annoy the United players even more. Their retribution was a constant pressure on my goal. United did pull a goal back but, after a period of desperate defending, we managed to snatch a third goal a minute from time.
The dressing room after the game was joyous. The final score in no way reflected the balance of play, but that’s football. I’d lost count of how many saves I’d had to make but, as far as I was concerned, that was my job, even if I wasn’t being paid.
Two days later, when I reported for evening training, I was asked to call in to Fred Morris’s office. ‘Office’ was too grand a word for the cubby-hole under the main stand where Fred conducted his business of part-time football management. Forming the underneath of the tiered floor of the grandstand, the ceiling sloped at such an acute angle that anyone coming into the room could only take two paces before having to lower their head and shoulders. Fred’s response was always to nod his head in recognition of what he perceived to be deference.
I knew something was up the moment I entered Fred’s snuggery and bowed my head. He was seated at his desk, flanked on either side by a crouching club director. Not one to stand on ceremony, or upright in that cubby-hole, Fred told me straight off that Sheffield United had been so impressed by my performance against them they wanted to sign me.
I was flabbergasted. I loved playing football but never, at any time, had I ever thought about trying to make a career in the professional game. I simply didn’t think I was good enough.
I was told by one director that the club would be more than happy for me to stay should I want to, but subsequent phrases such as ‘once-in-a-lifetime opportunity’, ‘a golden chance to make something of yourself’ and ‘you’d be a fool to turn this offer down’ suggested they couldn’t wait for me to put pen to paper.
With my mind still whirling, I told Fred I would go home and discuss the matter with my parents and let him know my decision.
‘That’s the sensible thing to do, take as much time as you want. There’s no rush,’ said Fred, ‘I’ll call round your house at six tomorrow morning.’
Neither of my parents were great followers of football. I had two brothers and a sister and none of them was into it either. Having discussed the opportunity with Mum and Dad, they both said the decision should be entirely mine, but that they would support me in whatever I decided.
I slept on it and, when I awoke the next morning, felt the same as I had the night before.
I just didn’t think I had the talent to make a go of it in the professional game. I thought about going to Sheffield United to play alongside junior players who had represented the county and England at schoolboy and, in some cases, Under-18 level, and felt I would be way out of my depth.
Fred dutifully arrived at our house on his way to work. When I informed him of my decision his chin fell to his chest. Undaunted, he left saying he would give me more time to ‘think it over’. When Fred had left our house, I spoke to my dad.
‘The decision is entirely yours, son,’ he told me, ‘but I know you, and by that token I know whichever decision you come to, it will prove to be the right one.’
Later that day I bumped into a teammate and it was from my conversations with him I discovered why the club were so keen for me to go to Bramall Lane. I was an amateur player but, according to my pal, Sheffield United had offered Worksop a fee of £250 for me. That was a huge amount of money, enough to erase the recent annual loss with enough left over to put a welcome hundred quid into the club’s coffers.
When I reported for evening training I was again summoned to Fred’s anticlinal office, where once again I informed him and the two stooping directors that I felt I wasn’t good enough for professional football at any level, let alone with a First Division club.
‘They think you are,’ said Fred, ‘and the fact that a club the stature of Sheffield United think you are good enough, should be good enough for you.’
I hadn’t thought of that. It got me thinking.
The conversation continued and I began to hover. Sensing I was having second thoughts, Fred then played his ace.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘You know that United have offered £250 for you. You’re an amateur so we can’t make a payment to you, but, if you sign for them, as a sort of signing-on fee from us, Worksop will buy you a brand new suit out of the fee we receive.’
‘A suit?’ I repeated, feeling my heart flutter and my eyes widen as I said the words.
‘A brand new suit, from a proper tailor?’
‘None of that demob stuff,’ said Fred, ‘one that’ll fit you like bark on a tree.’
This time I was aware of his eyes widening.
I started to reason that if Sheffield United felt I had the kind of talent as a goalkeeper they could possibly develop, the least I could do was to respect their view and let them try. I saw for the first time this was indeed a ‘once-in-a-lifetime opportunity’ and, should things not work out for me, I could always get a job on a building site. Sheffield had been heavily bombed during the war and the city had implemented a massive re-building programme. Jobs in the building trade were plentiful. Should United release me, I was still young enough to learn a trade and, of course, I could always return to non-League football.
All these thoughts ran through my mind as I stooped in contemplation in Fred’s office, but it was the promise of the suit that swung it.
As my hand hovered over the signing-on form, I re-affirmed with Fred that Worksop would buy me the suit I craved.
‘Made to measure, from a bespoke tailor,’ confirmed Fred. ‘The best that money can buy, well, from round here at any rate.’
That was good enough for me. I put pen to paper and signed for Sheffield United.
Fred reached into a drawer of his desk and threw a cloth tape measure to one of the directors.
‘Arms out,’ said the director.
With my face beaming I thrust out both arms and the director ran the tape along one of them.
‘We’ll send all your measurements to the tailor. It’ll be a suit fit for a king,’ Fred boasted, his face now a mixture of relief and joy.
That is how my career in professional football began
Sixty years on, I’m still waiting for the suit.
* * *
I wasn’t quite done with the butchery business, though, because I began my career at Sheffield United as an amateur. I trained at Bramall Lane twice a week, on a Tuesday and Thursday night, in the company of some fourteen other amateur players and a few semi-professionals. I had, of course, been to Bramall Lane before but only as a spectator, not only for football, but also to watch cricket, as the ground hosted both Sheffield and Yorkshire County Championship games. The first evening I turned up for training my body was wracked with a mixture of awe, excitement and nerves.
It was still the summer. In 1953 the steel and building industries and their affiliated businesses were working around the clock to rebuild not only the city but the nation, so there was as much work going on in the evening as there was during the day. As I walked from the bus station to Bramall Lane, tramcars clattered along cobbled
