fingers of soot-blackened chimneys forever pointing at the sky belched great fugs of yellowy-brown smoke into the atmosphere. Though evening, there was the bustle of a city whose industry lived cheek by jowl with the homes of its work-force. Not far off I could hear the sound of a thousand hammers echoing in cavernous corrugated-iron-roofed factories. The fiendish chatter of electric riveters. The sudden squeal of tortured metal. Occasionally I would catch a glimpse inside a partly open door and see a shower of sparks followed by great plumes of grey smoke. In the air an acrid mix of fired coal, sulphur-tainted steam and human sweat fought for ascendency with the yeasty odour of the nearby Wards’ brewery. Amidst all this stood Bramall Lane, where many of the folk who sweated for little reward would escape to on a Saturday afternoon in the hope of inhabiting, for ninety minutes at least, a better world.
Sheffield United and, yes, Sheffield Wednesday too, provided the workers of the city with conflict and art. On the terraces, the smelter or foundry man was turned into a critic. Happy in his judgement of the finer points of what Tony Waddington would later refer to as ‘the working man’s ballet’. Ready to analyse a defensive formation; to estimate the worth of a slide-rule cross-field pass; a mesmerising dribble down the touchline, a bullet header or a crunching tackle. I knew how these supporters felt because I was one of them. On the terraces at Bramall Lane we turned into partisans, drawing breath when a shot from the opposition whistled past our goal; elated, exultant and ecstatic when a thunderous shot from one of our forwards turned the opposition net into a gumboil. Just as with every supporter the length and breadth of the land, smiling, scowling, laughing, longing, delirious, downcast, rabid, rapturous, vitriolic and victorious by turns at the fortunes of our team, as the players and a leather ball shaped Iliads and Odysseys before our very eyes, created our memories and myths and sprinkled stardust on harsh working lives.
Reg Wright looked after the amateurs and semi-pros at Sheffield United; Reg was an old pro who had stayed on at the club upon his retirement as a player to fulfil myriad roles. Reg took the training on Tuesday and Thursday nights, and he was also in charge of the ‘A’ team which played on a Saturday morning. Today, an academy team can have half a dozen backroom staff and more; Reg was their manager, coach, trainer, masseur, doctor and kit-man; and, just in case anyone felt he wasn’t putting in a good shift at the club, during the week he also acted as physio to the full-time pros and helped out in the training of the first team.
I warmed to Reg Wright immediately. He was a hard taskmaster, but fair. His philosophy did not embrace the molly coddling of young players; you either did what he asked of you or you were out on your ear. Through his whole narrative ran a steel cable of tenacious durability, you had to be hard because football was hard, and football was hard because life was hard. With his Brylcreemed hair parted down the centre and topped by a flat cap worn at a jaunty angle, a baggy roll-neck sports jumper that looked every inch like the one you see the garrulous trainer’s second wearing in one of those Laurel and Hardy shorts when Olly has persuaded Stan to get into a boxing ring to fight a frightening hulk, there was more than a little of the anachronistic about Reg Wright, even in 1953.
Reg exemplified the notion that football is a simple game and he embraced a simplistic evaluation of young talent. According to Reg, young players came in only three categories: ‘Quick burn, slow burn, never to burn’. I can only assume Reg assessed me as being worthy of the former category for, after only a handful of games in goal for the ‘A’ team, I graduated to the youth team and, again, after only half a dozen or so matches, found myself promoted to the reserves.
I couldn’t believe how quickly my life had changed. In little over a year I had progressed from the local Colliery Welfare team via the various teams at Worksop Town to Sheffield United reserves team via their ‘A’ and youth teams. I wasn’t going to qualify with any team for a long-service award, that much I knew.
Sheffield United reserves played in the Central League, which was a massive step up from Youth and ‘A’ team football as it boasted the reserve teams of Wolverhampton Wanderers, both Manchester clubs, Liverpool, Everton, Newcastle United, Bolton Wanderers, Sheffield Wednesday, Stoke City, West Bromwich Albion and Aston Villa, to name but a few.
In those days the manager picked twelve players for the first team on a Saturday, the eleven who would play plus a standby reserve – there being no substitutes, of course. The remaining first-team squad players turned out for the reserves along with any regular first-teamers playing their way back following injuries, young hopefuls such as myself and, a category of player you just don’t have nowadays, the ‘loyal foot soldier’ who had years of service at the club but few, if any, first-team appearances to his name.
It was not uncommon in the fifties to find these loyal foot soldiers at most clubs. One of the most notable examples was Arthur Perry, who signed for Hull City in 1947 and left the club a few months short of ten years later without ever making a first-team appearance. Arthur spent his entire Hull career playing for the reserves before being transferred to Bradford in 1956. It’s interesting to note that, under the rules of the time, should Arthur have completed the ten years he would have qualified for a Testimonial. Poor Arthur missed out, by a matter of months, on what for him would have been a big pay-out. That said, should Arthur have qualified for a Testimonial match, the mind boggles at Hull supporters turning up to honour a player many of them had never seen play.
Playing in the Central League it was not uncommon that I found myself playing against internationals coming back from injury and players out of favour in the first team but with League appearances under their belt that stretched into three figures. My debut for United reserves took place at Goodison Park and it was something of an ignominious debut as far as I was concerned – we lost 5–2 to Everton. For all I had conceded five goals I was told, however, I had acquitted myself well and, to my delight, kept my place in the reserves the following Saturday when I felt a whole lot better about life as we beat Manchester City’s second string 1–0.
For me, every reserve team match, particularly those away from home, was exciting and an adventure. I hadn’t travelled out of the Sheffield area much in my life, bar the occasional holiday to Skegness. For me, journeys to the likes of Manchester United, Preston or Aston Villa filled me with awe and wonder. I had only read about these clubs and their grounds, and never visited let alone seen them in these pre-television days. On arriving at such places I would accompany reserve team stalwarts of the day such as Graham Shaw and Willie Toner for the ritual inspection of the pitch, only I would not be staring down at the grass. My eyes would pan around the ground itself, taking in the detail of grandstands and alp-like terracing. I’d find myself saying something like, ‘So this is Old Trafford? Where Johnny Carey and Stan Pearson play.’ It was totally magical to me. I know you may feel I am conveying a romantic and idealised view of these reserve team matches, but they were romantic and idealised to me. I was not yet seventeen years of age and I was in awe and wonder of everyone I met and everywhere I visited.
When I reached my seventeenth birthday, the United manager, Reg Freeman, called me into his office. It was the first time I had ever been in the manager’s office and probably only the third time he had spoken to me directly. Reg Freeman said he had ‘news’ for me and his news was music to my ears. He told me that, such had been my progress, the club were going to sign me as a full-time professional. This time, I had no hesitation in accepting. When he told me, I didn’t hear his follow-up words for the sound of angels singing. My immediate thought was I would have to tender my resignation from my job as a butcher’s assistant at the Co-op. It never occurred to me to ask what sort of wage I would be on, but when Reg got around to talking money, my legs did a fine impersonation of a cocktail shaker held aloft by a barman who takes real pride in his work. With my jaw almost resting on my middle shirt buttons, I listened as Reg told me I was to receive a £50 signing-on fee and a weekly wage of £7 during the season and £5 in the close-season. It was more money than I had ever seen in my life. A few days later, when the secretary paid me my signing-on fee, he did so with white fivers and I dutifully took the money straight home to Mum and Dad. As I carefully laid each fiver out on the kitchen table, Mum and Dad stood staring at the money in mute silence, their
