Читать книгу Wednesday Rucks and Rock 'n' Roll - Anthony Cronshaw - Страница 5

There is a saying amongst the very good people of Sheffield – the sky is blue, and the clouds are white, so God must be a Wednesdayite.

Now Tommy certainly wasn’t a religious person; he had hardly ever joined the congregation in church because over the years the boy had spent many a happy Saturday afternoon and the odd Sunday at the other ‘Temple of the Gods’, as some called it – Hillsborough.

There must have been some truth in this statement, because that other lot were from a place called ‘Bram-Hell Lane’. Well, the boy thought that was how it was spelt. They also just happened to sport the colours of him with the pointy horns; you know, the one that takes anyone who has been a bit on the naughty side. The Devil.

And with that association, it’s no wonder that their team had hardly ever achieved anything in comparison to the saintly believers who followed the team that went by the name of Sheffield Wednesday.

They had been Tommy’s football team for the past 48 years; he was such a lucky boy because his family were fortunate enough to settle in the Owlerton district of Sheffield.

Tommy’s family story began in 1920 when a certain George Henry, his grandfather, left his native Runcorn in Lancashire. Times were hard during this period, so the man decided to up sticks and try his luck in the White Rose County of Yorkshire. He managed to navigate himself across the Pennines and ended up in Sheffield. Luck was obviously on his side from day one, because he managed to swerve the dark side of this fair city and settle in the more picturesque surroundings of Owlerton.

His new-found accommodation was neat but tiny; he was a qualified wood turner by trade and landed a job in the same borough. And it was during those early months of his residency that he caught the eye of a certain Florence Emily, who had been widowed during the First World War. Her husband William had sadly been killed on the battlefields of France, just like many young men during that period. George Henry had survived the conflict and was one of the lucky ones, and after a brief courtship he and Florence were married in 1921 and the man had himself a ready-made family.

They lived locally in one of those back-to-back terrace abodes. With a state-of-the-art outside toilet, a tiny front room that opened out onto a cobbled street, and two tiny bedrooms upstairs, it was their home sweet home.

George Henry had never married, so at the age of 40 he had well and truly landed on his feet. One minute he was living in a tiny bedsit, the next he was a happily married man with a loving wife and daughter.

For his sins though Grandfather was a Rugby League man; he played a good amateur standard and supported Warrington. But it was the Sport of Kings that occupied his Saturday afternoons, and the family would head for the local racecourses when work was done.

Life was now great for the family. George had a very good job and to make things even better he lived just a stone’s throw away from The Wednesday FC. The club itself wasn’t so fortunate, however, languishing at the time in the Second Division of the Football League. And to make matters worse, those upstarts from across the city were sitting pretty one division higher.

How could that be? They were squatting in their so-called home, because when it was built in 1854 it was the local cricket clubs, including The Wednesday CC, which had thrown their money into the ring along with several other clubs from the area.

There was never any mention of a United CC and those that would come to be associated with the football club had actually started life as caretakers, looking after the upkeep of the stadium and cleaning the toilets. They didn’t even have a team to join in and play with the rest of the city when football became popular, and they were just plain old servants and skivvies. But one by one the other teams left for pastures new and United found they had the ground all to themselves. And they never left.

The Wednesday moved to a place called Olive Grove in 1887. This was a major blow to the committee that were looking after Bram-Hell Lane, as the biggest player in town had upped sticks. Wednesday had suffered enough; they got totally fed up with handing over the rent money to the caretakers and decided to find a home of their own. Even so, Olive Grove was still too close for comfort. The Wednesday had endured a decade living next to those freeloaders who had somehow managed to get a few lads together to play for their hastily-arranged football team.

It had only taken those misfits 22 years to follow in the footsteps of the number one football club in Sheffield, and they’d helped themselves to the ground that the very good people of Sheffield had bought shares in to build. Not only that, but they’d borrowed the local nickname – not very original, was it. They devilishly called themselves the Blades, when all around knew what they ought to be called. Unfortunately, that moniker had already been adopted by another outfit that played in red and resided over the Pennines in Manchester, so the Blades it was.

Wednesday was so grateful when the Northern Railway Company decided to put a line straight through the middle of the Olive Grove Stadium. The home that the club had paid good money for, rather than relying on others to chip in like that lot had done in 1889.

Brick by brick the Olive Grove was dismantled and transported across the city, before being restored to its former glory on the banks of the River Don in Owlerton. It turned out to be such an enlightening place that the club wished they had moved years previously.

Tommy’s story now fast forwarded to 1931 when his father, James, was born. This must have been a shock to the system for George Henry and Florence Emily; after all George was to be a dad at the tender age of 50. James made his Wednesday debut in 1937, when he journeyed along Penistone Road to watch his heroes in blue and white for the very first time. He had latched onto the family of one of his classmates; he was only five months away from his seventh birthday when the season kicked off.

Unfortunately Wednesday contrived to lose and the young James thought he had brought bad luck onto his team. He even contemplated giving the remaining matches a miss until the adults present reassured him that the life of a Wednesdayite had many more downs than ups.

Just like when George Henry had moved into the area, now James found himself watching Wednesday in the Second Division. This time, though, he had the added bonus of knowing that those worshippers of Satan from across the city were also down a league. James only managed to cheer his heroes to victory on ten occasions during that first season, and it was that steady home form that just about managed to keep Wednesday from slipping into regional football for the first time in their history.

Tommy’s father had loved his first taste of life amongst the Wednesday faithful and could not wait for the 1938/39 season to start. He had even purchased an autograph book, keen to seek out his heroes before the game, and he was now old enough to take himself on that short journey from Neepsend to Hillsborough. He would spend hours waiting for the arrival of his team, sitting on the wall that overlooked the River Don and writing the name of the opposition at the head of one of the pages just in case he managed to add their names to his collection.

James had now amassed numerous match day programmes, which he kept safe in a shoebox under his bed. They had cost him two old pennies each, and also safely tucked away were the autograph books that by now were full of signatures. Even though his team was flying along, so were the other lot, and in a nail-biting end to the season Wednesday muscled their way into second place with victory over Spurs at Hillsborough.

Unfortunately the other lot had a game in hand, also against Spurs, and a 6-1 fluke of a result pushed the Owls into third place, thus missing out on promotion. But the good people of this city soon got over their disappointment and couldn’t wait for another brand new football season in August 1939.

Already the Owls had lost to Luton Town before victory over Barnsley finally got their season underway. But it was the home game against Plymouth Argyle that was to be the Owls’ last competitive match for some seven years, and sadly the game had ended in defeat, 1-0.

The following morning while George Henry was sat in his favourite armchair, puffing on his favourite pipe, and while young James and the rest of his mates were playing football in that cobbled street, and while Florence Emily and her daughter Edith and the rest of the good ladies of the street were on their knees donkey stoning the front steps, the voice of Neville Chamberlain was broadcast on the radio at 11am. He told old Adolf Hitler that if he didn’t remove his troops from Poland, Britain was coming to get him. When Hitler did not respond, that was it; the football was put on the back burner and would not reappear for some time as the country concentrated on the war effort.

It was not until 1946 that proper football was back on the menu. Hitler had been transferred to Hell, the Russians had set up an Eastern Division, and the British and the Americans had divided Germany into a Western Division.

How young James celebrated his return to the terraces on 2 September 1946. But he was no longer a schoolboy, he was a working adult and at the age of 15 he was earning a living at that same wood yard, just as his father had done some 25 years before.

Tommy’s father had not had a great start when it came to supporting his favourite football team. He had just got going and was enjoying every single moment, and then all of a sudden it came to a grinding halt. Imagine being an eager schoolboy. You go and see your team play for the very first time, and enjoy a couple of seasons cheering on your heroes. Then when the last ball is kicked at the end of that season, you don’t see them play another competitive game until you reach the age of 15.

Well that’s what happened to James and all the other kids from Sheffield, whether they supported the Owls or that lot from over the other side. Not only did they miss out on their football, they spent most of their childhood dodging bombs and doodlebugs. It was not until 1950 that Wednesday finally achieved promotion, but where was James? Was he celebrating with the other 50,853 supporters who attended Hillsborough for the final game of the season, when a point against Spurs was enough to secure second place in the table?

No; the unluckiest football supporter in Sheffield was doing his National Service in some stinking Malaysian jungle. Fighting the Communists, in that British colony, he must have been thinking that he was never going to grace Hillsborough ever again.

After the success of the previous season the Owls were brought back down to earth with another bout of relegation fever that saw them drop a division at the end of the 1950/51 season.

James was one of the lucky ones, too, because he had missed the trip to that other stinking jungle when the Owls had visited Bram-Hell Lane back in September.

We end up in 1963; now this was to be Tommy’s turn to take up the Wednesday flame. It was now his turn to venture down Herries Road from that vast council estate of Shirecliffe with his schoolmates Christopher, John and Wesley. They were adorned with those famous blue and white colours of Sheffield Wednesday, just like Tommy’s father had been before him. Today’s visitors to Hillsborough were Manchester United and the boys paid their five pennies for the match day programme before entering the turnstiles. Pushing and shoving their way through the mass of people, it was a daunting experience for these boys. They positioned themselves on the ledge which ran towards the pitch from the Kop end, in the shadow of the impressive newly-built North Stand.

The game ended in a 3-3 draw but for Tommy it was not the winning that mattered but the taking part in it all, for the very first time. He rushed home clutching his first ever football programme and neatly placed it inside the cupboard at Grandma Florence’s house. She was a sort of surrogate mother, because his birth mother had done one in 1962, just after the Owls had lost to that lot 2-1 at Hillsborough. James, Tommy and baby Mark never noticed that she had gone; they were far too busy feeling the hurt you feel when someone you dearly love gets turned over by a bunch of devil-worshippers.

Tommy loved his grandma, and Granddad William; it wasn’t their fault that their daughter was a selfish bitch. Also fighting young Tom’s corner was the lovable Auntie Lily and Uncle Frank, and between them all his family more than made up for him not having a mother. The boy was football crazy; sometimes he would spend hours on his gran’s back garden, reliving the game that had just been played down at Hillsborough. He would recite, without a pause for breath, the names of the players in the two teams that had been playing the previous Saturday. Then Tommy would play to his heart’s content, commentating to himself long before Match of the Day came up with the idea.

Even when it started to go dark, this did not deter him; he would simply run indoors and switch on the kitchen and back bedroom lights – his own personal floodlights. If anybody had witnessed this they probably would have thought that the boy was mental. But he didn’t have a care in the world; he just loved every minute of every single day.

Over at Hillsborough things were progressing nicely, and when Arsenal were the visitors Tommy went to the match with his dad for the very first time. The pair of them sat in the North Stand and this time Tommy had the added bonus of a cushion, while his mates were huddled together on that concrete ledge. Wednesday went and spoilt what had been a very special occasion, however, when they proceeded to get thrashed 4-0. It was really the first time in his life that the Owls had let Tommy down, but Dad simply informed him that he would have to get used to it if he wanted to follow Sheffield Wednesday.

Tommy had now taken over the mantle of the chief Sheffield Wednesday supporter in the house. Dad was too busy working, and enjoying his visits to the Black Swan, to have time for the Owls. Well he was now in his thirties, and that was far too old to be a football supporter – kids were now the future of this great football club. And the Shirecliffe kids were special; Christopher, John and Wesley would be joined by the two Smith brothers with the youngest, Mark, being one to really watch. He was half the age of the other boys, but how he could play football. That bit of land at the top of Musgrave Road was their own special playing area; the training ground for many a future footballer. And it was full to bursting with kids from early morning until the shout went out that it was time for bed.

At home, though, things were a changing. On one of Dad’s numerous visits to the Black Swan he had caught the eye of a young lady by the name of Marie. She had become a regular visitor to the family home and the couple seemed to be getting on like a house on fire. Tommy hadn’t seen his dad so happy for a long time. Grandma Florence had so far been the family’s guardian angel, a kind of caretaker-manager and a very good one at that, and for the past four years had steered this motherless ship onwards and upwards.

It was now 1966, and it was the FA Cup that the Owls were again saving their best performances for. Reading, Newcastle United and Huddersfield Town had all been put to the sword. Tommy’s little gang had seen none of it, though, as all the victories had been achieved away from Hillsborough.

Again the Owls had been drawn away from home; this time, it was Blackburn Rovers that stood between them and a trip to Wembley. Wednesdayites in their thousands made the trip over to Lancashire to witness another great victory as Wednesday triumphed by a 2-1 scoreline.

The following week, Uncle Fred had come a calling, to get Tommy to purchase tickets for the semi-final; his assignment was to get his hands on eight tickets. The kids were on holiday from school, so it was left to Tommy to achieve the objective. He could not believe that he was going to see his first ever Wednesday away game, and in the semis of the greatest cup competition in the world! But the boy needed help to get his hands on so many tickets and he called for his good mate Christopher.

When tickets went on sale, the pair reached the ground quite early, but the queue was massive, it snaked around the ground. It seemed like they had been there for hours before they managed to get their hands on the first four tickets. Then they eagerly sprinted to join the queue again; they must have been there all day before eventually the mission was complete. The boys walked backed up Herries Road with the eight tickets safely tucked away. Uncle Fred rewarded them each with a ten-bob note, which was quite generous seeing that the tickets had only cost six.

The lead-up to the big day couldn’t come fast enough and Tommy was telling all his mates that he was going to the match. How jealous were they! On the Friday night he was in the bath and into bed well before it went dark; he even slept in his blue and white hat and scarf. He knew his dad was going, and Uncle Fred, but who were the other five in their crowd? Tommy wore the famous blue and white at the breakfast table. His dad gave him such a puzzled look as he tucked into his cornflakes – and then the house began to fill with some unfamiliar faces. The boy knew two of the blokes, who accompanied his dad to the Mucky Duck or the Black Swan, but the others were alien to him. Something then struck Tommy: why were there four strangers in the living room?

He was on the ball with his maths, and it seemed they had one too many in their party. His eyes started to moisten and he could feel them explode in a flood of tears as the truth dawned and his lips started to quiver. The boy had really got the wrong end of the stick and he ran sobbing over to Gran’s. He was in a right state as he tried to explain that they were not taking him to the match. The horrible bastards – without his help none of them would have been going!

Gran went across to sort it out; she never lost a battle so one of those strangers would surely be heading home. But it was all in vain, it turned out they were all going with the local boozer and kids were not allowed because they were stopping out drinking late into the night. What embarrassment Tommy suffered when he turned up on the top field to play with his mates when he should have been heading for Villa.

Gran did soften the blow with the idea that if Wednesday played away in the cup the following season she would get Granddad to take Tommy. Now he was like his other granddad from over at Neepsend – he preferred the pub and the betting shop on a Saturday afternoon and not the football.

Wednesday did beat Chelsea and make a date for the Cup Final, where they would meet Everton after they had turned over Manchester United. On the morning of the Cup Final everyone was excited about the prospect of the Owls playing at Wembley. Tommy had been out in the morning with Uncle Fred. He had just built a few houses at a place called Everton – not the place where the opposition of the day came from but a tiny village just past Bawtry. He had started up his own construction company and the lad envisaged working alongside him one day.

When they got back to Gran’s it was full to bursting, even Granddad had swerved the Kings Head to support the Owls. As the teams came out Wednesday had ditched the blue for an all-white kit – would this bring them luck? Tommy sat on the floor, his eyes glued to the tiny television. He had only been watching for a couple of minutes when McCalliog opened the scoring. It even got better just after half-time when local hero David Ford made it 2-0. The Owls were now in the driving seat and about 25 minutes away from winning the prestigious FA Cup.

When his Dad took Tommy to that Arsenal game, he told him that being a follower of Sheffield Wednesday could lead to heartache. Well the next 25 minutes rammed that home to Tommy because before he could say ‘Mike Trebilcock’ they were 3-2 down. How could they do this to him – reduce the boy to tears for the second time in such a short space of time? Within an hour, though, the tears had been wiped clean and the gang were reliving the afternoon’s events, as Wednesday were victorious.

With the Cup Final and the World Cup out of the way, the other big event of 1966 was the marriage of Tommy’s father to Marie. The lad had at long last got someone to call ‘Mother’ and it felt great; mind you the wedding in October did force him to miss the home game against Fulham, but it was a sacrifice worth making. Things were now moving on and Marie was like a new manager, brought in to steady a team that was going nowhere. She had an immediate effect and before long the family team was climbing the league. What made it ever so special was that when Christmas came, Tommy was enjoying his first ever festive period in his own home, in his own bedroom, and in his very own bed. And when he was sat in front of that roaring fire on the Christmas morning, he had a mother to share it with.

The following year Wednesday progressed to the latter stages of the FA Cup again and Tommy was eventually off to Chelsea. He was over the moon that finally, at the age of 11, he was going to see the Owls away from Hillsborough for the very first time. When Granddad returned from work and heard the result, he was none too pleased at the idea of a trip to Stamford Bridge. He was as good as his word, though, and with tickets for the train obtained thanks to Granddad’s job on the railways, the pair of them were on their way.

Tommy was so excited, with his favourite hat and scarf on, and it was a good job Chelsea played in similar colours because they ended up on the Shed End with all the Chelsea supporters. The match was scrappy and as the game moved into injury time, Baldwin put a damper on the day when he scored. Wednesday had lost but the boy had been there and that was enough. On the way home Granddad bought him the biggest bag of peanuts he had ever seen. The shells were all over the carriage when they embarked back in Sheffield; Tommy had really enjoyed his day out and he knew deep down that Granddad had too.

With every joyous occasion comes a sad one, you see the family welcomed new life into the family with the birth of Tommy’s baby brother David in 1967. Now James had three boys, but Tommy was devastated when his gran suffered ill health and was confined to her bed. After all she had done for him over the past 12 years, she could now do no more. In the beginning of 1968 she sadly passed away, and Tommy was heartbroken that he was not allowed to attend the funeral. He realised later on that his birth mother would be in attendance, so it was probably for the best.

Marie hated life on the Shirecliffe and the family made the decision to find pastures new, heading for a place called Birley. It was at the other end of the city but she knew the place would be great for her three lads, even though it was a million miles away from Hillsborough.

Tommy still managed to get to Hillsborough, but with money hard to come by he had to pick and choose his games. The boy soon settled into life in his new surroundings, but there were no kindly relatives nearby throw the odd shilling his way. He was also two bus rides away from the match rather than a leisurely stroll down Herries Road. But Tommy found a couple of ingenious ways to fund his trips to Hillsborough, firstly with the help of the woodwork teacher. He constructed a board game that modelled itself on the Grand National and became the school bookmaker, creaming off a percentage of every race. Until, that is, a very upset headmaster and a disgruntled parent whose child had been one step away from Gamblers Anonymous watched as the fundraiser was torn to pieces by a whirring band saw.

The second scheme involved the help of a female maths teacher. At dinner time eight pupils would sit around the table to enjoy the school dinner, but our lad would only hand in six meal tickets, thus leaving a weekly profit of ten shillings or fifty new pence. The remaining two tickets would be sold to junior pupils, with no discount – well, the boy needed the cash to get to Hillsborough. This scam lasted a good few months before he was again rumbled, and the tickets were confiscated. When his team needed him he was now nowhere to be found, because he was again penniless. That space on the concrete ledge was vacant most matches.

The Owls were freefalling down the top division, and by the time April 1970 came around it was touch and go whether the team would be relegated. A great fightback against Manchester United grabbed the Owls a point and a lifeline. The kids at Tommy’s new school couldn’t wait for the bell to ring so they could all head for Hillsborough. All he could remember was the rain as they made their way en masse to watch Wednesday take on Manchester City. The crowd was 45,258 and they were on the wedge between the North and West Stands. When City came out, Francis Lee and Colin Bell were missing from the line-up. And after only 23 minutes Mike Summerbee went off. City were then awarded a penalty and Tommy’s dear old gran could have made a better effort; it was if City did not want to win. Then Bowyer, the City substitute, clearly hadn’t read the script as he scored make it 1-0.

The kids went ballistic when Coleman equalised but it was to no avail, because bloody Bowyer scored again and put an end to their hopes of avoiding relegation.

Tommy was soaked to the skin and couldn’t separate the rain from his tears; it had been a sad night as they trudged home along Penistone Road.

The years moved on and Tommy left school well behind him. Meanwhile the family had added another well-received signing in the shape of baby sister Donna. And as we move into the summer of 1971, the lad was looking forward to starting work. Those from the dark side had been promoted; they were again, thinking that they were the superior beings in town, while the Owls unfortunately found it a struggle. Even brother Mark had been lured over, probably brainwashed by the two who lived next door. Their house was a bloody shrine to the devil.

Tommy had not had a great start on the job front and was missing from the Hillsborough family. For three years he had to work on a Saturday afternoon, but he eventually got that lucky break and found new employment that enabled him to return to the fold. What follows is the story of the ups and downs of Tommy’s life as a Wednesdayite.