STAINROD THE GOD OF STYLE
SPORTSMAIL SPECIAL He snubbed Barca and became a Bairns legend
IwAS 13 years old when I found God. Or to be more accurate, Jim Jefferies, Falkirk’s Manager of the Millennium, located him for me.
Ask any Bairns fan of a certain age to name their favourite football player of all-time and they will be guaranteed to give you the same name: Simon Stainrod.
And little wonder. Supporting Falkirk is largely a grim affair with very few highlights.
I am long since resigned to the fact I will never follow in my Dad’s footsteps by watching Falkirk lift the Scottish Cup, as he did in 1957.
But for 61 wondrous games after the ego had landed from French side Rouen in 1990, God was on our side. with this strutting, preening peacock of a player in our midst, Falkirk simply could not fail.
Here was a guy who had once turned down the chance to sign for Barcelona, believing the trial offered by manager Terry Venables was beneath him.
Stainrod, you see, felt he had nothing to prove to anyone.
The 31-year-old former Queen’s Park Rangers and Aston Villa striker knew life up north was going to be a breeze after being voted man of the match in a six-a-side tournament in Musselburgh against first-team players from Hearts, Hibs, Dundee and Motherwell.
‘I thought they were youths and reserves,’ he beamed.
But the guy could walk the walk as well as talk the talk.
whether it was shamelessly showboating by kneeling on the ball by the corner flag before flicking it away, scoring from the halfway line against St Johnstone, or heading a stunning winner against Celtic, God certainly earned his nickname in the most exciting era to be a Falkirk fan in the modern age. After joining the
in 2004, I interviewed Stainrod for the first time on the subject of John Hughes being on the brink of leading Falkirk back into the top flight of Scottish football.
He did not disappoint as he praised the job done by his old team-mate and sparring partner.
‘The only thing is — and the fans know it — is that I would have been a far better manager than Yogi,’ he bragged. ‘He just doesn’t scare players in the same way that I do.
‘Behind his tough facade — and it is just a facade — lies a big pussycat. It will be great to come back to Falkirk and slap the big man about a bit again.
‘It will be just like the old days when we boxed together in the dressing room. Yogi’s a big strong lad but he lacked the technique to cause me any problems...’
Almost 20 years after Stainrod left Falkirk, I was checking into a hotel in Sheffield. The receptionist was taking my contact details when she suddenly stopped and looked up.
‘You’re from Falkirk? I bet you’ll know my dad,’ she smiled before pointing down at her name tag.
I wanted to tell Georgina Stainrod that among my fondest memories from growing up involved her dad’s Falkirk team and following it all over Scotland with my own dad and my younger brother Graham.
‘The Daughter of God?,’ was the sole, spluttered sound that spilled from my lips, prompting a mock roll of the eyes and a grin from Miss Stainrod.
That night, I cast my mind back to my favourite Stainrod memory of all: when Falkirk faced Partick Thistle in a Scottish Cup replay under the floodlights at Brockville in January 1991.
Partick pest Bobby Law tried everything in his armoury to wind up Stainrod but good triumphed over evil and, fed up of Stainrod’s mockery with the ball, Law was sent off for slapping the Englishman.
Stainrod may not have scored that night but he pulled the strings as Falkirk staged an incredible comeback, netting two late goals to win 4-3.
His stay at Falkirk was brief but flawless and he duly moved to manage Dundee, where he appointed Jim Duffy as his No 2 at Dens Park.
The ever-modest Stainrod had claimed that Duffy was the only accomplished player he faced during his time in Scotland and wanted him on his coaching staff.
In August 1992, with Duffy in central defence, Dundee secured a famous 4-3 win over a strong Rangers team that narrowly failed that season to reach the final of the inaugural Champions League.
But the game remains as memorable for Stainrod wearing a fedora and a flashy light raincoat in the home technical area.
However, the flamboyant manager rubbed up the Dens Park directors the wrong
way and was soon ousted from his post.
‘I was too popular,’ he later shrugged. ‘The simple fact is that people appreciate quality and that’s what I brought to Dundee.
‘My team would have been challenging for a European place every year. It’s their loss.’
He then managed Ayr United before quitting Somerset Park in typical Stainrod fashion: bemoaning how useless the players were and heading off instead to be an agent in Cannes. Where else?
Fast forward to 2020 and how I long for the glamour and entertainment of the Stainrod era as I try, so far in vain, to get my own three sons to inherit my love of Falkirk FC.
With my options to watch Falkirk limited by working weekends covering top-flight football for the Scottish Daily
Mail, I settled on taking the boys to the big end-of-season matches.
But each attempt to get them hooked has, so far, only ended in fresh disaster; the 2015 Scottish Cup final 2-1 defeat to ten-man Inverness Caley Thistle at Hampden Park; a 4-0 Premiership play-off final second leg loss to Kilmarnock at Rugby Park in 2016; Dundee United coming from behind to knock the Bairns out of the play-offs the following season at the semi-final stage; then losing to Greenock Morton at home to be effectively relegated to the third tier of Scottish football for the first time since 1980.
My boys recently asked me to take them back to a football match on the grim proviso that it was ‘not a Falkirk match’.
So I bought tickets for the Euro 2020 group clash between Croatia and the Czech Republic at Hampden, which, of course, has now been postponed due to the coronavirus crisis.
The curse continues and the search for the big moment to hook my own sons into football must go on.
In the meantime, God’s image endures today in Falkirk, 28 years after his departure, displayed on a stained-glass window within the Morrison’s supermarket, which was built over the glorious ruin that was Brockville Park.
It is no coincidence, I like to think, that the picture of Simon Stainrod, my childhood hero, hangs almost equidistant between the aisle containing the loaves and the one displaying the fishes.