Читать книгу RED & WHITE PHOENIX - KEITH POLLARD - Страница 8

It was September 5th 1957. I stood lost in a sea of faces, 400 boys brought together from four different schools in the Hessle Road area. A varied bunch indeed, but some had talents that would enable them to achieve great heights in their own fields.

The school building itself was used originally for Riley High School, which had moved to a new location further up Anlaby Road. The new school was one of the new ‘secondary moderns,’ known as Boulevard High, into which boys from Constable Street, Chiltern Street, Daltry Street and Wheeler Street schools transferred at the age of ten. Looking back, although it was an old building it was in a way quite modern, with decent sized classrooms, a gymnasium, a large assembly hall, woodwork and metalwork workshops, and a good science laboratory. It was supposed to be ahead of its time, and it was certainly better than we had been used to.

The deputy headmaster, a Mr Stan Adams, addressed the assembled throng. ‘The Beak,’ as he was known, was a living legend and terrified everyone in the school. He was a rugged looking character with a big bent nose protruding from his bald head rather like the bald eagle in American comics and pictures. The broken nose was from playing professional rugby, which he had also refereed and coached. In fact, Stan was Rovers’ first team coach upon their return to action after the end of World War II. Later, he became my last rugby coach at school, and an excellent one at that. When we played another school, no matter what reputation they had, we daren’t lose when we put on the red, black and yellow hooped jersey – the same colours as the old traditional Dewsbury RLFC shirts. An additional incentive to come away victorious was that he gave us each an old three-penny bit for our bus fares home if we won. But most times we ended up trekking the long way back from Anlaby Park Road South, where the playing fields were, because we had spent the money on ‘goodies’.

On that first morning, as Mr Adams introduced the teachers and staff to the new boys, a worried voice behind me said, “Christ, who the hell is that?”

I would not have wanted to meet him down a dark alley anyway. After welcoming us all to the school, Stan, as I came to know him much later, introduced himself and asked the headmaster, Mr Gillies, to step forward and say a few words. Looking back, I realise that Mr Gillies was something special, a real leader, with a charisma that produced in us such awe that there was a deathly hush, in which you could hear the proverbial pin drop. Welcoming us, he described how honoured he was to be given the job of headmaster at the new school and told us a bit about his history. It felt as if you were being greeted individually. He was a rather red-faced and quiet man, but he commanded great respect throughout the school.

Mr Gillies sat down to rapturous applause and Stan called for silence once again. He then explained what was to happen next in more detail, before closing the proceedings. The new arrivals then left the assembly and followed Stan and our new teachers to the gym, a place I came to hate. We jostled and pushed as young boys do, walking along the corridor behind these men we had never set eyes on before. We congregated there in little groups predicated by our original schools, and stood there like lambs awaiting the slaughter. As the garbled chattering continued amongst the boys, Stan shouted, “Okay, shut up you lot! Now listen up.” I thought, God he’s been watching too many American war films. I had only ever heard John Wayne come out with that phrase, and Stan was no silver screen hero type, no Cary Grant or Gary Cooper look-alike.

The teachers were to become our tutors and mentors for the next few years. In many ways they helped to shape us into what we are today, and in retrospect, they did a pretty good job. Each one stood with a card, showing which form he was taking, and the first of them started to call out the names of the boys that would be in his class. Mine was a small red- faced, ginger-haired man called Mr Johnston. He was the double of Charlie Drake, his hair perhaps not as curly, but with the same features and funny eyes. He wore a sports jacket that matched his hair and grey flannel trousers. His class was 1A, which was the highest class in the first year. Each boy was called in alphabetical order, and as Mr Johnston worked his way down his list you could see the expressions on some of the boys’ faces change as they realised they were not in the top class of the year. As he got to the Ps, “… Paterson, Pearson, Plummer…” I held my breath acting all nonchalant (I could speak French, for heaven’s sake) and trying to appear as if I did not care if I was in his class or not, whilst deep down my bowels lurched, “… Pollard”

After each one, he looked around to see which boy he had inherited, and as I put my hand up, he looked straight at me and I swear the cheeky bugger shook his head. We were all secretly quite chuffed to be in the top class as we followed Mr Johnston to our classroom on the second floor, directly above the gym and just down the corridor from Stan Adams’ office. The latter became a bit of a ‘no go’ area, because if you were spotted running past it, it was the Spanish inquisition all over again.

‘What you doing out of class?’ ‘Why are you in the corridor?’

‘Why were you running?’ The tirade descended like a thunderstorm.

As we left the gym that morning, I looked back with a bit of sadness at some of the lads I had been with at Constable Street who had not been put in the new ‘elite’. They were mates who had been with me since I was five. John Harvey, Judda Maltby, ‘Gina’ Peacham, Johnny Lyons, Gary Douse and Willie Allan, were all left standing waiting for their names to be called. Another was Billy Connelly, who was the only black kid I had ever seen at the time. It was so unusual to see black people in Hull that I can remember all the early ones I met, Keith Barnwell and Clive Sullivan at Hull FC, another pal, Mike ‘Tweedy’ Bram and later Bak Diabira, a half-back from Bradford whom I played against several times.

That morning represented a new beginning, a new era, for us. We actually wore uniforms with the school emblem, the Phoenix, on it, and a tie in the school colours of black with red and yellow stripes. The phoenix represented the school having arisen ‘from the ashes’ of the four dissolved schools. To our Mams this was just another expense and mine got a club cheque from Mr Tadman, the ‘tally man,’ so that I could be duly kitted out. My blazer was a black suit jacket with lapels that would not have looked out of place against Concorde, had that been thought of then. They kept curling over and I suppose looked quite ridiculous, but to me the jacket was the bee’s knees. I had my first pair of long trousers, grey flannels from Boyes at the top of Constable Street, along with a school cap. Now school caps were not the ‘in thing’ on Hessle Road, the only caps I had ever seen were the flat ones every bloke on the road wore, and the only school cap I had ever seen was on Billy Bunter on telly. I put mine on in the house, looked in the mirror and thought, I look a right prat, I’m not wearing that.

“You effing well are,” I was informed, “I’m not wasting 9/6d.” I left the house wearing it but it soon disappeared into my satchel. I say satchel, but it was actually an ex-Army, khaki gas-mask holder, which was later replaced with a ‘state of the art’ duffel bag. But at least I had the uniform, whilst some kids had council clothes on and the ‘Tuff’ boots that had just been introduced to the nation. They were guaranteed for twelve months not to wear out, until, that is, a group of dockers wore them every shift for three months, swapping them between each other irrespective of size, three shifts a day. Tuff kept replacing them every six months as they inevitably wore out. I do not believe they ever discovered the scam, but the guarantee was quietly dropped.

We settled down in our desks on that first day, some boys next to complete strangers and luckier ones next to lifelong mates, and listened to our new mentor Mr Johnston as he set out the ‘curriculum’ for the year.

“What’s a curriculum?’ was the whisper round the room. I thought it was a new model of Ford car, like a Cortina. After I’d nearly nodded off a couple of times, the bell went for play time and we went out into the yard to meet up with our old mates. We really did meet round the back of the bike shed, where some had already lit up their Park Drives or Woodbines and were happily sucking away. Judda said he’d had enough already and was packing it in.

“Bugger this,” he said, “they want us to do homework.” You couldn’t get Judda to do anything in school, never mind at home.

“Mr Harpham” he said, “that old music teacher who’s as mad as a hatter.” Mr Harpham was allocated the lowest class in the year, 1D, and they were in a hall across the road from the main school, which is now a chemist’s shop, I think.

“They have even put us out in the sticks so no one can hear him howling,” ‘Gina’ Peacham lamented. For some reason, they had nicknamed him ‘Daddy’ and that is how he was always known. We all gave thanks for not being put in his class, as he used to be at Constable Street, from whence his reputation preceded him. For me, after settling down, it was not too bad. I met a lot of new mates both in the classroom and in the rugby team, some that were to become lifelong friends.

That year, I made my first visit to Wembley. It was the 1958 Rugby League Challenge Cup final between Wigan and Workington. We went on the train, meeting at Paragon Station at around 6am, with a ‘pack-up’ for lunch, which had gone by 8.30. After arriving at Kings Cross we transferred to the underground, where we were jammed like sardines into a carriage, before catching another train to the stadium itself. There were 90,000 people crammed into the stadium to watch a game that no one from Hull really gave a damn about who won, and for the first time I witnessed Wigan lift the cup. After the game, we were back on the cattle train again to return to the West End where we had tea at The London Polytechnic Institute on Regent Street. After that we were taken to the Palladium Theatre to see Johnny Ray.

Standing with the Workington supporters earlier, I thought I had seen enough of people crying that afternoon, but here was another bugger howling. I thought he was pretty crap to be quite honest, but I suppose it is all a matter of opinion.

Back at school, we were invited to meet the coaches of the rugby and football teams, as school teams had to be chosen to be entered in the new season’s competitions. As I was rather portly, although some people put it less politely, I was sent to meet Mr Jim Watts, a maths teacher and my first rugby league coach. He was a tall, rather arrogant man, who looked like Cary Grant with glasses. He was a glory hunter and I never really got on with him as he always favoured the stars of the team like Billy Halsey, Tommy Ball, Melvyn Rollinson and Vic Gay, four players who were a little older than me and were in the ‘B’ Team when I was in the ‘C’ team. But despite being one of the mere mortals, I did manage to get into the team, much to the amazement of some of the other kids in the squad!

Boulevard C Rugby Team - 1958-59Boulevard High School B Team - 1959-60

Billy Halsey, who scored 44 tries in 15 games, and Vic Gay, who scored 39 tries and kicked 60 goals, were something special. Apart from being a good rugby player, Bill was an excellent athlete. He represented the city at both athletics and rugby, and at 11.3 seconds, was the record holder for the hundred yards sprint for the 13/14 age group. Vic also held an athletics record in the same age group, 10.78 metres for the hop, step and jump, which was pretty good by any standard. I think it is worth mentioning that, like the great Roger Millward at Castleford some years later, both Bill and Vic played for the ‘A’ team as well as the ‘B’, which was really unheard of in those far off days.

It was different for me though. When the two best players picked their teams for our impromptu games, I was always the last to be picked. No one wanted ‘Fatty Pollard’ in their team, and I doubt even if they could have foreseen the future that it would have made any difference! The same happened during my 14 years as a professional rugby league player. I had one or two coaches over the years that must have been the best players at their schools, because they would not pick me either! But I digress.

In the 1958-59 season, I managed to get into the Boulevard ‘C’ team in the Hull schools competition that was played on a Saturday morning. Amongst the players in that team were lads I was to play with and against for the next twenty or more years. We were quite a formidable team. Robert Mawer, a mate for many years, who could run like the wind; Mike and Mally Sach were another two ‘Rossy’ (Rosamond Street) lads; Colin Angel was at full-back; big Steve Richardson and I were the two biggest lads in the team and therefore the prop forwards; Walter Woodhouse, the tallest hooker in the world and Gary Douse shared the hooking spot. Gary lived opposite Constable Street school and his older brother ‘Sonny’, whose real name I never knew was to become very big in the trade union movement in Hull. John Usher did not stop long with us, he would have been a good player but, like others before and after, he ‘emigrated’ to Longhill, along with Johnny Harvey our loose-forward. The lad who always stood out in all the school teams was Willie Allen, the scrum half. He really was brilliant and if he had taken life more seriously he could have been a professional. We finished top of our league, losing only once at home and reaching our cup semi-final, so we were quite pleased with ourselves in our first season.

Boulevard High School 7 a-side team - Hull Schools Champions 1960-61 Stan Adams was Hull KR’s first coach after World War II

Some of our teachers were soon forgotten, but Mr Parkinson had actually taught my father at the old Scarborough Street school and must have been about 70 by then. Alan Teasdale, the woodwork teacher, was hated by everyone and used an implement best described as a slim wooden cricket bat, that really stung when used to smack many an unfortunate pupil across the buttocks. Jack Goulding, the other woodwork teacher, was also the boxing club trainer and was always helpful and fun to be around. I joined the boxing club and the first time I was ever punched in the mouth –the first of many over the years – he told me something I never forgot.

He was right, I have been in the land of nod a few times, never knowing what had hit me.

I was a big Hull FC supporter in those days. Their Boulevard ground was at the top of our street and we used to get our sweets, or ‘goodies’ as we call them in Hull, from a little sweet shop called Goldbergs on the way to the game. We used to call old Goldberg ‘Jewie’. Looking back I can see he hated it, but to us it was just a nickname like with everyone else. There was nothing malicious or racist about it, we did not know any different in those days.

Like goodies, there were quite a few things that had different names in Hull. Patties were like fishcakes, but were made of potato and herbs; teacakes were bread cakes without fruit in them; when it rained very hard, it was silin’ down; a ten-foot was an alley or ginnel – and there were many more. And you never, ever pronounced an ‘h’ at the beginning of a word or a ‘g’ at the end.

It was around that time that they started to demolish the houses around the area for ‘redevelopment’, and I ‘lost’ a few mates to the new council estates that were being built on the outskirts of the city. Greatfield and Longhill were two bus rides away from us, and apart from finding the bus fare it was a full day out to visit them. You needed a ‘pack up’ to go that far away from home. I never went over North Bridge into East Hull until I was about eleven years old and I started playing rugby at school. I certainly would not have believed that this alien area would play a big part in my life in the future. But most of the other schools in Hull that played rugby league were to the east of the city. I also ventured over a few times to see some of my mates in their new houses. They seemed very posh with their bathrooms and mod cons, we never had a house with a bathroom until I was twenty.

At school, we stayed with ‘old Johnno’ as we called him, for that first year and my end-of-year report could be summed up in that old familiar phrase, ‘could do better’. In the second year, we were with Mr Houlton in form 2A. He was a rather sour-faced disciplinarian; he did not like me and I sure as hell did not like him. Much to my delight, but unfortunately for him, he hurt his back and was off school for a long time. That year was a struggle for me; every day was a chore and I came to hate school and all it stood for. Mostly we stayed in the same classroom and just the teachers changed. But the school was growing rapidly due to the ‘war baby syndrome’ and was not physically big enough to hold all its pupils, so we were sent to Francis Askew school a couple of days a week. By this time, Judda and some of the others with whom I had been at junior school, had moved into higher classes and were also travelling to ‘Franny Askew’ as everyone called it.

We had quite a few adventures on our days out there and coming back home on the number 73 trolley bus from Dairycoates. There used to be some allotments opposite the Regis Cinema in Gypsyville, and we used to go in there to get some flowers for our Mams, and the odd basket of vegetables. It was very thoughtful of us, but whilst the blokes that had the allotments were very generous, they did not know that we were just helping ourselves. We did this every week until Judda threw a cabbage through someone’s greenhouse window so that we could get some tomatoes, not knowing that the owner was in his shed having forty winks at the time. He chased us all the way down Hessle Road, until he could run no further. I can make a clean breast of this now, as most of those blokes will now be pushing up daisies, not growing them. Looking back, we were a bunch of minor delinquents, nothing major, just the usual ‘boys will be boys’ stupidity, and we were very lucky not to get caught at times. Most of us went ‘apple chudding’ in Hessle during the school holidays, but the apples were crap and I really do not know why we ever pinched them in the first place.

When Mr Houlton was off sick, we ‘obtained the services’ of a Mr ‘Dick’ Barker, PE teacher and self-proclaimed former England ABA boxer, and a big-headed, little bastard – until one memorable day. Steve Wilkinson was excused PE due to some burns injuries he sustained one bonfire night when a spark from a bonfire ignited a consignment of bangers that were stored in his back pocket. I thought Steve was rather lucky, not only to survive the incident, but also to be excused PE. I hated exercise in the gym. In fact, apart from playing rugby, I hated exercise full stop. I was not built for jumping over horses and climbing ropes; to me it was pointless. As Judda said, the ropes were not even long enough to get over the borstal wall. However, on the day in question, Mr Barker told ‘Wilky’ that he had to do PE and started pushing him towards the changing room. Steve told him that he was excused and was not doing it and asked Barker not to push him. Now Steve, although only twelve, was nearly six feet tall and about twelve and a half stones. He looked like Buddy Holly with his dark rimmed glasses. Barker took no notice and the inevitable happened. Steve lost his temper, punched him, and old Dicky went flying straight on his back on top of the piled-up coconut mats. Needless to say, he never bothered Steve again and was overheard later to say that he had never been hit so hard in his life.

A couple of memorable teachers came in to our lives in that second year. Mr ‘Neddy’ Hood was our Science teacher and swimming instructor, a blond-haired guy with a great Jimmy Hill type jaw. We used to go to Madeley Street baths every Thursday morning, walking there and back, and stopping at the ‘cob shop’ in Wellsted Street for a couple of dry bread cakes for our dinner. We all thought it was great, learning to swim and taking our swimming certificate exams. There was a bloke at the baths called Jack Hale, who was as fit as the proverbial butcher’s dog. Someone said he had invented the butterfly stroke, and we twelve-year olds all believed that. Jack got us through the first class certificate exam, where we had to swim a length, save one of our mates and dive off the top platform. Now all the swimming and saving I could manage easy, but diving off that top platform – bugger that! We all lined up at the bottom of the steps and I was pushed to the front of the line. Jack was standing on the balcony that ran round the pool where all the changing cubicles were, and up I went, legs trembling and Now I know I’m not the sharpest, but I had never ever seen a ten-foot thick log.

He said quite softly, “Put your arms out in front of you, bend your back a bit and close your eyes.” I thought he’s all right this bloke, no agro, just nice and relaxed.

“If you don’t want to do it, don’t. It’s entirely up to you.”

I thought, if he’s not bothered, I am certainly not. Then just as

I was about to chicken out, the bastard pushed me. Well it was all over in a flash and, to be honest, apart from the big red mark on my belly where I hit the water, it was not too bad. All the lads cheered and clapped as I emerged from the pool like a drowning walrus, and then everyone else followed me up the steps. If ‘Fatty Pollard’ could do it, they could, and after that diving was no problem.

I liked swimming but I have never been able to tread water. Apparently everyone has a buoyancy level but it seems that mine is just above the eyes. Anyway, I even joined a swimming club that we attended every Friday night and really enjoyed – they even had sex lessons. Not officially of course, but one of the older girls who attended used to swim up to the boys and feel them under the water. Now at twelve-years-old and never having even been kissed, this was worth far more than the subs we paid. I remember the first time it happened to me. My mate told me that the girl would masturbate you if you asked her. She was about sixteen I think, and quite good looking, although at twelve almost any girl was good looking. He told her that I fancied her and that I wanted to see her after the swimming club. You may well ask what she was doing with twelve-year old boys, but then I did not know about such things and certainly did not care.

The next week, I was resting against the side of the pool in the deep end, hanging on to the wall and keeping out of the way of the non-swimmers and learners in the shallow end, when I spotted this yellow swimsuit coming towards me. When she raised her head and said “Hello,” I melted. And when she slipped her hand inside my trunks I thought all my Christmases had come at once. I can still taste the sweet kiss she gave me as she hung on to me around my neck and slowly, well not really slowly, brought me to a climax. It was the first time for several things, not least having a science lesson as well as a sex lesson, as I immediately found out that semen does not mix with water. Then off she went and said she would meet me outside after getting changed. I was love-struck. A fat twelve-year-old in love with a sixteen-year-old goddess who had kissed me and deflowered me in front of the whole swimming club - if only they had known it.

We met after the club and when I walked home along Hessle Road later I was as high as a kite. I did not hear a word that any of the other lads were saying, I only could hear her. This happened on several Friday nights and I could not wait for Fridays to come round, until I found out she was also providing her services quite freely to other club members. This ended my first romance and a harsh lesson was learned. But sex had started to be part of my life, albeit for a while thereafter, a more solitary part.

We used to go to the baths a lot, especially during the six-week school holidays, when we had no money and few other places to go. Madeley Street had two baths; a big pool and a small one. On Saturdays, you could go in the small bath only for a penny and you did not have to wear a costume. This they called ‘penny buff morning’ and was for the poor sods that couldn’t afford a costume – but I might as well not have had one anyway, as it was one of those woollen ones with a snake belt that used to absorb water when you went in and it finished up round your ankles. If you dived in, especially off the diving platform, as you hit the water it peeled off like a used condom. The best part was when you came out you could use the hairdryer on the wall and get a pennyworth of Brylcream out of a machine.

We also used to go for rugby and football training on the bus to Anlaby Park Road South, using the playing fields that are now housing estates. During the summer months, we used to have athletics training, but by now you will have gathered I was not built for athletics. In fact, I was not built for anything but rugby league, but we just had to do it anyway.

We sat the eleven plus that year, but I made sure I failed. I did not want to go to a grammar or high school, as they were known. But my Mam and Dad wanted me to, so I had to go to Wheeler Street school on a Saturday morning would you believe, to sit the exam. When we were told to turn the paper over, I only wrote two words on mine, and they were guaranteed to ensure I did not pass. For the rest of the morning, I carved my name in the top of the desk, where I am sure it remained for many years to come, along with the others, as my small mark in history. We had to go back the next Saturday as well, which was becoming more than a joke. I had better things to do with my time than waste it at exams. I had found what girls were and after my experience in the swimming club I knew what was more important.

In the 1959-60 season, I was a member of the school rugby ‘B’ team, which won six out of ten league games, finishing second in the league. In the top-four play-offs (yes, they had them in those days too) we lost 27-8 to Craven Street, and were well beaten, 35-2, by Mersey Street in the first round of the cup. Another new team, Greatfield, had emerged and they took great pleasure in beating us at their place by two points, rubbing salt into the wounds by using some of our own former players. On the positive side, four of our team, Willy Allen, Roy Foster, Walter Woodhouse and Pete Walker were good enough to be picked for the Hull Intermediates team.

The school year came and went largely uneventfully, which was in keeping with my life as a whole at that time. During the winter they used to put a wooden floor over the swimming pool at Madeley Street and on Friday night we went roller-skating. For Christmas, my old man bought me some boots with skates attached, from Asbestos & Co in town, and I even used to go to skating early for (don’t laugh) dance lessons. I’m not entirely sure how I got into that, but I did and actually quite enjoyed it. You had to be there for the lessons an hour before the general public, to ensure there was enough room to practice the basic movements. It was a bit like ice figure skating but on wheels. It was run by a couple, the guy’s name was Tony and although I cannot remember what his wife was called, I do remember that she was very attractive, which might have accounted for my enthusiasm.

The best part of the night was when they played all the rock n’ roll records and everyone took their skates off and started bopping. They were great nights! I went skating for a couple of years and surprisingly became quite proficient at it. I enjoyed the dance instruction but that was probably to do with having to put my arm round Tony’s wife and hold each other close. I remember it was all done by numbers and beats. You had to count the beats of the music and then perform a numbered move. They had funny names for moves like Chasse; LFO meant left foot out and the women would do LBO, left foot out going backwards. It was really confusing at times trying to remember the moves whilst counting the beats of the music, but it was good fun. I have some idea what the ‘Strictly’ contestants are going through!

When I was about fourteen, I was standing outside Madeley Street baths after skating one night, when a black lad of about sixteen came up to me. Black people were really rare in Hull then. He grabbed me by the collar and tried to take my skates.

“Give me those skates or I’ll belt you,” he said. They were tied together by the laces and hung round my shoulders. I told him to go away and tried to jerk away from him, but he grabbed me again. He was about a foot taller than me and bigger. I was still short and fat then, but I was also both frightened and annoyed at the same time. The skates had steel soles with wooden wheels with ball bearings in them and had solid leather boots attached to them, so they were quite heavy. To try and lull him into a false sense of security, I said, “Okay, but please don’t hit me,” and cowered back as if I was going to hand them to him. Stooping forwards, I must have looked like Quasimodo, but when I had the laces in my hand I swung them upwards and hit him as hard as I could in the face with both skates.

As he gave a cry of pain and put his hands to his face in agony, I took off down Hessle Road like the proverbial bat out of hell, not looking back, but running as fast as I could. Instead of heading straight home I ran down Coltman Street, through Cholmley Street and Constable Street, across Boulevard and into Newton Street and the safety of home. I did not go to skating for a couple of weeks just in case he was there but I never saw him again. Some of the lads had seen what happened and they said I had made a right mess of his face. There was blood everywhere and apparently he ran off in the opposite direction to me. Perhaps my actions meant that he did not pick on any little fat kids again.

I had got used to rejection by girls around this stage. We used to ask if we could take them home but got knocked back more times than not. Just now and again, when a girl was perhaps feeling a bit ‘horny’ we would get a bit of encouragement that culminated in what I think was politely called a ‘heavy petting’ session in the romantic location that was Division Road Cemetery. One girl in particular was good fun to be with, to put it politely, and generous with her favours. I remember waiting my turn and hoping I did not achieve happiness before at least I had a chance for her to help me with it.

On Monday nights at the baths there was all-in wrestling. I was a great fan of this ‘sport’ and used to go every week without fail, well before Kent Walton’s programme made it so popular on ITV. I used to sneak into the back where the dressing rooms were and meet the wrestlers. My favourite was a big Scottish guy called Ian Campbell, who was a giant of a man, about twenty-stone and six-feet four inches tall and with a great big beard. I remember one night him fighting ‘The Mask’. It was said that whoever beat ‘The Mask’ could remove the mask and divulge his identity. Well Campbell did win. He nutted ‘The Mask’, the blood oozed through the holes in his mask and it came off. I remember Campbell holding it up like he had won the World Cup itself, and the crowd went barmy. People said it was all show and called them actors, but there was no acting in these fights, I assure you.

I remember another bloodthirsty fight between Campbell and Jack Pye. I think Jack was a nightclub owner from Blackpool but he was a dirty fighter and it was billed as a big grudge fight. Campbell hit Pye over the head with a big enamel bowl that they used in the corner, splitting his head open so that there was blood everywhere. Then whilst he was laid on the floor, Campbell dragged him over to the ropes and tied Pye’s long black hair to the bottom rope and started stamping on him. The referee and corner men were trying to pull him off, but eventually they abandoned the bout and the MC announced that, as Jack Pye was unable to defend himself and Ian Campbell was disqualified, the result did not stand.

I know some people thought it was all fixed, but I saw quite a lot of fights back in those days, and for my money they certainly were not. There were some great characters around and they had fantastic names; Billy Two Rivers, an American Red Indian; Rene Ben Chemoul, who was allegedly French; Johnny Kwango, who used to come into the ring wearing a leopard skin headdress; and Ricky Starr, an ex-ballet dancer who used to skip round the ring on his toes.

Once, I broke my arm playing rugby and Billy Two Rivers autographed the pot for me. It was my pride and joy, but when I went to get the plaster off at the Infirmary, the nurse would not give me the old cast, saying it was not allowed.

Occasionally, they had wresting at the ‘Langham’, the picture house at the top of our street, and I managed to save up to go. Once, after the show I went in Curtis’s fish shop opposite Rosamond Street and some of the wrestlers came in, including Chick Purvey and my hero Ian Campbell. Campbell stood alongside me. He was massive. I was just looking up at him in awe, when he said, ‘Hello,’ to me and asked if I had been to the show. His voice sounded like thunder and he ordered three large haddocks and chips. In those days ‘large’ really was large. He fed one into his mouth like feeding a stingray and he chomped away until it had gone. I was mesmerised, but he just looked down at me and said, “Great, I needed that,” and walked out of the shop. No one said a word, they just stood there amazed at what they had seen.

We went to Wembley again in 1959, this time to see the Hull FC against Wigan final. Our music teacher even taught us the Hull FC song, ‘Old Faithful.’ That was something of a waste of time; we did not get to sing much as Wigan won easily. I was beginning to dislike those cherry and white shirts, and seeing the great Wigan winger Billy Boston charging down the flank with Ivor Watts hanging on to him like a bush baby, will live in my memory for ever. I could never have dreamed then that I would later play against Boston. It was much the same itinerary as before, but this time when we ended up at the Palladium, where Frankie Vaughan topped the bill.

At school, we were being divided up into streams based on ability, in line with the then new secondary modern organisation. It made little difference to me, I had very little enthusiasm for schoolwork and again my school report read ‘could do better’. In the third year I was put in Mr Adamson’s class, 3A. Alan, as we used to call him, was big Hull FC supporter and still is. I met him years later at the Boulevard when I was stood on Bunkers Hill at the Gordon Street end, watching Hull FC v Fulham. He asked if we were from Fulham, because my wife Jacky was supporting them (she is rank ‘red and white’ and would support anyone against Hull FC). I recognised him and said, “You used to teach me at school.” When he realised who I was he turned to his son and said, “It’s Fatty Pollard!” When he repeated the statement a couple of times, I said, “Say that again and I’ll twat you, ex-teacher or not!”

Our classes were focused around what we wanted to do in the future. There was a seamanship course, a building course, a commercial course, and, the one I picked, a technical course. This is where we met ‘Jock’ Russell, the technical drawing teacher with ginger hair and a bad attitude, I could not stand the man. On reflection, I have always had a problem with discipline. I inherited from my mother the ‘Frank Sinatra syndrome’ and always had to do it ‘my way.’ Part of the course was the choice between woodwork and metalwork. There was no way I was going in Mr Teasdale’s class and I was not going to give Jack Goulding the chance to smack me in the mouth for cutting the wood too short, so I decided to take metalwork under Mr Houlder, who was okay. I think he was ex-RAF; he was a great teacher who was really helpful to the boys. Another teacher we met in this year was Mr Shaw, the art teacher. He was a shortish guy with a scruffy moustache and patches on the elbows of his jacket. I think he was one of the first hippies, really laid back and one of the lads. It was always a pleasure to go to his classes. I even took an interest in maths, where the teacher, a Mr Brain, put a different slant on things and even made maths interesting. I was actually starting to like school, was I getting old?

We also had to pick a foreign language. I ask you, half of us could not speak English – only ‘’Ull’ – but we had to choose, so for some reason I chose German. After our first lesson I realised I had chosen the right subject. The teacher, Frau Ashworth, was a wonderful looking woman, a tall, elegant blonde and what I thought an archetypal German Fraulein. You could hear a pin drop as she first entered the class, followed by stifled exclamations all round. Frau Ashworth had a profound influence on me, changing my life completely, not that I learned to speak German, but it started my attraction for tall, well-built women. I only learnt one sentence in German, “Haben sie eine cigarette bitter, mien Herr,” which at least came in handy when we were on the docks and trying to tap seamen up for some free cigs. Thank you, Frau Ashworth, wherever you are, you lived in my dreams for many years.

In the 1960/61 season, I played in the school ‘A’ team that was run by Stan Adams. We had a good year, winning the league with an unbeaten record in all our fourteen league games. We also won the seven-a-side tournament and the Hull and District Challenge Cup, beating our old foes Mersey Street, who had earlier beaten us in the league play-offs again. This time, however, we came out on top 19-5. I was picked, much to the surprise of many in the squad, for a seven-a side competition that was held on the Boulevard, to us then the holy grail of rugby grounds. As I was still a Hull FC supporter then, I thought it would be great to play on the sacred turf, and went off with the squad that Wednesday evening after school with great anticipation. But although we won the competition, I never got a game. Stan promised me a game if we got to the final, but we got to the final and he did not pick me. He told the lads that it was through me we won, for if I had played we would not have won the last game. I am still trying to work that one out, possibly the best bit of bullshitting I have ever heard, and my first lesson in coaching skills, lie and make them believe you. Bill Halsey (again) and Tommy Ball were picked for Hull Boys and Yorkshire, and Gordon Storr for Hull Boys. Bill Halsey was also chosen as Hull and District Player of the Year, with Tommy Ball coming second by only one vote. This was a great honour for both the lads, as well as for the team and the school.

I made the acquaintance in my final year at school of a Mr Moody, who was to be my last form teacher. His class was 4A – the crème de la crème – the top class in the school. He was a very big man who looked like Jerry Lee Lewis, with a great shock of brushed back, blonde hair, and who always wore a bow tie. He was an excellent teacher who was respected by all in his class. He somehow managed to make us work hard but enjoy it at the same time. Mr Moody gave me one of the best compliments I had at school. We had been given the task of writing a technical essay and once we were finished we had to draw a picture of the subject and talk about it to the class. I picked on the German U2 bomb or ‘doodle bug’, as it was known. I learned about it from a book I found in the library and was well prepared. The talk went down a bomb, if you will excuse the pun, and I felt as if I had the class in the palm of my hand. Mr Moody was very impressed and praised the talk in front of the whole class. I was as proud as hell and it was one of my best moments at school. The choice of subject reflected my belief at the time that the Germans were the best at everything that they did.

That year, I was even made a prefect and given a badge. I was starting to think I was a pillar of society! My duties included sorting the milk out whilst the assembly was going on first thing in the morning. This was heaven to an overweight kid that could eat and drink for England. They were only little bottles, and for some strange reason we were always short when we finished putting the milk into the crates according to the respective class numbers. Obviously, unlike me, the milkman had not had a good maths teacher.

My friends at the time included Tommy Ball, who later signed for Hull FC. We remain friends but I have not seen him for a while as he emigrated to the USA after living in Canada for a few years. Pete Walker, who was one of the ‘house captains’, who signed for Hull KR, and later played for Bradford Northern and Salford. Both played with me in the team at Constable Street Youth Club. Mel Rollinson was another, a great all round athlete at cricket, gymnastics, rugby and swimming, whatever he did he was good at and why he did not become a professional sportsman I do not understand. When Constable YC played against Castleford Juniors in the Yorkshire Cup semi-final, Mel played stand-off against future rugby league great, Roger Millward. Mel played him off the park and in later years Roger asked me several times, ‘whatever happened to that bastard Rollinson?’

Others I remember from that class included Jimmy Hornsby, who became a policeman. Willie Allan, who was captain of the school and youth club rugby teams, and a really talented player but a bit of a ‘Jack the Lad,’ who died a few years ago after he had a heart attack helping a friend move some furniture. Billy Halsey, the star of the Yorkshire schools’ rugby league and Yorkshire sprint champion, who later signed for Hull KR from Constable YC for a record fee for a junior but sadly did not make it as a pro. Dave Hawkins, or ‘Hawkeye’ as we called him, who became a welder. I met him in the Silver Cod pub on Anlaby Road twenty-five years later and he greeted me like a long lost brother. We talked for an hour or so and I have never seen him since! Sadly, others, like Ian Wilson, who sat next to me, Graham Huggins, who was a fellow prefect, and Head Boy Fred Fenton, I have never seen or heard of since.

I have not seen Roy and ‘Buddy’ Foster either, whose uncle Brian Hambling played for Hull FC in the 1960s, since we left school, but I believe Buddy finished up in the Gulf as skipper of supply boats. I recently got in touch with him on Facebook. The Foster boys had been in my class right from our first year and we had some great laughs. They came from Daltry Street School along with Norman Plummer, who became one of the biggest fish merchants in Hull. I remember Norman taking the exams to go to nautical school, but he failed due to his eyesight. They told him he could go for a radio operator’s job and he declined, so his poor eyesight turned out to be a blessing! Norman and I were big mates in that last year and went everywhere together.

I even made the school athletics team that year as a discus thrower. I was entered in the selection trials for the Hull City athletics team (no other boy in the school had even put in for it) but I came next to last. When the PE teacher was looking for a discus thrower, he said, “Pollard, you’ll do – throw this!” I naturally thought my physique had grabbed his attention – the Greek athlete thing you see – but then again, perhaps not. Anyway, I threw it and it sailed straight over the school playground wall and through a window in the church next door. I think the teacher’s words were ‘fucking hell,’ but I was most impressed, as I had never thrown a discus before. The teacher had a hell of a job trying to convince the vicar of the church that he had found an Olympic champion discus thrower and that a stained glass window was not that important. The vicar did not go along with this and duly sent the school a bill for the repair. It did not cost me anything but there was no more discus practice in the school playground after that.

I was defrocked as a prefect after being caught at the City Sports meeting at the Hull Cricket Club ground, the Circle, where the KC Stadium now stands, fighting with our deadly enemies, the nautical school boys. Whilst six of us were scrapping with the sailors behind the main stand, Stan Adams had to come round the corner. The following morning, I was doing my milk duties when one of the younger lads came out of assembly and told me I was wanted. The other five lads from the ‘Battle of The Circle’ were already at the front of the assembled school. I had to join them, where my prefect’s badge was ripped from my lapel. I was later given ‘six of the best’ by Mr Gillies, who said very little throughout the whole proceedings.

There was another Wembley trip, this time for the 1959-60 final between Hull FC and Wakefield Trinity. Again, the Black and Whites were on the wrong end of a thrashing and the only consolation was that Hull FC hooker Tommy Harris was awarded the Lance Todd trophy for the man of the match, having played with concussion after being knocked from pillar-to-post in an injury-riddled Hull side. We went to the ‘Chicken Inn’ for tea in Baker Street and I had chicken for the second time that day as my old lady had bought me one from the Rotary Spit on Hessle Road to take with me. But again I had eaten that by half past eight on the train down to London, well we did leave at 5.45 in the morning!After tea we went to the Palladium again, this time someone who I had always wanted see was top of the bill – Liberace and the Beverley Sisters. They were real stars at the time. The train home left Kings Cross Station at 12.30am and arrived back in Hull just before six o’clock in the morning. It was a real 24-hour shift and I was absolutely knackered.

One thing that came out of that trip to London was an indication of how we were brought up in those days. A gentleman called Mr Russell Feeney of Southampton was in London that day and whilst on the underground was really impressed with the behaviour and manners of some of the lads from Boulevard school in Hull. So much so that he sent a letter to a national newspaper. The letter read as follows:

Dear Sir,

Hull may have lost the Rugby League Cup Final. But they possess some young supporters whose courtesy cannot be beaten. Travelling by underground from Liverpool Street, I entered a coach filled with schoolboy fans, each well adorned with black and white favours. They did not seem to be accompanied by adults. As I entered the coach, I was immediately offered a seat by a Yorkshire Galahad. At subsequent stops all adults - male and female - were likewise given seats as they entered. My curiosity was aroused and I inquired from a boy regarding the team they were supporting, and to which school did they belong. I was told that the school was Boulevard, Hull.

Apparently the age of chivalry is not dead in Yorkshire, neither need we despair for the youth of Britain.

Yours, Russell C. Feeney, Southampton

You can tell by the prose that he was not off Hessle Road! It was a very fine gesture from Mr Feeney.

We sat the Secondary Modern Schools Certificate at the end of term that year and I passed with flying colours – seven passes and two credits. Mr Gillies gave me my certificates and final leaving reference; he was kind enough not to include the fact I had been demoted from prefect and gave me a glowing reference.

Looking back, it seems funny that we all just seemed to lose contact after school. Perhaps my becoming a ‘red & white’ had something to do with it! Even now, I still see people who have a go about me signing for Rovers over fifty years since it happened. The TV commentators talk about the derbies between Leeds and Bradford or Wigan and St Helens, but to me there is no question, the only true derby in rugby league is Hull v Rovers. It is the only city with two top-class rugby league teams within the city limits. The feeling I used to get when running out on the old Craven Park and Boulevard was like nothing else I have ever experienced. To hear the Hull supporters baying for my blood, having given a penalty away for some indiscretion, gave me an incredible feeling and without doubt made me play better. We will talk about this later, but I still get a tingle down my spine when I think about it.