Reflections

From my earliest years I was brought up, like most of my contemporaries, developing my love of the game in the back streets of a slum area, playing with any sized ball, and sometimes, something that just about resembled a ball! More often than not, we played in teams the size of which could have been compared to an army regiment! The occasions which we got to go to the park and play with a real leather 'casey' were treasured. Anybody who had the luck to own a 'casey' treasured it, nurtured it, and loved it like a sister. Normally, they would last only a season or so because in the main, most of the surfaces that we played upon had only had a brief nodding acquaintance with grass! To own a pair of football boots was also a great joy - not for us a new pair every year. Parents were thrifty in their choice - if they came across a pair in a second hand shop and could afford them - then they were bought - and it didn't matter what the size! No size was too big - Dad stuffed the big bulbous toe caps with paper until we grew into them! Kids from the posher south side of Manchester, and the better schools, hated playing against us - they seemed to be bemused at the sight of 9/10 year olds wearing size nine boots - they thought that they had come across some strange tribe of mutants with oversize feet! Fashion was never a concern of ours - we just wanted to play. I can remember one season in which we played against a team who had had their shirts knitted by their Mothers from left over pieces of wool, and when they lined up, not one of them was wearing a shirt of the same colour! We nicknamed them 'Basset's' because to us they looked like an assortment of liquorice allsorts! We listened in awe to our fathers, grandfathers, uncles, and their friends, as they regaled us with tales of the great managers, players, and clubs of the past, and the great feats which they had all accomplished. With a hunger for knowledge about the game that would give credit to the appetite of a pirahna, we read almost everything that we could; comics, books, newspapers, magazines etc., because in those dear days, apart from the odd radio programme or newsreel clip at the cinema, the written word, and printed picture, was our only way of learning about the game's immediate, and past history. None of our families owned television sets because all the houses in those areas were lit by gaslight. Today, I see young kids with the best of everything; replica kits, designer boots, tracksuits, training shoes, shin pads, 'keepers gloves, proper footballs. Things do come easy for them. They are saturated with football coverage on the television, and watch and listen as the game is dissected piece by piece, by people called pundits, some of whom, have never ever played the game at any decent standard, and even those that have, talk in a manner that would have you believe that football began the day that they started playing. Today's media coverage is full of sensationalism, bias, untruths, innuendo, and certainly does not concentrate, nor report about the game. This does influence kids in a big way as to how they perceive football, and for the most part, would certainly have them believe that anything pre-1992, was not worth reading or hearing about, because whatever happened before then was either second rate or it didn't happen. I smile to myself because it makes me realise how lucky the kids of my generation were. Not for a minute do I begrudge the kids of today their material wares, fair play to them, and if they fall in love with game, all power to them. But it makes me wonder what will fuel their hunger, their imaginations, their passions, and where will they find their romanticism for this great game from?

I am just about to begin the passage into old age, and for the past few days, and probably during the next few weeks to come, I have had, and will have, a lot of time for reflection. As I said in my articles about nostalgia which I wrote for the 4-4-2 Magazine - it's not a bad thing - it's how you see it, and want to see it. I have seen so many changes over the years - sometimes it's difficult to come to terms with them. I grew up watching the game standing on the open terraces at Old Trafford. First it was as a young 5 year old, going to watch United's reserve team, and afterwards, I spent the next fifteen years or so, rooted to the spot in various parts of the ground. My position changed according to the rate of my growth, and I think that over the period of those years, there is not a vantage point from inside that wonderful stadium, that I have not watched a match from. It is true to say that today, because of society being the way that it is, kids will never enjoy the sheer elation of the freedoms which we enjoyed as youngsters, to freely come and go as we pleased, without supervision, fear, or hindrance, to watch our beloved football teams.

Oh! how I loved those early days at reserve team games! Initially, I would go with my brother who is five years older than me. In those days, the various schools throughout the City of Manchester, would receive free of charge, an allocation of tickets from both United and City, for reserve team matches. These tickets would be distributed by the schoolteachers on a Friday afternoon together with two red bus tokens, which allowed free travel on the buses. My brother was never really enamoured at the task of having to chaperone me to matches, so after he became quite sure that I knew my way to Old Trafford, we came to an agreement. We would leave home together about 11 a.m., on a Saturday morning, walk to All Saints, and then go our separate ways; him to do whatever he wished, and me to Old Trafford. In those days, there was no floodlighting at Old Trafford, and Saturday games would kick off at 2p.m. during the winter months. My brother and I would meet up again around 5 :30 p.m. and make our way home together, our parents never any the wiser!

I would catch the 49 bus at All Saints, and sit with my nose pressed against the window as it trundled its way up Stretford Road, watching as the crowded pavements full of Saturday shoppers looked for bargains in the myriad of shops along the route. It seems funny now as I think of all the local landmarks which became so familiar along that route. Pauldens at Cambridge Street, Clyne’s Pub, Braun's Pork Butchers, The Fifty Shilling Tailors at Great Jackson Street, the Zion Institute, the Three Legs of Man pub, Burke's Brushes at Trafford Bar. The bus would then go on to Chester Road, and would pass the White City Stadium, and Salford Docks would loom large over to the right hand side. The Manchester, and Royal Mail Liners would be sitting majestically at their berths on the various quaysides, their funnels spouting smoke skywards as they prepared for their journeys across the Atlantic to Canada. Finally, the bus would arrive at my alighting point at The Trafford pub at Warwick Road. The sheer excitement and thrill of going to Old Trafford has never left me, even to this day. I still get that same thrill, that surge, that expectation, which I experienced as that young child. Most often than not, my arrival at Warwick Road would be over two hours before kick-off time. There would not be too many people around. I would walk down Warwick Road, over the railway bridge with the white painted slogan emblazoned upon its bricks, which were blackened with grime; 'Ban the A Bomb - United we win!' Then onto the brick croft that passed as the forecourt to the ground! You have to remember that the ground had not been open for too long as it had been rebuilt after the damage that it had incurred from the German bombers during World War Two. Although the stadium was rebuilt, the service areas all around the ground, apart from United Road, were non-existent.

For the next 90 minutes or so I would walk around, and around the ground - I never ever got fed up! Everything about Old Trafford used to fascinate me! I would peer through the gaps in the huge big wooden gates that used to be opened at three-quarter time to let the crowds out. Everything that was painted on the walls, I would read - admission prices, gate numbers etc. Across the canal bridge, the black tower at the Kilvert's Lard works used to fascinate me as it rose high into the air looking just like a medieval castle. On the opposite side of Warwick Road, on what is today the car park facing the Megastore, used to be the mineral company 'Aerowater' and many was the time that I slipped quietly into their yard unobserved, and 'nicked' a few drinks from crates loaded upon the back of the parked lorries. I would stand in the middle of United Road and peer up at the two great chimneys in Glover's Cables factory, looming so high, and towering above the stadium like two giant sentries on duty at the Palace. I would stand against the wall underneath the dressing room windows, and the smell of liniment would permeate the air - that smell is still there today! I would walk down the side of the ground by the railway station and watch the steam trains going past and I'd watch the players arriving, walking down from Warwick Road. After being besieged by kids for autographs, they would then disappear inside the main entrance. Once the turnstiles were open I would always be one of the first inside. There would be hordes of kids at reserve team games, and as the weeks went by, it was inevitable that you got to know each other. We would hold sprint races against each other, up and down the Old Trafford Paddock terracing. A tennis ball would appear, and we'd play football, the tiered terracing never seemed to hinder us! We'd talk about our favourite players, and dream our dreams. As kick-off time drew near, we would make our way to our selected vantage point to watch the game. I laugh now as I think of the many, many, times that I sat on top of the old concrete dug-out by the old Player's Tunnel. Sometimes, during the course of the game, I would hang over the top, and down, to have a look to see who was inside the dug-out! It must have frightened the occupants to death to see this little urchin's face suddenly appear with its unkempt hair, and candles on the top lip! Dear old Tom Curry and Billy Inglis used to scream at me! They'd be sat in there, Billy in his white coat, Tom in a tracksuit, together with the bucket and sponge man - he was the guy who ran on to the field whenever a player was injured - much to the chagrin of the player! None of these sponge guys had qualifications of any sort, but when you saw them run like the clappers onto the field carrying their sponges, cloths, and buckets, they were more akin to a window cleaner than a trainer - and they probably were from Monday to Friday!

As the weeks and years rolled along, I got to know who the players were in the reserves. Jack Crompton , John Aston, Billy Redman, Tommy McNulty, Don Gibson, Mark Jones, Jeff Whitefoot, Harry McShane, Johnny Scott, Noel McFarlane, John Doherty, Eddie Lewis, Lawrie Cassidy, Stan Pearson, Jackie Blanchflower, David Pegg, and a number of others. Opposing reserve teams in those days were made up mainly of old pro's coming towards the end of their careers, and a sprinkling of younger players trying to make their way in the game. Some of those hardy old pro's were tough beggars to say the least! I used to love watching them tackle - and the sliding tackle was a joy to behold. It was mostly performed by the full backs on the wingers, and was designed to take them both into touch. They really were spectacular efforts, often launched some considerable distance from their intended target who would nearly always be dilly-dallying, fannying about on the ball. Suddenly, and without warning, they would end up in a twisted heap on the shale track amid a terrible noise of stud and bone! It's true to say that the tackling players very rarely missed! They were like heat seeking missiles - once locked on to the target - that target was doomed! I remember the late Tommy McNulty, a Salford lad who played for United, once missing his intended target. The winger was Bill Perry, the South African who played for Blackpool, and he was a little too quick for Tommy. He jumped at the last minute and McNulty went right underneath him like a runaway bull, and he hit the dugout below us, full on. The damage was considerable, concrete chips and shale flying in all directions. Those of us sat on top of the dugout and in the front line, were showered with the debris. So much so, that the following home reserve game, there was a crowd of kids sat on top of the dugout wearing plastic motorbike goggles to protect our eyes and honour our hero! What the opposing wingers used to make of this motley crew of little urchins sat on top of the dugout, I shudder to think!

After the game, we would hang around outside the main entrance. In those days there was never any autocratic commissionaires policing the door. Very often we would go inside. The area immediately inside the doors was quite open - it led to the stairways leading to the seats in the Directors Box. If you turned left, there was the door and entrance to the dressing rooms - Mecca for us young starry eyed kids! Immediately facing the main door as you got inside, was the players tunnel, a steep ramp that led down and out into the stadium and then onto the pitch. The number of times I ran down that tunnel as a young boy, imagining that I was carrying the ball and leading out my heroes to a full house. Oh! what a dream that used to be. Not only for myself, but the other kids as well, and we would fight to be first in the line to run down the tunnel, followed by the rest of 'the Ragged Arsed Rangers!'. It must have been so funny to have watched this assembly of scruffy street urchins emerging from that old tunnel. The ground staff that were around then tending to the playing surface, never chastised or interfered with what we were doing - they'd more often than not just smile or make a few funny comments. The kids used to wait for the players emerging in that area immediately outside of the dressing rooms. If you waited long enough you could travel home on the same bus as your hero! In those days there was a proximity between the players and fans, the community and the club. All that has changed, but it was so lovely, and so warm, and so fulfilling whilst it lasted. The changes that have occurred over the last five decades provide a rich area for anthropologists and historians alike, and can be seen as natural developments in the working class culture. What happens to this great game will I suspect, be a lot more difficult and complicated to explain to future generations in terms of people's pastime with working class heroes. Football set off on a journey in 1992 with limitless horizons in terms of global development and riches. The few have got to know wealth beyond their wildest imaginings; the rest have had to come to terms with eating crumbs from the rich man's table - either that or perish.

I reminisced last night about a lot of the old players and how they compare to today's athletes. I laughed at the thought of seeing Tommy Banks side by side alongside David Beckham. Tommy with his black hair parted down the middle, his barrel chest, long shorts, and bandy legs - David with his cropped hair, designer gear, tattoos, and children's names endorsed on his boots. Becks can look mean for the photographer - Tommy was mean - all the time that he was out on the pitch! I can recall the story of when Tommy was making his debut for England. Walter Winterbottom was the manager, and he spoke with a plumb in his mouth. His pre-match instructions to Tommy were something along the following line; 'Your winger is a good player, Tommy. Two-footed, cuts inside well, likes going outside the back too. He's quick, crosses accurately and is a very good finisher. I feel you must impose yourself on him as soon as possible'. 'Can I ask thi' something Boss?' said Tommy. 'Certainly' replied Walter, not really knowing what to expect from this tough little fellow from Bolton. "Well - I'd like thi' to know that this 'ere winger tha'rt goin' on abart, will no more go past me but once than I'll 'ave 'im reet up in't ******' t'air, on to t'dog track, an' I'll gi' 'is arse a reet good ******' grittin'. Is that wha' tha' wants?' Walter didn't know where to put his face 'Er, something like that' he mumbled, and very sheepishly left the dressing room. Dear old Tommy. If his own mother had worn a number 11 shirt and run out at Burnden Park for the opposition, he'd have kicked her to death! It wasn't unknown back in those days for a lot of well known wingers to suddenly develop a mystery strain the day before playing Bolton, and those that did play, once they knew Tommy was playing, would disappear into the lavatory shortly before the kick off with a sudden attack of bowel movements! I suspect that it would still be the case with today's modern player.

It also makes me laugh these days to read that they are doing research into what the effects of heading the ball has had on the human brain - that needed to be done fifty years ago, not today when they use a ball that bears no resemblance to the old 'casey'. Today's balls are so light that it must be like heading a feather. To be honest, investigations into what goes on inside the present day footballer's skull would be better directed towards discovering why so many appear not to have any brain at all, never mind one damaged by a football! There used to be a tactic employed years ago by a manger that I played for, who would soak the old leather ball overnight in a bucket of water. When kick off time came the ball would be passed to the inside forward who would immediately turn around, and chip it all the way back to me in the goal. I would then try and belt a huge 'up and under' for the opposing centre half to deal with - if he was brave enough! If he was, then it meant that we were playing against ten men for a while until they brought him around, and ten and a half after that because it generally took three hours or so for his head and neck to emerge from between his shoulder blades! Centre halves were a little peculiar in those days, you could always tell them by the shape of their foreheads, and a receding bald patch at the front of the head, plus most of them seemed to have sleepy, or cross eyes. It's only now that I realize that they must have been walking about with permanent concussion!

As is I said at the beginning, I have seen so many changes through the years. Some I can take others I can't. However, there is no cure for being a football fan. Angry and disenchanted as I am at some of the things that I see going on today, I am unable to give it up. Whether umbilical or adoptive, the link between the fan and the club is a special one. Far too deep to be severed by yobs who abuse the relationship or by spivs and touts who put a price on it. Things have changed, and it's no good yearning for what's disappeared. The most difficult thing for me these days is watching the morons at FIFA, EUEFA, the FA, and even our own Clubs, do so much damage to the game. They should remember to whom this great game really belongs to.

 

Yes I did. I love to write, particularly about my memories and of course United and the game.

 

I am not a professional writer by any stretch of the imagination. I have had the odd thing published by some publications including 4-4-2. I do think that is is important for people of my age who were around in the fifties, to put their recollections down so that younger people get a factual account of what things were like back then. Too many of the modern professional writers tend to embroider a lot of things from the past. I have read some ludicrous stories for instance regarding the Munich Air Disaster - things like that need to be righted. It's always good for fans to look back but at the same time, know reasonably well that what they are reading etc is true.

 

LOL! Not by any means. I have been reading through some of the wonderful stuff that has been written on this forum, and it really is good to read.

 

Initially, as I remember it, there were more City fans, because in the early fifties and up and until United winning the title in 1956, City were generally top dog. The first "Derbies" that I saw began in 1954, and as I recall, United lost all 4! 2-0, 3-2, 2-0 and a 5-0 drubbing at Old Trafford! City also got to two FA Cup Finals in '55 and '56, knocking United out in '55 at maine Road by 2-0.

The banter between kids back then was always good natured and there was never any trouble or problems regarding whichever team that you supported. When we played football, whether it be in the streets, on the crofts, in the schoolyard, or whenever we got the chance to play in the parks, we always divided ourselves up into teams - City versus United! The games we played were always hard fought, and no quarter was given, but to be honest, we were all mates and just enjoyed playing football.

 

There was never, ever, trouble at football matches back then. Fans used to mingle with each other on the terraces without any problems at all. Believe it or not, I have actually stood on the Stretford End with Liverpool fans, and never a hint of any aggrovation.

They used to encourage their teams, and we used to roar United on - no problems at all, and I can tell you, lots of friends were made with fans from other clubs. Even today, I stay in touch with people who support other clubs and whom I met over 40 years ago. At the end of each game there would be a shake of the hand, a "Cheerio, see you next time we meet", be it at the away ground or at Old Trafford, and we would go our separate ways.

Trouble at football grounds didn't really begin until the sixties began to draw to a close, and certainly as we got into the seventies.

 

It is a thing that I find so sad. Mainly because I just cannot see the sense in disliking somebody just because they support another club. It's a sad reflection on the way that society has gone. I will say that things have improved enormously in Britain regarding hooliganism. It's far more prevalent now on the European continent. But fans are still seggragated inside UK grounds and the baiting of each other does get under my skin. I have been to matches where large numbers of fans have paid more attention to antagonising each other than they have on what's going on down on the pitch!