Now, since I've been sicker than a parrot and I'm playing the second period of this funny old game of two halves, think of me as I enter extra time or even paying the penalties of being a mere mortal, you might say.

Don't stand on the terraces and talk of me as some by-gone has-been. Rather, imagine us still at The Grange with the Yellows, the Blues, the Stripes -whatever shirts we could pick up, going cheap!

Remember the resounding of Mick Dams' "roof" call or his urging to place the back pass into the safety of the "side-netting"? How some of his shots physically found their way into the goal remains a mystery to this day -but, at least, if Mick said they were a goal, then that was so.

Do you recall Paul Jones who, having turned up already changed for the fray, would brush your tackle off like a Welsh ram tossing a bale of straw over a hedge? There are many indentations in the walls of the Grange which bear witness to this outstanding talent and, don't forget, Jones' shooting wasn't bad either.

Surely we all remember Alan "Crusher" Williams to whom a tackle from the front was anathema and who was more than politeness itself as you nursed your damaged ligaments? A milder man with a softer manner and smile you couldn't hope to meet but, show him an opponent at 5 yards and this Forest supporter could floor him in less than the time it took to say "Brian Clough".

Never forget Jim Goddard who sometimes, by accident, would puff on his contact lens and stick his inhaler in his eye in his anxiety to set out on one of his crazy, mazey runs which would end in a spectacular volley, striking either the top right-hand corner of net with a tumultuous thud or the top right-hand comer of the gym with a mile-long expletive.

And Gerry Smith -the master. Despite his increasing waist-line this cheerful cockney could still show lads half his age a thing or two; the through pass, the Cruyff turn, the retaliation - Gerry had them all. And despite his years as a teacher of mathematics it was amazing the number of times Gerry seemed to make simple scoreline errors in favour of the team for which he, himself, was playing!

"Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn" - unfortunately they had in the case of Duncan Bamford, the man who, despite all the cajoling of his team mates, insisted on turning up every week. True, this was mostly to enjoy his cup of tea but occasionally to allow himself the luxury of a pass or a shot followed rapidly by a spell in goal to recuperate.

Steve Ridge was the defender par excellence. If you got past Steve he must have been looking the other way. On occasion, he would venture forward and relish the opportunity to show the rest that he could pack a shot. One thing you rarely saw from Steve, when he was in goal, was a quick throw-out, particularly at five minutes to six when his side held a 1-0 lead!

Next, if you're talking goalkeepers - and other positions -you're talking Manchester's own Bob Eckersley. There was nothing to touch the cat-like antics of this fearless 21st century Bert Trautmann. Whether grabbing the ball from just under the bar or diving at an opponent's
boot, no-one else wore away as much of their knee caps as did the Stockport Smotherer.

The imperturbable fixture secretary of this crowd went by the name of Ray Burcham who forewent bank notes of interest to selflessly finance the year's use of the hall. Ray was no mean athlete and his back passes were legend; he could pick out an opponent from any distance! Ray was a man with a measured shot, often considering the Boolean alternative before unleashing his 30 yard curler inside the far post.

The non-stop member of the pack was Martin Keating whose only weakness was supporting Bristol City. Martin was the marathon man who could play in any position and tended to do just that. His lissom figure belied the ability to tackle even the sturdiest of players or at least to ensure that they failed to complete their route to goal. Martin was a fighter admired by all for his positive attitude in the face of serious adversity.

Looking back over many years we shall never forget the likes of Clive Maggs whose career was shortened far too prematurely, Ian George who went off to play in some Colombian jungle team, and the unique John Hurst to whom the rest of us were just "boys". John knew every trick in the book and we were the pages on which he tried them out. Nobody could simultaneously talk and play such a good game as Big John.

Gradually, over the years, new regulars came to join the Friday night mob. Lest we forget, let us pay homage to Steve Heaven and Tom Jones, to Dr Nick Smith and Principal Graham Taylor, in addition to remembering the numerous students and friends who, often at short notice, would come along to keep the tradition going.

And now, as the big referee in the sky consults his stopwatch and life's stewards begin to wend their way around the universal perimeter, we offer up grateful thanks for the undeniable fun, the undoubted enjoyment, the considerable exercise, the inexpressible comradeship and the different manner in which Friday nights at the Grange has touched each and everyone of us. Thank you lads. I wouldn't have missed it for the world