because he knew he had a couple of decent players among the lunatics. School felt like less of a madhouse on those days.
It wasn’t as if Dennis could do much. We only had two footballs between all of us, and often he’d only stand there and watch us all play fifteen-a-side in the playground, but I loved the fact that here was a real professional footballer, because I idolised those guys. Dennis used to single me out and talk to me because he knew I had a chance, and all week I would look forward to being with him. I suddenly learned the importance of staying clean, tidy and fit. When Dennis left, his brother Les, Clive’s dad, who won the Double with Tottenham, took over the supervision. Footballers had to earn money where they could in those days. He was probably paid £1.
If it hadn’t worked out for me in football, I feel sure I would have ended up down the docks. That was where people like me went in those days, and Dad already had my name down. It was allabout family connections. You could only get in if you had a dad or an uncle there but, luckily, my whole family were dockers. My dad, his dad, Uncle Jimmy, Uncle Billy. Sandra’s family were dockers, too. If you had no education and lived in the East End, the docks opened their gates and in you went. Having failed miserably in exams at Susan Lawrence, I can’t even remember taking any at Sir Humphrey Gilbert. I left just before my fifteenth birthday and never looked back. My school wasn’t there to provide education.
Yet that East London schools team proved the making of me. We were really good, and started catching the attention of the professional clubs. One by one, our players began to get picked up. Terry Reardon, my friend from Burdett Boys, was the star and every team in England wanted him. Then one night we played at Millwall, in the final of the Criss Shield, against Wandsworth. We won 4–0 and I did really well. I remember we had the Cup and I felt ten feet tall, and as I came off down the tunnel there was a grey-haired man standing there, wearing a lovely big overcoat. He looked like a million dollars. I didn’t recognise him, but it was Dickie Walker. He’d been a great centre-half for West Ham and the captain of the club, but I don’t think they looked after him very well, and now he was chief scout for Tottenham. ‘Is your dad here, son?’ he asked. He told me who he was and that he wanted to see Dad before we went home. I went running in. ‘Dad, Dad, the Tottenham scout’s here – he wants me to go to Tottenham.’ Just saying it felt great. Dickie arranged for the pair of us to meet him at White Hart Lane the next day. It was the middle of winter, freezing cold, and I had to wait for Dad to finish work. I had no overcoat, just a plastic mac; and we had no car, so it was anunpleasant walk from the station, but I didn’t care. I was going to meet Tottenham. I had never been so excited. When we arrived, Dickie took us straight in to see Bill Nicholson, the manager. Bill was building the Tottenham team that went on to win the Double in 1960–61, the first manager of the twentieth century to do so, but here he was talking to me. I couldn’t believe it.
To a young teenager, no more than 13, Bill was a very intimidating figure. He was a man of few words and had an immediate air of authority. He certainly didn’t look like the sort of manager who would be up for having a laugh with the lads. ‘Hello, son,’ said Bill. ‘Dickie tells me you’ve being doing all right, he’s seen you play a couple of times. You’re a winger, aren’t you? Tell me, do you score goals?’
I couldn’t lie. ‘No, not me, Mr Nicholson,’ I told him. ‘I don’t score many goals.’
He wasn’t too happy with this. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I only know one great winger who didn’t score goals and that was Stanley Matthews. Unless you’re going to be as good as him, you’d better start scoring.’
And off he went. He was a blunt Yorkshireman and seemed
It wasn’t as if Dennis could do much. We only had two footballs between all of us, and often he’d only stand there and watch us all play fifteen-a-side in the playground, but I loved the fact that here was a real professional footballer, because I idolised those guys. Dennis used to single me out and talk to me because he knew I had a chance, and all week I would look forward to being with him. I suddenly learned the importance of staying clean, tidy and fit. When Dennis left, his brother Les, Clive’s dad, who won the Double with Tottenham, took over the supervision. Footballers had to earn money where they could in those days. He was probably paid £1.
If it hadn’t worked out for me in football, I feel sure I would have ended up down the docks. That was where people like me went in those days, and Dad already had my name down. It was allabout family connections. You could only get in if you had a dad or an uncle there but, luckily, my whole family were dockers. My dad, his dad, Uncle Jimmy, Uncle Billy. Sandra’s family were dockers, too. If you had no education and lived in the East End, the docks opened their gates and in you went. Having failed miserably in exams at Susan Lawrence, I can’t even remember taking any at Sir Humphrey Gilbert. I left just before my fifteenth birthday and never looked back. My school wasn’t there to provide education.
Yet that East London schools team proved the making of me. We were really good, and started catching the attention of the professional clubs. One by one, our players began to get picked up. Terry Reardon, my friend from Burdett Boys, was the star and every team in England wanted him. Then one night we played at Millwall, in the final of the Criss Shield, against Wandsworth. We won 4–0 and I did really well. I remember we had the Cup and I felt ten feet tall, and as I came off down the tunnel there was a grey-haired man standing there, wearing a lovely big overcoat. He looked like a million dollars. I didn’t recognise him, but it was Dickie Walker. He’d been a great centre-half for West Ham and the captain of the club, but I don’t think they looked after him very well, and now he was chief scout for Tottenham. ‘Is your dad here, son?’ he asked. He told me who he was and that he wanted to see Dad before we went home. I went running in. ‘Dad, Dad, the Tottenham scout’s here – he wants me to go to Tottenham.’ Just saying it felt great. Dickie arranged for the pair of us to meet him at White Hart Lane the next day. It was the middle of winter, freezing cold, and I had to wait for Dad to finish work. I had no overcoat, just a plastic mac; and we had no car, so it was anunpleasant walk from the station, but I didn’t care. I was going to meet Tottenham. I had never been so excited. When we arrived, Dickie took us straight in to see Bill Nicholson, the manager. Bill was building the Tottenham team that went on to win the Double in 1960–61, the first manager of the twentieth century to do so, but here he was talking to me. I couldn’t believe it.
To a young teenager, no more than 13, Bill was a very intimidating figure. He was a man of few words and had an immediate air of authority. He certainly didn’t look like the sort of manager who would be up for having a laugh with the lads. ‘Hello, son,’ said Bill. ‘Dickie tells me you’ve being doing all right, he’s seen you play a couple of times. You’re a winger, aren’t you? Tell me, do you score goals?’
I couldn’t lie. ‘No, not me, Mr Nicholson,’ I told him. ‘I don’t score many goals.’
He wasn’t too happy with this. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I only know one great winger who didn’t score goals and that was Stanley Matthews. Unless you’re going to be as good as him, you’d better start scoring.’
And off he went. He was a blunt Yorkshireman and seemed
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