by Brian Darley
After we had been going a while Angela’s Mum asked which station I was going to and where was I travelling with my wealth of luggage. Proudly I said I was travelling across London to St Pancras and then to the Midlands to see about becoming a professional footballer, which seemed to really impress her. Euston was their starting point for the journey to Lancashire, it sounded miles as they had to change at Preston. I could imagine all of the smoking chimneys of industrial north west England.
“Why don’t you travel to Euston with us and then walk to St Pancras, it only takes ten or so minutes and then you can help Angela on and off the underground?” These words which were coming from her Mother’s mouth were like the sweetest music to my ears. Calculating I had over an hour to play with I agreed and inwardly couldn’t believe my luck. Angela and I passed small talk about school, London, and so forth and all seemed very relaxed. On arrival in London Angela had to go to the ladies which left me alone with her Mother, who mentioned that my Grandad and Dad seemed really nice people when they came into the pub. She then proceeded to wish that Angela had met somebody like me, she was surprised how well the two of us got along. Undoubtedly her opinion wouldn’t be quite the same had she known that I was the father of her future Grandchild. Holding hands, Angela and I followed her Mother to the tube and she seemed fine with us having contact. I felt certain she saw me as Angela’s bodyguard for the day.
Underground trains were notoriously bumpy and I wasn’t particularly comfortable with the young girl who was carrying my baby being flung about. Indeed I was so concerned I totally forgot about my aching back, caused by me acting like Charles Atlas, trying to hold hands with Angela whilst carrying my ten ton suitcase. Sometimes male pride could be very foolish.
On arrival at Euston we went to the buffet for a cup of tea. I had to keep one eye on the time but was really enjoying this unexpected surprise. The destination board showed their train would depart from platform 2 and I was green with envy as the longest train journey of my life had been to Crewe when we went to get Daisy. Their train journey would take them way beyond Crewe and the train would eventually end up in Glasgow. We all walked to the entrance to platform 2 and said our goodbyes and, slightly embarrassed, I gave Angela a massive hug, it seemed to last a lifetime, followed by a peck on the cheek. I watched them descend the platform ramp and was really pleased when both of them warmly waved cheerio. Talk about deceit, poor Angela’s Mum didn’t have the foggiest but inwardly I so wished she did and could still be able to think of me as a nice decent bloke. Keep on dreaming Billy Boy. From Euston to St Pancras is only a short walk down the Euston Road, except for those who have had a suitcase packed by my Mum. The straight road seemed never-ending but fortunately it was mainly flat until I got to the station and had to climb some awful steps which nearly killed me. They seemed to go on forever and ever and ever. Nobody offered any assistance with the exception of one city looking gent in a dark suit with a bowler hat. He told me it would build my muscles up. Upper class twat was my summing up of him.
Once inside the magnificent station building, which must surely be London’s finest, I found that my train was departing from Platform 2 with its final destination being Sheffield Midland. Unfortunately I would not be travelling the entirety of that distance. Despite my mammoth luggage I still decided to go to the front of the train to see what kind of loco would be hauling me and got a really nice surprise when I saw this very modern, gleaming green diesel on the front of the carriages. Modern diesels looked so streamlined and fast, I just couldn’t wait for the departure to begin. My friends were all envious as none of them had been on a long train ride, the furthest they ever got from home was perhaps one day a year visiting the South Coast. But here I was still a schoolboy, travelling all this way on my own, having just shared a warm cuddle with the mother-to-be of my child, albeit in the presence of her Mother. All seemed fine but somehow life is never quite that simple.
My journey began as the train pulled away from St Pancras with me sitting alone at a table for four, it all seemed so swish compared to the cattle wagons of suburbia, to which I was accustomed. Our first stop was Luton and soon after we passed the brickwork chimneys as the train approached Bedford. Things felt even posher when a waiter dressed in a white jacket came along and asked if anybody required morning tea or coffee and two lads on the opposite table said ‘yes please’. These lads must have been regular travellers. The waiter then gave them a pre-packed slice of Swiss roll and a china cup and saucer with two sugar lumps. Unbelievably they ate the Swiss roll and sugar lumps and then proceeded to throw the cups and saucers out of the windows, which I thought was hilarious. When the second waiter came round to fill the cups and collect the money they just denied all knowledge. It made me wish I had thought of it first but it gave me ideas for the return journey. Somehow this all seemed a million miles away from home as the miles just rolled by and I started to feel very homesick. Towns that we passed were full of terraced houses and massive coal trains trundled past in the opposite direction and there was a scattering of mines in the distance. This was totally another world and I was starting to get frightened.
CHAPTER 25
Tiddler in the Ocean
The train started to slow as it approached my destination. From the window I could see the floodlights of the football ground and had visions of me running out there in two or three years time to be greeted by hoards of flat-capped smoking supporters wearing scarves, rosettes and clapping their hands in excitement. I could also imagine mid-week games with those bright floodlights shining, I had never played under floodlights as, at that time, it was only professional clubs which had the luxury of them. I checked all of my details which I had been sent by the club. I was going to be met at the station and had an emergency number to phone should any problems arise, so needless to say, I had plenty of loose change at the ready. Mobile phones were still 30 years away. Indeed, very few families in the Arches possessed a phone and our household was no exception.
Walking down the platform I really didn’t have a clue what to expect, would the world’s press be there with the manager, if not, who would meet me? As I walked through the booking hall I saw a rather dumpy lady, probably in her fifties, she was holding up a sign with Billy McFirley written on it. I was immediately taken aback, surely there couldn’t be two people with the same name? The lady saw my interest and came over and introduced herself as Gwyneth Williams. She was very warm and friendly and as Welsh as they come. She explained that she had been sent by the club to meet me and take me back to her house where I would be lodging. A taxi was waiting there for us. She then told me she had been boarding young players for 18 years and her husband was an assistant groundsman for the club. He had previously been a miner in South Wales but they had decided to relocate 18 years ago as so many miners were getting industrial diseases which, at the best, affected their health and more often than not, at the worst, killed them, so they wanted to try their luck at something else. She told me her husband was known by everybody as Taff, although his real name was Gareth and she was known by everybody at the club as Aunty Gwyn. It took me all of about a minute to decide I really liked Aunty Gwyn. She explained that she had a youth player staying with her. He was Peter from Northern Ireland. There were normally two lodgers but the other, a Scots lad, had returned North of the border when he failed to make the grade, but was given a chance by a Scottish second division team. She also mentioned that any lads who didn’t make it were usually found other clubs at perhaps a slightly lower standard and to my ears that made the club sound very loyal and caring.
Their house was a three bedroomed end terrace about two minutes from the football stadium but a ten minute bus ride from the training ground. Aunty Gwyn showed me to my room which was nicely papered with a few footie posters on the walls, a single bed and a transistor radio on the cabinet. The fantastic smell of the cooking also made me feel very at home. She called me down for a cup of tea and began telling me the house rules and how my stay h
ad been organised. Basically everything was included and this was the same when all the young players joined the club as the wages were fairly ordinary. It all sounded good to me, 8 o’clock breakfast, eggs, bacon, sausages, followed by toast and marmalade. This was also followed by a lunchtime snack after training and an evening meal at 6 pm. plus tea and coffee whenever anybody wished. There was even a fridge to keep the milk cool, a million miles from home where we kept it cool in a bucket of cold water in the shady coal shed. Meals could be cancelled if not required or kept hot if for any reason you could not make the set meal times. In the front room was Aunty Gwyn and Taff’s TV and you were always welcome to watch but they got to choose which channel, which mattered very little as, in those days, the choice was extremely limited.
A club rule was that on match days players also had a steak with their breakfast, pasta was a non starter thank God. All young players were given a key for their digs but there was a 12 o’clock curfew for normal days but 10 o’clock the night before a match. Somehow I couldn’t envisage me ever wanting to stay out very late, the area was not overwhelmingly welcoming and my only excursions would probably be to the railway station to watch the trains. Apparently most of the lads stayed in their digs unless they had an away match near their home towns, in which case they could get special permission to stay on for a night or two after the match. When Taff came home from work he gave me the strongest handshake ever, he almost crushed my fingers. He was a real jolly fellow who loved talking football, he absolutely hated rugby which had been rammed down his throat in his native South Wales. He immediately thought I was a budding centre-half as I was so tall and seemed really surprised when I said I was a keeper.
The following morning I was to report to the clubs assistant manager at 9.30 and so Taff was to show me where his office was. Taff started at 9 o’clock so I would have some time to kill before my ordeal began. I was told not to bother with kit but to turn up with smart polished shoes, creased trousers and a collar and tie. This all felt slightly alien to me as I was a very casual dresser. Peter, the other lodger, reassured me not to worry as every lad had to go through this, it was all part of the discipline process. Peter also mentioned that on day two I wouldn’t know what had hit me. I liked Peter instantly, he was a quiet young Irishman who, although almost 3 years my senior, was a full 6 inches shorter. I assumed he wasn’t either a centre-half or centre-forward. Peter also told me that although not a house rule, a couple of times a week the lads would clear the tables and wash up, this was always appreciated and usually ended up with Taff opening a beer or two.
My alarm woke me at 6 o’clock the following morning and I realised I had to be on my most polite and good behaviour as this was my really big chance. Aunty Gwyn’s breakfast was the most superb start to the day, I always thought Mum’s breakfasts were great but this was something else. She could also adopt me any time she wanted. After getting spruced up I went with Taff to the ground. The first real sight I got of the younger players was outside of the ground as they were sweeping up litter and picking up fag ends. It then became obvious that becoming a trainee footballer wasn’t all it was cracked up to be but, alas, everybody must have started there. Taff introduced me to his workmates, they were a jolly bunch, mostly Midlanders’ who took great delight in telling me that the following day I would get backache picking the ball out of the net so many times, which was light hearted humour designed to make me feel at home – and it certainly worked! Surprisingly my nerves had disappeared and when the assistant manager came in I recognised him as one of the men who had watched me playing at school, district and county matches and yet again he was so easy to talk to. He told me I was really lucky as today I was being shown the ropes by one of the clubs senior professionals who was sadly carrying a really nasty injury. The players all had nicknames and this player’s nickname was Scotty. Namely because he was a Glaswegian and unlike many he was really softly spoken. Scotty told me he had also joined the club as a youth and had progressed to being a regular first team player by the age of 20. He told me it was the best club in the world for a young trainee to start because young kids and top pro’s all got on well together, this was the basis of the clubs spirit. Firstly we went to the changing rooms to see how the pegs were set out and Scotty showed me his peg – number 9. He then showed me the number 1 peg which was for the goalkeeper and said I had to make sure my boots and kit filled that space before too long.
Third team games were played at a local non league ground so everybody strived for second team action where home games were shared between the main stadium and the third team’s ground. Scotty told me that trainees had to do lots of mundane work as part of their apprenticeship such as being responsible for cleaning a pro’s boots and also unpleasant tasks such as picking up rubbish from the terraces after training on a Monday and replacing toilet rolls and cleaning out the showers. He then joked that most of the toilet rolls which needed replacing had been thrown at opposing goalkeepers and then said that if I collect them at away games my family would never need to buy any again. He also said that all players had almost certainly come through similar regimes but at this club all 1st team players passed on £2 of any win bonuses onto their boot boys, which sounded a good incentive to keep their boots spick and span.
It was a truly great feeling as we walked through the players tunnel onto the hallowed turf and looked up at the imposing covered terraces which at the time were empty, with the exception of one of the ground staff giving the crush barriers a lick of paint. The season was drawing to a close and some of the paintwork was starting to look really quite shabby. We then took a slow walk to the training ground where all of the three teams were going through their paces and I started to feel like a little lost soul. I had never played footie with an adult except Grandad but these men passed the ball harder than most of my mates could shoot. Scotty said I would be joining in the training tomorrow so would have to bring my kit and boots. He told me not to be nervous but also not to try and show off how good I was, just be myself, as probably after stretching and warming up I would get a spell where some first team forwards would put me through my paces. I was crapping myself already. If they passed the ball that hard what the hell was their shooting like? I imagined the ball coming at me like it had been fired from a cannon. To say I was concerned was the understatement of the century and the century before that and the one before that! During a break in training the Manager called a silence amongst the troops and introduced me and all the players said hi, which was also very unnerving as I had seen so many of them pictured in black and white in the newspapers or on coloured fag cards. Another thing I found strange was none of them had a Southern accent, many were Welsh, also some Irish and Scots, plus Midlanders and Northerners which made me feel like a little posh lad from the South. My word they all talked so funny. Scotty bade me farewell and I waited for Peter and we walked back slowly to Aunty Gwyn’s. I went to my room, laid on my bed and listened to the radio until teatime and the food smelt wonderful. It was a proper English meal, shepherds pie, cabbage, carrots and peas, lashed with thick gravy, followed by rhubarb and custard. Ashamedly I had to be really honest and say it outdone Mum’s and Grandad’s by the proverbial mile, but bless them, they were still in my heart although many miles away.
Taff asked if I was nervous about the following days session, to which I shook my head. He then told me I really should be as it was a club tradition to blood all new keepers with their house mate having the first go to humiliate them. I glanced over at Peter and he was smiling. In his soft Irish accent he made it abundantly clear it was in his manifesto to make me work really hard by picking the ball out of the net as many times as possible. I slightly went off Peter until he gave me that cheeky little Irish smile and then totally deflated me by saying the top pro’s smashed the ball like an atom bomb. Needless to say I hardly slept a wink that night and farted continuously with pre-training nerves.
I didn’t need the alarm to wake me the following morning and I
got up and bathed before breakfast and after breakfast I walked with Peter to the training ground. He was obviously trying to take my mind off things to come as he went on about how lovely Northern Ireland was. As we got to the training ground he showed me where the third team got changed and I was given a reserve peg at the end of the line. It done me no favours that I only had my school kit, albeit the tracksuit top was adorned with district and county cloth badges, but they counted for very little at this level. I somehow wished I just had a plain top. The stretching and warming up was fine and all three teams did this together so I made sure to take Scotty’s advice, especially as he was watching and had reminded me not to try and show off. By the time the running session came I was beginning to feel half decent but kept mid division and found it fairly okay. The first and second team keepers were way behind me in the running but, in their defence, their build was far stockier than mine and although I was better at running they would be far less likely to be out-muscled when going up to challenge for a high ball. During the one touch warm up six-a-sides I was with the third team as was Peter and we were on the same team wearing bibs. I thought I did okay as my touch was as good as most of the others and ultimately I was a keeper. Next came the serious business and the first team were at one end with the reserves and third teams at the other. All keepers took their turns as each player had the ball rolled to them on the edge of the area and dead centre on goal. Both made quite a few saves and out of my six attempts shooting at them I scored with three, which I didn’t think was bad. With more than a touch of the jitters I replaced the third team keeper and couldn’t believe how hard Peter crashed the first one past me, the cocky git, but gradually I gained confidence and made quite a few decent saves. Following this the ball was rolled to players at an angle. For instance, left footed players received the ball on the right side of the area and the right footers took it on the left which, for a keeper, was a much more difficult situation as the players seemed to have much more goal to aim at and once again Peter made a mug of me with a delicate chip after shaping up as though he was going to break the net. After this session I was called to the other end to watch the number one keeper deal with shots and was horrified as most of them thundered past him like missiles. My turn then came to face the first teams shooting and even the defenders hit the ball so hard but nevertheless I made a few saves. I then returned to the other end and all three keepers practised taking crosses, which was one of my strengths, it also helped there were no forwards charging in on goal. At the end of the session the first team keeper came over and had a chat with me and seemed really surprised I was still only 14.
