Tim Crowe RIP
My Dad was born in Silver Crescent, Chiswick in 1936, the second world war shaped his childhood years with stories he relayed of doodle bugs, 1,000 raids, shrapnel collections and war time cups. He first ventured to Griffin Park with his Dad, a Norwich City supporter who had moved to West London, and this became the catalyst for Dad’s lifelong passion for the Bees. After National Service in Germany, he joined the GPO with his initial years were spent, as he would say, “Up poles and down holes”, and finished in various management roles in what became BT. My first memories of Brentford were collecting matchsticks with my elder sister on the wide and largely empty expanses of the New Road terrace; the roar of the game mixing with the smell of pipe tobacco and fags. My interest soon switched to events on the pitch, my sister’s to horses and this left Dad and I to fill our trips up the M4 from Maidenhead with chatter about the forthcoming match and all things Brentford. For some reason Dad was always keen on running between car and ground and to begin with he would encourage me with “keep up Si were going to be late”, we never were. As my legs grew longer, we would run together, and as teenage years extended a diversion to the New Inn for a pre-match beer or two was added to the ritual. We shared the highs and the lows together until grandsons joined and one at least caught the bug and kept coming.
His later years were blighted by a degenerative condition that slowly robbed an active man of his mobility. We clung to the New Road for as long as we could, and I thank all those that lent a helping hand assisting Dad with the steps, whilst I man-handled his wheelchair. The disabled section of the Braemer allowed him to carry on supporting for a few seasons more. One of his last ambitions was to clock up some matches at Lionel Road, but two strokes denied him that, like Arnhem it proved to be a bridge too far. Whenever we get to see our Bees play our first match in LR, I’ll be raising a glass to a quiet man, a dependable and trustworthy man that I had the honour to call my Dad.
His later years were blighted by a degenerative condition that slowly robbed an active man of his mobility. We clung to the New Road for as long as we could, and I thank all those that lent a helping hand assisting Dad with the steps, whilst I man-handled his wheelchair. The disabled section of the Braemer allowed him to carry on supporting for a few seasons more. One of his last ambitions was to clock up some matches at Lionel Road, but two strokes denied him that, like Arnhem it proved to be a bridge too far. Whenever we get to see our Bees play our first match in LR, I’ll be raising a glass to a quiet man, a dependable and trustworthy man that I had the honour to call my Dad.
