Banksy (6 page)

Eddie, born in nearby Matlock, had played in three FA Cup finals for Blackpool, including what many consider the greatest ever, that of 1953 when they came back from 3–1 down to beat Bolton Wanderers 4–3. That final was dubbed the Matthews Final because of Stanley Matthews’s scintillating play on the wing. It was also the game in which although Blackpool’s centre forward Stan Mortensen scored a hat trick, his achievement was not mentioned once in any headline in either the Sunday or Monday newspaper reports of that final. (Can you imagine a player scoring a hat trick in an FA Cup final today and not getting a mention in a single headline?) All the plaudits went to
Matthews. Being the gentleman and sportsman he was, that never rested easy with Stan, and when he came to write his autobiography in 1999 Matthews insisted the chapter relating to the 1953 final be called ‘The Mortensen Final’.

Eddie Shimwell had been a very good right back whose assets were his strength, stamina and timing in the tackle. He signed for Blackpool for £7,000 from Sheffield United in 1946 and became the first full back to score in an FA Cup final when he netted against Manchester United in 1948. In recognition of his services, Blackpool gave him a free transfer in 1957 and he joined Oldham Athletic before arriving at Chesterfield for his swansong.

As any old pro will tell you, you never lose skill – it’s the legs that go. Eddie had never been the quickest player and when he arrived at Saltergate it was evident he was slowing up. So much so, he found it difficult to stake a claim in the first team. Eddie was also plagued by a troublesome shoulder injury, but such was his resolve, he kept on playing.

I remember one reserve game when, having received the ball deep in our own half, Eddie took off down the right wing. He hadn’t run more than a few yards when his upper body suddenly and violently quivered. At first I couldn’t see what the problem was, but on taking a closer look I noticed Eddie’s left shoulder jutting through his shirt at an acute angle. Unbelievably, his shoulder had popped out of its socket. I glanced across to the Chesterfield bench and saw our trainer take to his feet, then back to Eddie, who amazingly was still running with the ball. It was then that I saw something even more astounding. Eddie simply carried on running and, with his right hand, reached across and yanked his left shoulder back into place! I’d heard many a story of old pros playing on through injury, but this was the first time I’d witnessed it. I could only marvel at his fortitude and resolve. At the same time, though, I also felt sadness for Eddie. He obviously loved football, but I felt there was no way a seasoned and respected pro should have had to carry on playing with such a debilitating injury just for the money. When later I told him I
was concerned about him and that he should put his health first, he just smiled.

‘Needs must, Gordon, son,’ he said, placing a hand on my shoulder, ‘needs must!’

Whenever I see a player go sprawling in the penalty box and writhing around in simulated agony I always wonder what Eddie Shimwell would make of such amateur dramatics, or, if you prefer, outright cheating.

In my time with Chesterfield reserves I became friends with all the players, two of whom became very good friends, Barry Hutchinson and the ex-Sheffield United player Paul Brown. The three of us travelled together from Sheffield for both training and matches. Browny had joined Chesterfield from Sheffield United and I remember the three of us waiting one day on the outskirts of the city for the Chesterfield team coach to pick us up and take us on to a Central League game at Manchester City. I hadn’t played that many games for the reserves and, at the time, was still awestruck whenever I came across a player who had been a boyhood hero of mine.

As we waited for the team bus, I looked across the road and was amazed to see the former Sheffield United goalkeeper Ted Burgin, walking by on the opposite side. My eyes were on stalks – Burgin had been a real idol of my youth. On my rare visits to Bramall Lane, I used to marvel at his heroics in goal for United and, though I was now a pro myself, seeing him so close up made me weak at the knees. Browny called his old team mate over. I was amazed at Browny’s easy familiarity with someone I had accorded hero status. Browny introduced us and I addressed Ted as ‘Mr Burgin’, which induced laughter on the part of my team mates and a wry smile from Ted himself. Suddenly, my mouth went dry and I couldn’t think of anything sensible to say.

There was little if any coverage of football on television in those days, only marginally more on radio, so consequently you rarely heard a footballer speak. My impression of Burgin was derived solely from watching him from the terraces. Though
Burgin was a Sheffield lad, for some reason I was surprised that he had a local accent. What sort of accent I expected him to have, I don’t know. But having thought of him as something of a god, certainly not a south Yorkshire accent like mine. Though still in awe of him, I was struck by the sheer ordinariness of the man. He reminded me of the cheery man from the Pru who called at our house once a week to collect the one-and-six life insurance money Mam and Dad paid, so that, when the time came, they could be given, as Mam would say, ‘a decent send off’.

Having met Burgin, he was no less my hero in terms of his expertise as a goalkeeper, but from that moment I saw him in a totally different light – an ordinary bloke on his way to the fish and chip shop.

At that moment, at the side of a road in a village on the outskirts of my home city, it came to me that footballers were mere mortals. I would have no more perfect heroes. It would be an exaggeration to say that my age of innocence was over, though I did sense that something from my childhood had died.

After a while Browny, Hutch and I decided to travel to Chesterfield by train. This was usually more convenient, but on one occasion it put us in hot water with our new manager, Duggie Livingstone. We used a local service that always departed from the same platform, but on the day in question we found it wasn’t there. I asked a platform attendant and he directed us to a train on another platform. Browny and Hutch felt uneasy about this departure from the norm, and on seeing the same platform attendant again, to allay their fears, I pulled down the carriage window and asked for confirmation that we were Chesterfield bound. No problem – this was the right one. On the outskirts of Chesterfield the train began to slow down. We gathered our bags only to stand dumbfounded as it started to pick up speed just outside the station. Panic set in as we watched the station flash by.

The train did eventually come to a halt. At Derby. We jumped
out as if it were on fire and raced for the nearest telephone. By now it was twenty to three. I rang the club and heard the voice of our trainer, George Milburn, brother of the legendary Newcastle centre forward, Jackie Milburn, uncle of Bobby and Jack Charlton. Not a man to mince his words. When we told him where we were, George told us what we were. He ended the brief conversation by telling us to take a taxi to the ground. It was twenty minutes to three and I knew even if Stirling Moss himself turned out to be the driver, there was no way a taxi would get us to Saltergate in time for us to play against Everton.

We eventually arrived at twenty past three and were told to take a seat in the stand for the rest of the game. Nobody said another word to us about the matter that entire afternoon. Come Tuesday, however, the three of us were pulled out of training and told to report to the manager’s office. Duggie Livingstone sat stony faced as he listened to our tale. Then he took to his feet. We would have to drive to Sheffield station and point out to Duggie the platform attendant who put us on the wrong train.

We felt like naughty schoolboys being admonished by the headmaster. Eventually, I spotted the miscreant attendant.

‘That’s him!’ I piped up, like some nine-year-old lad pointing out the school bully.

‘You! Come here!’ Duggie barked. ‘The station master’s office. All four of you. Now!’

Once inside the station master’s office, we repeated our tale and, luckily for us the platform attendant admitted his mistake.

We sat in silence on the journey back to Chesterfield. Duggie Livingstone never apologized for having doubted us. All he said was that we’d have to come in for training the following night to make up for the session we’d missed, and that he would be docking our wages for missing the match.

No manager today would treat even junior players like that. But that’s how it was in those days. More often than not, players had more respect for a manager’s position and his seniority of
years, than his actual expertise as a football manager. You did what you were told. Irrespective of your character or individual circumstances, if you weren’t playing well or if you didn’t do as the manager wanted, you got a rollicking. The onus was on the individual player to shape up, not on the manager to assess and address that player’s idiosyncrasies or emotions and adapt his methods of management accordingly. Nobody thought anything less of a manager for that. His word was law and there was a democracy of sorts – all players were treated the same, albeit, at times, like naughty schoolboys.

I was later to enjoy revenge at Duggie’s expense. The money I earned at Chesterfield enabled me to buy my first car – by which I mean an old Ford van owned by a brickie I knew from my days as a hod carrier. This van had seen better days. The front passenger seat wasn’t secured to the floor as the brickie often removed it when loading the van with building materials. The headlights would intermittently cut out and their silver backing had perished so that they provided only a dim glow. The tyres were nigh on bald and the van had the disconcerting habit of jumping out of gear. All of which made even the shortest journey an adventure.

One night, after training, Duggie Livingstone asked if I could give him a lift back into Sheffield as his car was in for repairs. I readily agreed and once out on the country road back to Sheffield, put my foot down. The road home was full of twists and turns and Duggie was forever sliding backwards and forwards on that unsecured passenger seat. When, at fifty miles an hour, the gear stick popped out of its column I thought Duggie’s eyes were going to pop out of his head. Then as we were approaching Dronfield the van veered to the right and we were suddenly in the direct path of an oncoming car. It was at this point that the headlights decided to give up on me. I think that was when I heard Duggie utter a muted scream. I swung the van back over to the left. The headlights came back on and in the rear view mirror I saw the tail lights of the other car disappearing down
the road. It had been a close thing, too close for Duggie. When I dropped him at his home, I could see his face was ashen.

‘Gordon. Don’t ever let me ask you for a lift again!’ He meant it.

My career with Chesterfield was interrupted when at seventeen I received my call-up papers for National Service. I joined the Royal Signals and after weeks of square-bashing at camps in Catterick and Ripon found myself posted to Germany. Fate had another wonderful stroke of luck in store for me, for it was during my time out there that I met a beautiful young German girl called Ursula. I fell in love with her and I’m even more in love with her now. Ursula and I have been married for over forty years, have three children and five grandchildren. Family life and family values are very important to me, and always have been. When I was a boy in Tinsley we never had much money, but I never felt deprived because there was love in our family and there were frequent little surprises. As a father and grandfather I’ve always tried to foster such family values.

During my National Service in Germany I managed to play quite a lot of football. When the Army learned that I was a pro I was soon picked to represent first my squad and then my regiment, which I helped to win the Rhine Cup, a very prestigious trophy in Army sport at that time.

Chesterfield must have kept tabs on me because on being demobbed I received a letter inviting me back to Saltergate. The manager, Ted Davison, had a surprise waiting for me: a contract as a full-time professional on £7 a week. I had no agent, no image consultant or PR manager, no lawyer, to pick over the fine print and set up lucrative deals from all manner of ancillary activities. It took me all of five seconds to sign. My dream had come true. I was to be paid for doing the only thing I ever wanted to do in life and, having met Ursula, I’d never been so happy.

*

Many of the reserve team were still young enough to play in the FA Youth Cup and we found to our delight that the experience of playing against seasoned pros and the occasional international in the Central League made us more than a match for lads of our own age.

In 1955–56 I kept goal both for Chesterfield reserves and the youth team in the FA Youth Cup. It wasn’t all plain sailing. Playing for the A team against Sheffield Wednesday, I dived at the feet of Wednesday’s Keith Ellis and fractured my elbow – a worrying injury for a keeper. But during an operation the surgeon inserted a metal pin to aid the healing process and strengthen my shattered elbow. I have to admit I feared my career as a goalkeeper could be over before it had got off the ground. As luck would have it, and thanks to the expertise of the surgeon, the injury healed so well that within seven weeks I was back between the posts for the reserves and keen to show what I could do in the FA youth team.

The FA Youth Cup was a relatively new competition, inaugurated in 1952–53, and was won in its first five seasons by Manchester United. It was not only an incentive for clubs to develop their own young players but for managers and directors it became a benchmark as to how their club was progressing. Success in the Youth Cup was seen as an indication of a rosy future for a club, the hope being that a generation of players would then progress to first-team football. Many of that extraordinary crop of Manchester United players who monopolized the competition in its first five seasons did make the grade and were of course dubbed the Busby Babes. For other clubs, the reality was often different. In the fifties, as today, if just two players from a triumphant FA Youth Cup team went on to make their mark in the first team, a club’s youth policy was considered to have been a success. Of course there have been exceptions. Sometimes no players from a winning FA Youth Cup side proved good enough to make the grade; conversely, there have been occasions when four or five have done so. For example, of the
successful youth team of (again) Manchester United of the early 1990s, several went on to win great club and international honours, namely Gary and Phil Neville, Paul Scholes, Nicky Butt and, of course, David Beckham.