not in agreement, but the committee had their way as committees tend to do. The FA International Selection Committee was the bane of Walter’s life and every player knew this to be so. Arguably the best summing-up of their worth was made by no less than the great Stanley Matthews who for all his awesome talent had, throughout his lengthy career, suffered more than most from the Quixotic policies of the International Selection Committee.
‘I’ve visited nigh on every country in the world,’ said Stan. ‘In those countries I have walked through numerous cities and in countless parks, and have yet to see a statue to a committee.’
Walter could see the selection system needed to be overhauled rather than simply refined. What helped his cause was his establishment of the England Under-23 team whose remit was to develop players to full international status. Also, Walter managed to persuade the powers that be to use matches involving the Football League XI as a means to honour players with representative appearances. Which left him with the main task to create an England team fit to represent the nation in the World Cup.
In every problem there is a gift. The gift may not immediately make itself known to you, but it is there all the same and, in time, even the most problematic of situations will produce a positive. Such was the case for Walter following England’s heavy defeats by Hungary in 1953. The stark reality that England was no longer a world power in football was hammered home by a brilliant Hungary team. In the wake of England’s first home defeat at Wembley by foreign opposition and the 7–1 thrashing inflicted on them by Hungary in Budapest some months later, it was clearly evident that England, once the masters of world football, were now merely pupils. The double mauling at the hands of Hungary was widely considered to be a disaster at the time; however, in every problem there is a gift. The FA International committee were ‘bewitched, bothered and bewildered’ as to what should be done to re-establish England as a force again in world football, which played into the hands of Walter Winterbottom.
In the wake of the Hungary defeats, Walter slowly but surely managed to exert his influence over the selection committee and, come 1957, had persuaded them to go along with his policy of selecting youth with a view to creating a team capable of doing England proud in the World Cup, the finals of which were to take place the following year in Sweden. Hence the selection of Tommy Taylor, Duncan Edwards, Jeff Hall, Ronnie Clayton and yours truly for England.
Ted Ditchburn was a very good and experienced goalkeeper, likewise Bert Williams of Wolves, both of whom had superseded Gil Merrick of Birmingham City in the England team. Walter, however, wanted to create an England team for the future and so Ted and Bert were, to his mind, the wrong age. I, seemingly, fitted the bill. In truth, I didn’t have a great deal of top-level experience and was, of course, playing Second Division football with Sheffield United. This mattered not one iota to Walter, who saw me as part of his policy of developing an England team that would mature together, and be ready in four years’ time to make an impact in the World Cup. As evidence of this, in addition to myself, Derek Kevan (West Bromwich Albion), Tommy Thompson (Preston North End) and my Sheffield United teammate Colin Grainger were also due to make their England debuts in a team that also included Roger Byrne (Manchester United), Jeff Hall, Ronnie Clayton and the teenage sensation, Duncan Edwards. With over half the team suggesting youth, Walter Winterbottom added a degree of balance and much needed experience at international level by also including skipper Billy Wright (Wolves) and two truly world-class players in Stan Matthews (Blackpool) and Tom Finney (Preston).
The inclusion of Wright, Matthews and Finney not withstanding, it was still a very bold selection on the part of Walter. More to the point, it was testimony to his ability to persuade and cajole the International Selection Committee into supporting his policy of youth with a view to future World Cups. The annual encounter between England and Scotland was still the biggest and most important fixture in the international calendar. Somehow I can’t imagine the England set-up of today selecting, for a game seen as being of vital importance, four debutants and four young players whose collective international appearances did not constitute double figures. Credit to Walter Winterbottom.
The letter from the FA instructed me to report to the Hendon Hall Hotel at 5pm on the Monday preceding the game on Saturday 6 April. Players made their own way to and from international matches so I simply booked a return train ticket from Sheffield to St Pancras. Today the notion of players making their own way to and from international games on public transport is unthinkable. When the England team returned from the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, for example, a fleet of Mercedes cars awaited them at Heathrow, one for each player in the squad, which then duly took them to their respective homes. In 1957 it was very different. On arrival in London I, along with all the other England players from provincial clubs, travelled to Hendon on the Tube. The FA letter informed me to send my ‘second-class’ rail and London Underground ticket to their finance office and I would be ‘reimbursed in due course provided travel expenses were deemed appropriate’.
A couple of days after having received my dream letter from the FA, I received another important-looking piece of correspondence in the post. On opening the envelope I discovered a letter from the Chamber of the Lord Mayor of Sheffield, together with a card bearing the city crest and detailing an invitation in faultless copper-plate handwriting. The letter bestowed upon me (their words not mine) the ‘hearty congratulations and best wishes’ of the Lord and Lady Mayoress of Sheffield on my selection for the England football team. Seemingly the city’s councillors were also delighted for me. The invitation informed me I had been invited to partake of coffee with the Mayor and Lady Mayoress at 9.30am on the morning of Monday 1 April, the day I was due to travel down to London to meet up with the England squad. The invitation went on to say following coffee, the Mayor and Lady Mayoress had organised a special occasion to celebrate my England selection at which they would be delighted should I also be able to attend.
Working on the principle it would not be much of a celebration of my England selection should I not attend and, after enquiring at the City’s Town Hall how long my presence would be required and being told ‘no more than an hour’, I worked out I would still have enough time to catch my train to London. I found the Basildon Bond letter paper in the sideboard and duly penned a reply saying I would be delighted to accept their kind invitation, perplexed as to what the ‘special occasion’ would actually entail.
There was only one worry. The invitation informed me I would be partaking of coffee with the Mayor and his wife. I am not particularly fussy when it comes to food or beverages but the only drink I have never taken to is coffee. I had never met any dignitaries before. As far as I was concerned the Lord Mayor and Lady Mayoress of Sheffield had the status of Earls or Baronets; to my mind, they inhabited a world far removed from my experience. I hoped my dislike of coffee would not produce a social faux pas, one that would cause embarrassment to both parties. I posted my acceptance praying tea would also be available.
It was one of those shooting-green mornings you get in early April. The wretched winter weather was over. The hills in the distance had taken on the look of verdant green. The cherry blossoms were in bloom and the gents’ outfitters that sold worsted overcoats and Burberry macs were advertising their annual sales. At the time I had a suit for every day of the week and I was wearing it when I presented myself at the Lord Mayor’s Chamber.
The Chamber was set deep within the ambitious gesture of the Victorians that is the Sheffield Town Hall and Civic Offices, where some elected and unelected folk had worked unstintingly to the benefit of the city, whilst others had been known to walk around its maze of corridors without making any more progress than a maggot in a fisherman’s bait box. I was escorted to a large wooden double door that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Hampton Court in terms of age or size. When one half of it opened, I stepped into a large, square, cool room that had all the restful atmosphere of an old Methodist chapel and something of the same smell. Dotted about the room were heavy carved chairs with plush red-cushioned seats; a large dark oak table that looked as if it could comfortably sit sixty for dinner and some; while on wood-panelled walls hung oil paintings of past Mayors in ceremonial robes draped with gold chain,
