Читать книгу Sir Alf - Leo McKinstry - Страница 8

A local government study of Dagenham in 1938 described the local population thus:

Many are rough diamonds, but still diamonds. There is a general readiness to help each other when in trouble, a readiness to support various causes (but only after protracted and heated argument), an appreciation of good music, the usual fondness for Picture Palaces and an undue attachment to the Dance hall.

Eighteen-year-old Alf Ramsey could not easily have been described as a Dagenham ‘rough diamond’. He showed no interest in dancing, was shy with women despite his dark good looks, had few musical tastes and avoided arguments except when they involved football. He had, however, developed an enthusiasm for the movies, one that was to stay with him all his life and would cause much amusement to the players under his management. He saw his first film when he was fourteen, a jungle adventure with Amercian B-movie star Jack Holt in the leading role. Alf soon had acquired a particular fondness for westerns, which so often revolved around the theme of a tight-lipped heroic outsider triumphing over the natives, the bad guys or the corrupt authorities.

But his first love remained football. During the 1937-38 season, he was playing better than ever at centre-half with Five Elms United, as he recorded himself: ‘Since leaving school I had developed into quite a hefty lad, and in my heart I knew I had improved my football.’ His exploits in the Five Elms defence brought him to the attention of Portsmouth, one of the country’s senior League clubs. He and two other Five Elms players were approached by experienced scout Ned Liddell, who was for a time manager of Brentford, and asked if they might be interested in signing for Portsmouth as amateurs. Before this, claimed Alf, the thought of becoming a League player ‘had never entered my mind. After all, I was too modest to think I was anything much as a footballer. I just played the game for fun and the exercise that went with it.’

For a young man obsessed with the game, the chance to play at the highest level was a glittering prospect. But he hesitated for a moment. Apart from some natural uncertainty about his ability, Alf was also worried about the financial insecurity of life in League football. After all, hundreds of youths were taken on every year by the 88 League clubs but very few of them made a decent living. Alf already had a secure job in the Co-op store in Oxlow Lane near his home; by 1938 he had graduated from delivery boy to counter hand and bill collector, the latter a role which required a certain amount of toughness. ‘Going out to collect the bills occupied Monday morning as far as I was concerned. There were no embarrassing moments when collecting money. People either paid or they didn’t, but in the main they paid.’

But when Alf met Ned Liddell again, he was assured that there would be no problem about keeping his Co-op job if he signed as an amateur. Moreover, Alf’s family were not opposed to the idea. ‘Well, son, it’s up to you,’ said his mother. So Alf, now relishing the thought of joining a top club, filled in the forms and sent them off to Fratton Park, Portsmouth’s ground. He waited eagerly for a reply. None came: not a letter, a card, a telegram, a word from Ned Liddell. The weeks passed in silence until Alf gave up hope. ‘No one, it seemed, was interested in young Ramsey of Dagenham,’ he wrote later.

Portsmouth’s gross discourtesy was a seminal experience for Alf. It left him with a profound distrust of the men running football, the club directors and officials who treated players with such haughty contempt and undermined careers with barely a thought. He came to share the view of Harry Storer, the hard-nosed Derby County manager who once questioned the right of a certain director to be an FA selector. Having been told that this director had been watching the game for 50 years, Storer replied: ‘We’ve got a corner flag at the Baseball Ground. It’s been there for 50 years and still knows nothing about the game.’ As Stanley Matthews, who suffered from the administrators’ arrogance as much as anyone, ruefully commented: ‘Players were treated as second-class citizens. Football was a skill of the working class but those who ran our game were anything but.’ Portsmouth’s rudeness ensured that Alf, when he became a manager, never acted in such a cavalier manner; his concern for the well-being of professionals was one of the reasons he always inspired such loyalty.

Ignored by Portsmouth, Alf carried on working at the Oxlow Lane Co-op for the next two years, playing football in the winter, cricket in the summer. Nigel Clarke recalls:

I happened to mention to him one day that my son loved cricket. The next time we met at Liverpool Street station he turned up with a bat. It was a 1938 Gunn and Moore triple-spring, marked with the initials of his club, The General Co-operative Sports and Social Club. Alf said to me, ‘Make sure he uses it well. This one made plenty of runs for me.’

He also occasionally went with his brothers to League matches at Upton Park; the first ever match he saw was West Ham against Arsenal, during which he was particularly impressed with the Gunners’ deep-lying centre-forward and play-maker Alex James, ‘a chunky little fellow in long shorts’.

As with millions of other Britons, the quiet routine of Alf’s provincial life was shattered with the arrival of the Second World War. In June 1940, ten months after the outbreak of hostilities, Alf was called up for service in the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry and was despatched to a training unit in Truro. It is a reflection of the narrowness of Alf’s upbringing that he looked on his first journey to Cornwall with excitement rather than trepidation. Taking ‘so famous a train as the Cornish Riviera was in itself a memorable experience for me. As a matter of interest, until I travelled to Cornwall, the longest journey I had undertaken was a trip to Brighton by train,’ he wrote. The thrill continued when he arrived in Truro and was billeted in a top-class hotel, which had been commandeered by the army. ‘This proved another memorable moment for me. It was the first time I had ever been into a hotel! Even with us sleeping twelve to a room on straw mattresses could not end for me the awe of living in a swagger hotel.’

Throughout his life Alf frequently appeared to be a naïve, other-worldly character, oblivious to political considerations, and that was certainly true of his delight at his surroundings in Cornwall. At the very time Britain was engaged in a life-and-death struggle for its survival as a nation, Alf was writing to his parents about the joy of ‘living in a luxury hotel’. Yet that set the tone for Alf’s war. He was luckier than most soldiers, spending all his years of active service up to VE Day on home soil. Never did he have to endure any of the brutal theatres of conflict like North Africa, Italy or Normandy. Attached to the 6th battalion of his regiment, his duties were in home defence, ‘guarding facilities, manning road blocks, and preparing against German paratroop drops,’ says Roy Prince, the archivist of the Duke of Cornwall’s Regimental Association. In retrospect, it was not dangerous work, though it was demanding, as Alf recalled: ‘The physical training we were so frequently given added inches to my height, broadened my chest and in general I became a fitter young fellow than when I reported for duty as a grocery apprentice from Dagenham.’

Unlike so many whose lives were ruined by the genocidal conflict of the Second World War, Alf found military service almost wholly beneficial. It brought him out of his shell, and helped demonstrate his innate qualities of leadership. In 1952 he wrote:

I have since reflected that to join the Army was one of the greatest things which ever happened to me. From my, to some extent, sheltered life, I was pitchforked into the company of many older and more experienced men. I learnt, in a few weeks, more about life in general than I had picked up in years at home. The Army, in short, proved a wonderful education.

The aura of authority that Alf always possessed – which had seen him become captain of his school’s team at the age of just nine – led to his promotion to the rank of Quarter-Master Sergeant in an anti-aircraft unit. Nigel Clarke has this memory of talking to Alf about his army service:

He told me that he absolutely loved it and that his greatest times of all were down on the Helford River in Cornwall. It was in the army, he said to me, that he first really learned about discipline and about being in charge of people, taking command and giving orders. He used to say, ‘I have never been very good at mixing with people but you have to in the army or else you are in trouble.’

The greatest benefit of all was that it enabled Alf to play more football than he had ever done previously – and at a higher class. Within a few months of arriving in Cornwall, he had been transferred to help man the beach defences at St Austell; there he became part of the local battalion team, captaining the side and playing at either centre-half or centre-forward. He was then moved to various other camps along the south coast before reaching Barton Stacey in Hampshire in 1943, where he was fortunate to come under the benign influence of Colonel Fletcher, a football obsessive who had played for the Army. Because of the war, several League professionals were in Alf’s battalion side, including Len Townsend of Brentford and Cyril Hodges of Arsenal. Impressed by such strength, Southampton invited the battalion to visit the Dell for a preseason game on the 21 August 1943. The result was a disaster for Ramsey’s men, as they were thrashed 10-3. ‘The soldiers are a very useful battalion team but they had not the experience to withstand the more forceful play of the Saints,’ reported the Southern Daily Echo. It was Alf’s first experience of playing against top-flight players and he found it something of a shock. ‘At centre-half I was often bewildered by the speed of thought and movement shown by the professionals we opposed.’ Despite the depressing scoreline, Ramsey’s men had shown some promise, for a week later they were invited back to the Dell to play against Southampton Reserves. This time Sergeant Ramsey’s side provided much more effective opposition, winning 4-1.

Ramsey’s performances in these two games had aroused the interest of Southampton. More than a month later he was summoned to Colonel Fletcher’s office. Initially believing that he had committed some military office, Ramsey feared he was about to be reprimanded.

‘Sit down, Sergeant,’ said Colonel Fletcher when Ramsey arrived in his office. Alf was at once relieved, knowing that the Colonel would hardly have been so friendly if he was about to punish him. ‘I have just had a telephone call from Southampton Football Club,’ continued the Colonel. ‘Apparently they are short of a centre-half for their first team tomorrow and would like you to play for them. Well, Sergeant, how do you feel about the idea?’

Ever cautious and modest, Alf then muttered something about his ‘lack of experience’. Colonel Fletcher had little truck with such diffidence. ‘This is a big opportunity, Ramsey,’ he said, looking hard at the raven-haired sergeant. ‘I suppose you have at some time or another considered becoming a professional footballer.’ Alf, ignoring his abortive connection with Portsmouth, claimed untruthfully that he had ‘never given it a thought’. But he assured the Colonel that he was ‘prepared to give it a try’. Without another word, Fletcher was back on the phone to Southampton, reporting that Sergeant Ramsey was available for the match against Luton Town at Kenilworth Road. Alf admitted that, once he left the Colonel’s office, he ‘did a little tap-dance with delight. Even the orderly sitting behind a small desk forgot that I was a sergeant and joined in the laughter’.

Alf was instructed to report at Southampton Central railway station the following morning before the train journey to Bedfordshire. When he turned up that Saturday morning, 9 October 1943, he was met by the elderly, bespectacled secretary-manager of Southampton, Jack Sarjantson, a figure rare in the annals of League history for both the longevity and the range of service to his club. He had been appointed a Southampton director as early as 1914, had become club chairman in 1936, then resigned during the war to act as secretary-manager, before returning to the boardroom to serve as chairman and later vice-president in the 1950s. For all his advanced years, he was also something of a ladies’ man, who, in the words of the Southampton historian David Bull, ‘had a way of flirting with the young wives and girlfriends at the club’s social functions’.

After introducing Alf to the other Southampton players, Sarjantson then asked Alf about his expenses. According to his 1952 autobiography, Alf told his manager that his only claim was for his ‘twopenny halfpenny tram fare from my billet’. In response, Sarjantson ‘dived into pocket’ and pulled out the exact amount. But later, in 1970, Alf gave a much more convincing version, one that reflects the flexible attitude of clubs towards expenses in the days of the maximum wage:

I told Mr Sarjantson that since we were stationed in Southampton I did not have any expenses. He said, ‘Well, if I give you thirty bob is that enough to pay for your taxi fare?’ I said it was more than enough. It was the first time anyone had given me any money for playing.

Alf was equally flexible about his age. In his 1952 book he claimed that when he played against Luton, ‘I had just reached the age of twenty-two’. In fact, he was only three months away from his 24th birthday.

Having sorted out Alf’s expenses so generously, Sarjantson then produced a set of forms for him to sign as an amateur. After his last experience with Portsmouth, this time Alf was only too glad to know that his signature would definitely be followed by a match. ‘As the London-bound train swished through Eastleigh station, I signed for Southampton Football club,’ recorded Alf. On the train up to Luton, he sat beside the Saints inside-forward Ted Bates, later to be manager at the Dell, and who, like Alf, had been a grocery delivery boy in his teens and whose wife Mary was soon to become the first female assistant secretary in League football. ‘Throughout the journey, he told me what I could expect from football: the kind of teams we would be meeting and other little facts which meant a great deal to a new recruit,’ wrote Alf. His first appearance for the Saints was a tight match, one that left him disappointed with his own performance, which he felt was far below the standard of the rest of the side. Ten minutes from the end, Southampton were winning 2-1, when Alf gave away a penalty. ‘I remember tackling someone rather hard,’ he said in 1970. Luton scored from the spot and Alf sensed that ‘several of my colleagues were giving me black looks’. Fortunately Don Roper restored the lead for Southampton soon afterwards, so Alf’s first outing resulted in victory. And he had perhaps been too hard on himself: the view of the Southern Daily Echo was that ‘the defence as a whole functioned satisfactorily’.

They did far worse in their next game, when Southampton were beaten 7-1 by Queen’s Park Rangers in the League South, the makeshift wartime replacement for the Football League. ‘Ramsey at centre-half rarely countered the combined skill of the opposing centre-forwards,’ said the local press. But Sarjantson, with stretched wartime resources, did not drop the faltering defender immediately. Alf played three more League South games in that 1943-44 season before being posted with his battalion to County Durham. Despite his mixed fortunes, he had enjoyed his brief spell with the club. ‘What fascinated me was meeting the players, sitting with them, having lunch on the train, talking football. All very interesting. It left a great impression on me, and probably started my ambition to become a professional footballer,’ he wrote in 1970.

Yet Alf, with such limited experience, was still plagued by lack of belief in his own ability and worries about finance. It is striking that when he was stationed in Durham, he played little senior competitive football. He turned out for his battalion in one match at Roker Park against Sunderland, but failed to do enough to persuade Sunderland’s manager, Bill Murray, to invite him to play in any wartime games, even though the relaxed registration rules of the period allowed a soldier to guest for almost any club he wanted – one reason why the garrison town of Aldershot was packed with star servicemen like Tommy Lawton. And when Alf was posted back to Southampton at the beginning of the 1944-45 season and performed well in a trial match, he once more hesitated about becoming a professional after Sarjantson had offered him a contract with Southampton, earning £2 per match. Alf was never one to make swift decisions. He told Sarjantson, with a touch of boldness that masked his inner doubts: ‘Although I’ve played in professional football as an amateur, I know practically nothing about it. And what if I don’t like the club?’ Sarjantson replied that if Alf wanted to leave the club at the end of the season, Southampton would not stand in his way. Having received that assurance, Alf agreed to sign. He was finally a professional footballer

Just before the start of the 1944-45 season, Alf picked up an injury, playing for his battalion against – ironically – Southampton. It was therefore not until Christmas that he had his first game as a professional. And it could have hardly been a bigger fixture, as Arsenal took on Southampton at White Hart Lane, Highbury having been badly bombed. Facing the legendary centre-forward Ted Drake, Alf had the best game of his career to date. He admitted he was a ‘little overawed’ at the start, but, according to the Southern Daily Echo, ‘Ramsey, stocky and perhaps an inch shorter than Drake, did much that pleased, although the Arsenal leader scored two goals.’ Ramsey, for the first time, had proved that he could make it at the highest level; his confidence soared as a result. And it went up even further when, as a result of injuries to other players, he was switched from centre-half to inside-left. When Southampton beat Luton 12-3 in March 1945, the second highest score in the club’s history, Alf scored four times, with the Echo commenting that ‘he can certainly hammer a ball’.

Altogether Alf made 11 League South appearances that season. At its close, Sarjantson asked him to sign again for the club. Alf agreed to do so, but 1945-46 turned out to be a frustrating season, as he made little real advance on the previous year. He played just 13 of the 42 League South matches, and was frequently asked to play up front as centre-forward, not his favourite position because of his lack of speed. ‘I was nothing else than a stop-gap and was happier playing at centre-half. ’ But his natural football ability shone through wherever he played, in the front line or in defence. He scored a hat-trick in a 6-2 win over Newport and was lethal in two successive games against Plymouth. The writer and Southampton fan Bob Holley has left this account of Ramsey as a dashing striker, scoring twice in a 5-5 draw at the Dell in August 1945, delighting Saints fans in the painful aftermath of the war:

It is difficult now to picture how drab everything was in the summer of 1945, the bombsites, the shortages, clothes ‘on points’ and food rationing still in force, and how deprived we all felt of professional sport. Small wonder that, in the first post-war season, so many fans crammed through the turnstiles each Saturday despite the fact that there were only two makeshift Leagues – the pre-war First and Second Division clubs divided geographically, north and south.

Turning to the game against Plymouth, he wrote that it

left us breathless and excited and not particularly bothered that we had dropped a point. Their centre-forward scored a hat-trick. Our centre-forward, however, had bagged two. He was a tearaway sort of player, shirt sleeves flapping, hair all over the place, not particularly skilful as I remember but able to ‘put himself about’ as centre-forwards were expected to do in those days. His name? Ramsey, Alf Ramsey – or ‘Ramsay’ as the programme for this game, and indeed many thereafter incorrectly put it.

The biggest cause of frustration, however, was not programme misspellings or positional changes, but the fact that in December 1945, when most of Britain was trying to return to peacetime normality, Sergeant Ramsey was shipped off to Palestine by the War Office. He was there for six months, and once again his gift for football leadership quickly emerged, as he was asked to captain a Palestine Services XI, a team which contained such distinguished players as Arthur Rowley, who scored more goals in League football than any other player, and Jimmy Mason, the brilliant Scottish inside-right. On his return home in June 1946, Alf found a letter from the new Southampton manager, Bill Dodgin, the former Saints captain who had taken over from Sarjantson at the end of the war. Dodgin told Ramsey that he wanted to meet to discuss the terms of a new contact. At the same time, the Dagenham Co-op were offering Alf a return to his old job behind the counter. It may now seem absurd that Alf could have even been tempted by this latter offer, yet, as he admitted himself, a sense of vulnerability ran through his blood. ‘What folk forget to mention,’ he told his mother, ‘are the failures. Football is not as easy as some would have you think. Anyway, I’m not convinced that I am good enough to earn my living at the game.’

Alf agreed to meet Dodgin in a sandwich bar at Waterloo, just the sort of mundane venue with which he was most comfortable throughout his life. Dodgin told Ramsey that they were prepared to pay him the weekly sum of £4 in the summer, £6 in the season, and £7 if he got into the League. With his characteristic mix of self-confidence and wariness, Alf told the Southampton manager that the offer was not good enough. ‘I wanted to start a career in football – but not on £4 a week,’ he explained later. It is a measure of Alf’s importance to the club that his strategy worked. He was invited down to the Dell and offered enhanced terms: £6 in the summer, £7 in winter and £8 if he got into the League side. This time he accepted.

But immediately after he signed, his concerns about money again came to the surface. Because in the summer of 1946 he was still officially in the armed forces, awaiting demobilization, Alf did not receive the £10 signing-on fee to which professionals would normally be entitled in peacetime. In his 1952 book, Talking Football, Alf claimed, ‘That did not matter.’ The reality was very different. Alf was actually furious at missing out on his £10. Mary Bates, who had taken up her position as Southampton’s Assistant Secretary in August 1945 after working for the Labour Party in Clement Attlee’s landslide general election victory, has this recollection:

£10 was quite a lot at that time. And this day he came to sign as a professional. When he arrived in the office he was in his infantry gear.

‘What are you doing in your uniform?’

‘I haven’t quite left the army yet.’

‘Well, until you do, I can’t pay your signing on fee. You’ll have to wait until you’re demobbed before I can officially sign you on. Those are my instructions.’

He nearly went beserk at those words. He was so upset. He had obviously been expecting the money. It was very unlike Alf, who was normally so calm. He was usually very nice, gentlemanly. But he did almost lose his temper on this occasion. He was usually very pleasant, but he was not very pleasant about losing his £10.

After seven years of disruption, the Football League officially resumed in August 1946. But, after all the drawn-out negotiations over Alf’s contract, it was hardly a glorious return to professional football for him. Still unclear about his correct position, he began the season in the reserves. In the autumn, however, coach Bill Dodgin and trainer Syd Cann made a crucial move, one that was to completely change Alf’s playing career. Sensing that Alf was uncomfortable at both centre-forward and centre-half, they suggested that he moved to right-back. It was exactly the right place for Alf, one that exploited his ability to read the game, to judge the correct moment for intervention and to make the telling pass.

Though he had been a fine footballer in his youth, he had never been blessed with the sort of exceptional natural talent which defines true greatness. After all, he had never fulfilled his ambition to play for London Schoolboys; nor had any League club shown any serious interest in him before the war; and his performances with Southampton since 1943 had been inconsistent. His prowess on the field had lain more in his mental strengths: his coolness under pressure, the respect from other players and his gift of anticipation. Now, with a characteristic spirit of determination, Alf set about moulding himself for his new role at full-back. He sought to improve his technique with long hours of practice on the training ground, working particularly on the accuracy and power of his kicks. He raised his fitness levels, not just by training in the gym, but also by taking long walks through the Southampton countryside. Above all, he strove to develop a new tactical awareness. Fortunately for Alf, the trainer at Southampton, Syd Cann, had been a full-back with Torquay United, Manchester City and Charlton, and was therefore able to pass on the lessons of his experience through practice sessions and numerous talks over a replica-scale pitch – measuring one inch to the yard – in the dressing-room at the Dell. The master and pupil developed a close relationship, as Cann later recalled in a BBC interview:

My first memories of Alf were as a centre-forward. He played several times there in the reserves, not too successfully, and I felt that perhaps he had better qualities to play as a full-back. And after discussions with the manager Bill Dodgin, we decided to try him in this position. We spent a lot of time in discussions, Alf and I. He was a very keen student. He wanted to learn about the game from top to bottom. We had a football field painted on the floor of the dressing-room at Southampton and Alf came back regularly in the afternoons, spending hours discussing techniques and tactics. I have never known anyone with the same sort of application, with the same quickness of learning as Alf Ramsey. He would never accept anything on its face value. He had to argue about it and make up his own mind. And once he had made up his mind that this was right, it was put into his game immediately. I spent hours on the weaknesses and strengths of his play. He accepted, for instance, that he was inclined to be weak on the turn on and in recovery. So we worked on that so he became quicker in recovery. Very rarely was he caught out. He was the type of player who was a manager’s dream because you could talk about a decision and he would accept it and there it was, in his game.

Ramsey’s diligence soon had its reward. On 26 October 1946 Alf was selected for Southampton’s Division Two game at home to Plymouth, after the regular right-back Bill Ellerington had picked up an injury. Eight years after that fruitless approach from Portsmouth, Ramsey was finally about to play League football, and he was understandably nervous. When Saturday afternoon arrived, however, he was helped by the reassuring words of his fellow full-back and Saints captain Bill Rochford: ‘You’re not to worry out there. That’s my job. It’s another of my jobs to put you right, so always look to me for any guidance.’ That encouragement was very different to the ridicule often accorded to debutants. But then Rochford was very different to the cynical old pro more worried about his own place than the fortunes of the side. Uncompromising, passionate, selfless, he was hugely admired by his fellow Southampton players. ‘He was the Rock of Gibraltar,’ says Eric Day. Bill Ellerington, Alf’s rival for the right-back position, reflects:

Bill Rochford was my mentor. We called him Rocky. He was a good captain. It’s easy to be a good captain when you’re winning. But when the chips were down, Bill was great at keeping us going. He could tear you off a few strips. Once against Bradford we were winning 3-0 with only about ten minutes to go and I flicked the ball nonchalantly back to the keeper and it went out for a corner. 3-1. Then they had a free kick. 3-2. We managed to win with that score but afterwards Bill tore me to shreds for being casual. He was right.

Rochford’s guidance helped Alf through his first game, as Southampton won easily. ‘Steady Alf, I’m just behind you,’ the captain would shout during the game. But Alf quickly recognized how deep was the gulf between the League and the type of soccer he had previously experienced. Alf wrote in Talking Football:

It dawned on me how little about football I know. Everybody on the field moved – and above all else thought – considerably quicker than did I. Their reactions to moves were so speedy they had completed a pass, for instance, while I was still thinking things over.

After one more game in the first team, Alf was sent back to the reserves once Bill Ellerington had recovered.

It was inevitable that Alf should find it a struggle at first to cope. The only answer was yet more practice, learning to develop a new mastery of the ball and a more sophisticated approach. Again, he was indebted to the influence of his captain Bill Rochford:

Playing alongside him made me realize that there was considerably more to defending than just punting the ball clear, as had become my custom. During a match I made a mental note of how Rocky used the ball; the manner in which he tried to find a colleague with his clearances; the confidence he always displayed when kicking the ball at varied heights and angles.

The great difficulty for Alf was that, no matter how much he improved his game, his path back to the first team was blocked by Bill Ellerington, who was one of the best full-backs in the country and would, like Alf, win England honours in that position. ‘Bill was a great tackler and a terrific kicker of the ball. He could kick from one corner flag to the opposite corner, diagonally, a good one hundred yards – and that was with one of those big heavy old balls,’ says Ted Ballard, another Southampton defender of the era.

Alf managed to play a few more first-team games that year but his big break game in January 1947, in rather unfortunate circumstances for Bill Ellerington. That winter was the bitterest of the 20th century. Week upon week of heavy snow hampered industry, disrupted public transport and so seriously threatened coal supplies that the Attlee government was plunged into crisis. More than two million men were put out of work because of the freeze, while severe restrictions were placed on the use of newsprint. Football, too, was in crisis. In the Arctic conditions, 140 matches had to be postponed. In the games that went ahead, the lines on the icy pitches often had to be marked in red to make them clear. Such was the public frustration at the lack of football that when Portsmouth managed to melt the snow at Fratton Park using a revolutionary steam jet, the club was rewarded with a crowd of 11,500 for a reserve fixture.

The freeze also had a direct effect on Alf’s career. Towards the end of January, Southampton went to the north-east resort of Whitley Bay, in preparation for a third-round FA Cup tie against Newcastle. Alf, as so often at this time, was a travelling reserve. One afternoon, the senior players went out golfing. In the cold weather, most of them wore thick polo-neck jerseys – except Bill Ellerington, who braved the course in an open-neck pullover. That night ‘Big Ellie’ felt terrible; he woke up the next morning wringing wet. He was rushed to hospital, where he was quickly diagnosed to be suffering from pneumonia. ‘I completely collapsed and ended up in hospital for three months. I did not come out until April,’ says Ellerington. One man’s tragedy is another’s opportunity. Alf was drafted into the side against Newcastle, and he showed more confidence than he had previously displayed, though he was troubled by Newcastle’s left-winger, Tommy Pearson, as the Saints lost 3-1 in front of a crowd of 55,800, by far the largest Alf had ever experienced.

With Ellerington incapacitated, Alf was guaranteed a good run in the side, and he kept his place for the rest of the season, growing ever more assured with each game. In February 1947 the Daily Mirror predicted that ‘only a few weeks after entering the big time, Alfred Ramsey is being talked of as one of the coming men of football’. The paper went on to quote coach Bill Dodgin, who paid tribute to Alf’s dedication: ‘You can’t better that type of player. The player who thinks football, talks football and lives football is the man who makes good.’

One particularly important match for Alf took place at the Dell in April against Manchester City, when he had the chance to witness at first hand City’s veteran international full-back Sam Barkas, who, at the age of 38, was playing his last season. Ramsey was immediately captivated by the skills of Barkas and decided to make him his role model. ‘It was the most skilful display by any full-back I had seen,’ he told the Evening News in 1953. ‘The brilliance of Barkas’ positional play, his habit of making the other fellow play how he wanted him to play, all caught my eye. What impressed me most of all was Sam Barkas’ astute use of the ball. Every time he cleared his lines he found an unmarked colleague,’ he wrote later.

Exactly the same attributes were to feature in Ramsey’s play over the next eight years; one of Alf’s greatest virtues was his ability to absorb the lessons of any experience. In his quest for perfection, he was constantly watching and learning, experimenting and practising. As Ted Bates put it in an interview in 1970:

Alf was very single-minded. He would come to the ground for training and he wanted to get on with it – no messing about. I believe he was a bit immature then but you could not dispute his single-mindedness. He sole interest was in developing his own game. He was the original self-educated player – all credit to him for that. But he always had this polish – it is the only word – and it made him stand out in any team.

Alf’s soccer intelligence, allied to a phenomenal dedication to his craft and an unruffled temperament, made him a far more effective player than his innate talent warranted. Eric Day says:

He had a very, very good football brain. If he hadn’t, he would not have played where he did, because he was not the most nimble of players. Not particularly brilliant in the air, because he did not have the stature to jump up. But he was a decent tackler and a great passer. He could read the game so well, that was his big asset. That was why he became such a great manager.

Ted Ballard has the same assessment:

He was a great player, a super player. He was a quiet man, very strict on himself, very sober and trained hard. The only thing he lacked was pace; he could be a bit slow on the turn because he was built so heavily round the hip. But he made up for it with the way he read the game so well.

Stan Clements, who played at centre-half and was himself a shrewd judge of the game, told me:

He was two-footed. You would not have known the difference between one foot and the other. He was a tremendously accurate passer. When he kicked the ball, it went right to the other player’s foot. All the forwards in front of him always said that when Alf gave them the ball, it was easy to collect. They liked that because they could pick it up in their stride. His judgement of distance, his sense of timing was just right. The point about Alf was that he was so cool. One of the remarkable things about him was that at free-kicks and corners, when the goalmouth was crowded, he seemed to have the ability almost to be a second keeper on the goal-line. He seemed always to be able to read exactly what was going on. His anticipation was superb. He was always in the right position to chest the ball down and clear it. He must have saved us at least a goal every other game. He understood football better than most people. I always knew he would make a good manager, because of his ability to size up the game. Bill Dodgin and Syd Cann, the trainer, used to have this layout on the floor of our dressing-room, with counters for the players. And they would use this to analyse our tactics, especially in set-pieces. Alf was always very good at understanding all that; he would take it all on board quickly.

Alf was so dedicated that, even at the end of the 1946-47 season, when he returned to Dagenham, he carried on practising in the meadows behind his parents’ cottage: ‘I used to take a football every morning during those months of 1947 and spend an hour or two trying hard to “place it” at a chosen spot.’ Alf knew that only by developing his accuracy would he be successful in adopting the Sam Barkas style of constructive defence. The hard work paid off, and Alf did not miss a single game during the 1947-48 season; indeed, he was the only Southampton player to appear in all 42 League fixtures. Such was the strength of Ramsey’s performances that Bill Ellerington, who had gradually recovered from his illness, could not force his way back into the side, though, as he told me, that did not lead to any personal resentment:

I was working hard to get back. I am not being heroic but it was either that or packing the game in. But Alf was playing really well. He was a good reader of the game, a good player of the ball in front of him. A bit slow on the turn but he was made that way. On tackling, he knew when to go in and not to go in. And he made more good passes than most players. He was always cool. There was no personal rivalry between us. I never even dreamed about animosity or anything like that. We were just footballers. Mind you, looking back, Alf was ambitious. He was a hard lad to get to know. He was not stand-offish, but you could never get at him. He was not one of the boys. We travelled everywhere by train in those days, and I was part of a card school, but Alf did not join in. He never got in trouble, because he was not interested.

As Bill Ellerington indicates, Alf’s personality did not change much once he became a successful professional. He remained undemonstrative, reserved, unwilling to mix easily. ‘He would not go out of his way to talk to anybody,’ recalled Ted Bates, ‘but if you wanted his advice, he’d give it. When we played, early on, I roomed with him, and he was always the same, very quiet, getting on with his job.’ Eric Day, the Southampton right-winger, used frequently to catch the train from Southampton to London because his parents lived in Ilford:

I saw him a lot but there was never much conversation. I am not a great talker and Alf certainly wasn’t one. Whenever we chatted, it was only ever about football. He could be a bit short with people, though he was never rude. Alf didn’t suffer fools gladly, I’ll tell you that. He was a bit secretive; he just didn’t chat. Maybe that’s because he was a gypsy. Gypsies are extremely close-knit; they keep it in the family. You never heard him shouting, not on the field or in the dressing-room or on the train. If he had any strong feelings about anyone, he just kept them to himself. He was a very honest bloke. He did not like talking about people behind their backs. You never heard him tear anyone to shreds. He was very modest. There was nothing of the star about him.

The Southampton goalkeeper of the time, Ian Black, highlights similar traits:

Once he had finished training, you seldom saw him. That is fair enough. People are made in different ways. But it did not make him any the less likeable. I think he had quite a shy nature; he was friendly enough but he did not like much involvement with others. Though he would talk plenty about the game, he was not much of a conversationalist otherwise.

Throughout his time at Southampton, Ramsey lived in digs owned by the club, which he shared with Alf Freeman, one of the Saints’ forwards. The two Alfs had served together in the Duke of Cornwall’s Regiment, though Freeman had seen action in France and Germany in 1944-45. Now in his mid-eighties and with his powers of communication in decline, Freeman still retains fond memories of living with Alf:

We had good times together in the army. We were pretty close then. In our Southampton digs, we were looked after well by our landlady. Alf was a lovely man but he was very, very quiet. He was shy and never talked much. Unlike most of us players, he did not smoke or drink much. He always dressed smartly. He liked the cinema, and also did a lot of reading, mainly detective stories.

The late Joe Mallet, who was one of Southampton’s forwards, told Alf’s previous biographer in a powerfully worded statement that Ramsey and Freeman had fallen out:

They were close but they had a disagreement and though they lived together Alf would never speak to Freeman. If you got on the wrong side of Alf, that was it, you were out! You couldn’t talk him around; he would be very adamant. If he didn’t like somebody or something, he didn’t like them. There were no half measures! He was a man you could get so far with, so close to, and then there was a gap, he’d draw the curtain and you had to stop. I don’t think he liked any intrusion into his private life. Alf wouldn’t tolerate anything like that. He’d be abusive rather than put up with it.

But today Freeman has no recollection of any such dispute: ‘There was never any trouble between us. I don’t know where Joe Mallet got that stuff about a disagreement. That just wasn’t true. I always got on well with Alf. He was a good man to me. I liked him very much.’

Pat Millward came to know Ramsey better than most through Alf’s friendship with her husband Doug, who played for both the Saints and Ipswich. Though she recognizes that Alf’s diffidence could come across as offensive, she personally was a great admirer:

People used to think that Alf was difficult because he did not have a lot to say. He would just answer a question and then walk away. A lot of people did not like him. They thought he was too quiet, too pleased with himself. ‘He fancies himself, doesn’t he? Who does he think he is?’ they would say, without really knowing him. But I loved him. He was just the opposite of what some people thought. He was down-to-earth, never bragged, never put on airs, never went for the cheers. And he was such a gentleman, always polite and well-mannered. I remember I was working in the restaurant of a department store in Southampton, and the store had laid on an event for the players, where they were all to receive wallets, and their wives handbags. The gifts were set out on two stands and the players could take their choice. Alf was among the first to arrive. But he held back until all the rest of them had taken what they wanted.

‘Shouldn’t you get your wallet?’ I asked.

‘No, Pat, it’s fine. Let the others get theirs.’

He was a special man. Doug thought the world of him. He was never a joker, but if he liked you, he showed it. On the other hand, if he didn’t like you, he had a way of ignoring you.

Revelling in professional success, Alf was more fixated with soccer than ever. But he still enjoyed some of the other pursuits of his youth, like greyhound racing and cricket. Bill Ellerington recalls:

We would often go to the dog track near the Dell on Wednesday evenings and Alf would come with us. Looking back, he was a very good gambler. There would be six races, six dogs each, and Alf would just go for one dog. Whatever the result, win or lose, he finished. He was not like most of the boys, chasing their money. He was very shrewd. At the time, I just accepted it, but looking back, it showed how clever he was. I always felt there was a bit of the gambler about him, even when he was England manager in the 1966 World Cup. He had this tremendous, quiet self-confidence about him.

Stan Clements also remembers Alf’s enthusiasm for the dogs, but feels that Alf’s lack of social skills has been exaggerated:

Alf was a nice fella once you knew him, easy to get on with. He had worked for the Co-op and was good with figures. His family were involved in racing greyhounds, in fact some of them used to live on that, so he knew about gambling. At that time in the late 1940s, dog-racing was extremely popular; it was a cheap form of entertainment for the working-class. Alf would usually go to the dogs on a Wednesday with Alf Freeman. He was also good on the horses. He was very quick at working out the odds. He was not tight with his money, or anything like that. He was quite prepared to open his wallet. He was a cool gambler; you never saw him get excited. He would put his bets on in a controlled manner. He would assess the situation. He could lose without it affecting him. In everything he did, he was never over-the-top. He always had control of himself. He enjoyed a drink, but he was not a six pints man.

Speedway racing was another interest of Alf’s and he would regularly visit the local track at Bannister Court near the Dell. He became good friends with the local racer Alf Kaines, and he persuaded Southampton FC to allow Kaines to join the players sometimes for physical training during the week. Stan Clements also remembers that Alf displayed an innate sense of co-ordination in every sport:

He was the sort of individual who was always good with the round ball. Some of us began to play golf. We had a little competition and the one who made the lowest score got a set of clubs. And who won? Alf, of course. When we were playing snooker, he was very controlled, so he did not miss many shots. The same was true of his cricket. We were once playing a match in Portsmouth and the opposition had a couple of good bowlers who were attached to Sussex. Our team was put together at the last minute, just from those who wanted to play – and Alf was not one of them. But all of us went down to the match, some of us, like Alf, just as spectators. Soon the opposition were running through us like anything. Then Alf Freeman told us that Alf had been a good cricketer in the army, so he suggested that Alf go in. Alf was a bit reluctant, as he was wearing a navy blue suit at the time. But we persuaded him to don his pads over his dark trousers. So he went out to bat like that. And immediately he stopped the rot, scoring a half century. It was not wild stuff, but controlled, sensible hitting. Nothing silly but he played all the shots.

A couple of beers, a day at the cricket, a night at the dog track, these were the main forms of entertainment for the footballers of the late 1940s, just as they were for most of the working class. In contrast to the multi-millionaires of today’s Premiership, most professionals then remained close to the ordinary public in terms of earnings and lifestyle. None of the Southampton players, including Alf, owned a car, while most of them lived in rented accommodation. Almost all their travel was undertaken by rail and if they had to change trains in London, they took the tube, with their kit following in a taxi. Their official wages were not that far divorced from those of clerical staff. The average pay in the League in 1948 was just £8 a week and the maximum wage was set at £12, despite the fact that the clubs and the FA were enjoying record-breaking attendances. That year, 99,500 people paid £391,000 to see England play Scotland at Wembley, yet the 22 players involved received just £20 each, their payments amounting to little more than 1 per cent of the total gate. Even worse, they were punitively taxed on their earnings by the Labour government, so they actually received only £11 in their pockets. Looking back, former Saints winger Eric Day comments:

It was not a very glamorous life. I was paid £6 a week in the winter, £4 in the summer, £2 for a win and £1 for a draw. Plus the club charged me 30 bob a week for rent. So I did not have much left over. Certainly I could not have dreamt of having a car. But I felt I was lucky. I had been in the forces for six years, and to come out as a free man, and then to be paid for playing football was something beyond my imagination.

Goalkeeper Ian Black shares the same view about the effect of the war:

The wages were decent compared to manual work. I think footballers of my generation were more concerned about conducting themselves properly. Most of us had been in the forces, not the best times of our lives, and I suppose coming from that environment created a deep impression. Many of us just felt lucky to be playing football and did not want to spoil it.

Apart from the dismal financial rewards, the other drawback that the players of Alf’s generation had to contend with was the poor equipment and facilities. The bleak, down-at-heel atmosphere of post-war Britain extended all too depressingly to football. Training kit was poor, pitches were a mud-heap – when they were not frozen – and the cumbersome boots were more fit for a spell in the trenches. The classic English soccer footwear remained the ‘Mansfield Hotspur’, which had first been designed in the 1920s and made a virtue of its solidity, with its reinforced toe and protection for two inches above the ankle. The two main types of ball, the Tugite and the Tomlinson T, were equally robust. Both tended to absorb mud and moisture, becoming steadily heavier and larger as a match progressed. As goalkeeper Ian Black recalls: ‘There was not much smacking in the ball from a distance then. When it was wet, if you managed to reach the half-way line, it was an exceptional kick.’ Bill Ellerington says:

The ball was so heavy in those days. Beckham could not have bent it on a cold, damp February night. The ball used to swell right up during a game. If you did not hit it right, you’d have thought you’d broken your ankle. If you headed the ball where the lace was, you felt you’d been scalped. You had to catch it right. Our shin pads were made of cane and the socks of wool so they got heavy in the damp. The facilities were terrible at the Dell. We had a great big plunge bath and just one or two showers. In February, when the pitches were thick with mud, the first in got the clean water. At the end, the water was like brown soup. On a cold winter’s day, the steam from the bath would make the walls drip with condensation. You did not know where to put your clothes. If you had a raincoat, you would place it first on the hook so your clothes did not get wet. But you just accepted it.

But this was the environment in which Alf was now proving himself. By early 1948 he was in the middle of a run of 91 consecutive League games for Southampton, and was winning increasing acclaim from the press. After a match against West Bromwich Albion, in which he twice saved on the goal-line, he was described in the Southern Daily Echo as ‘strong, incisive, resourceful’. The team were pushing for promotion and also enjoyed a strong FA Cup run which carried them through to the quarter-finals before they were beaten 1-0 at home by Spurs on 28 February. The Echo wrote of Alf’s performance in this defeat:

Alf Ramsey is playing so well that he is consistently building up a reputation which should bring some soccer honour to him. He certainly impressed highly in this game and is steadily and intelligently profiting under the experienced guidance of partner and captain Bill Rochford.

Of Alf’s burgeoning influence, Ian Black says:

The spirit of our side was first class and my relationship on the field with Alf was very good. He was such a great reader of the game. He always seemed to know what was going to happen next. He lacked a bit of pace but he made up for it with his wonderful positional sense. He was a first-class tackler because he had such a good sense of timing. He never went diving in recklessly. He was never a dirty player. He hated anything like that. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle him. He was always very smart, conducted himself impeccably. Unlike some players, he was never superstitious. He never caused upsets or became aggressive. He was very confident of his own ability, which is half the battle in football. Alf had a natural authority about him. His approach, his knowledge of the game would influence players. So it was no surprise to me that players responded to him when he was a manager. He was the boss; they would understand that. There was no messing about with him, even when he was a player. I don’t mean that he was difficult, but he was able to impose his views and because they were often so right, he was all the more respected.

At the end of the 1947-48 season, the Football Echo described Alf as Southampton’s ‘most improved player’. Though Southampton had failed to win promotion, as they finished behind Birmingham City and Newcastle, the sterling qualities of Alf attracted the interest of the national selectors. In May, Alf received a letter from Lancaster Gate informing him that the FA were ‘considering’ him for the forthcoming close-season tour of Italy and Switzerland. Then a few days later, as he sat in his digs listening to the six o’clock news on the BBC Home Service, he heard to his joy that his place in the sixteen-strong party had been confirmed. Alf was rightly thrilled at this elevation; ‘I could not believe my good fortune,’ he wrote later, and for the first time in his life he was the focus of intense national media interest, with photographers and reporters turning up at the Dell to cover the story of the delivery boy made good. ‘While his choice as the sixteenth member of the party will occasionally surprise in many quarters, Ramsey nevertheless deserves the honour. He has had only one full season in League soccer and has made such rapid progress that the selectors have watched him several times,’ reported the News Chronicle.

He came down to earth when he reported for duty at the Great Western Hotel in Paddington, prior to England’s departure for the continent. To his surprise, on his arrival at the hotel, he was completely ignored, not just by a succession of England players like Billy Wright, Tommy Lawton and Frank Swift, but also by the England management. ‘For a very long time, in fact, I sat in that lounge waiting for something to happen.’ Eventually he went up to the trainer, Jimmy Trotter, to introduce himself. Even then, Trotter did not recognize Ramsey and it took him a few moments before he grasped who Alf was. The humiliating experience, reflective of the shambolic way England was run before the 1960s, taught Ramsey an invaluable lesson. When he became national manager, he made sure that he personally greeted every new entrant to his team, as Alan Mullery recalls:

My first meeting was with Alf in 1964 when I turned up at the England hotel in London. It was a very nice introduction. He came straight up to me, shook my hand and said, ‘Welcome to the England squad. Make yourself at home.’ He did it extremely well. From the first moment, I found his man-management superb.

The next day, Alf travelled with the England party to Heathrow Airport, which had opened less than two years earlier and was still using a tent for one of its terminal buildings. It was the first time Alf had been near an airfield, never mind an aeroplane, and he was initially an anxious passenger as the 44-seat DC-4 Skymaster took off. But as the plane flew over the Alps on its way to Geneva, Alf forgot his nerves and admired the breathtaking views of the snow-capped mountains. At Geneva, the England party was transferred to a pair of DC-3 Dakotas, before flying on to Milan, whose airport was too small to accommodate the Skymaster. From Milan, the squad was then taken to the lakeside resort of Stresa, prior to their game against Italy at Turin. It was a world away from the austerity of post-war Dagenham and Southampton, and Alf found it a shock to see ‘the apparently well-fed and beautifully clothed people’ of northern Italy. The Italian football manager, Vittorio Pozzo, appeared to understand the severity of food-rationing in Britain, for when he greeted the England team to the Grand Hotel in Stresa, he gave every member a small sack of rice. What today might seem an offensive present was only too eagerly accepted by each player, for, as Alf put it, ‘in those days rice was almost as valuable as gold’. Later in the trip, he was given a trilby hat, an alarm clock and two bottles of Vermouth as gifts, which he handed to his mother on his return to Dagenham.

Given his limited experience, Alf never expected to be in the full England team for the game at Turin. It was, thought Tom Finney, ‘the best England side I played with’. And this was to be one of England’s finest post-war victories, winning 4-0 thanks largely to some superb goal-keeping by Frank Swift and two goals from Finney. What interested Alf most, watching on the sidelines, was that because of the England team’s fitness, their players lasted the pace much better than the Italians. It was something he would remember when it came to 1966.

The England team then travelled to Locarno, where they stayed in another luxurious hotel and enjoyed a full banquet on the evening of their arrival. Again, Alf could not help but be struck by the contrast with the drabness of life in Britain. Amidst all this splendour, Alf had another cause for celebration: he was picked to play his first representative game for his country, turning out for the B side against Switzerland. The result was an easy 5-1 win. Alf himself felt that he had ‘played fairly well’, while the Southern Daily Echo announced that he had ‘pleased all the critics’. When the England squad arrived back in London, most of the players returned to their homes. But Alf Ramsey had another, far more arduous journey ahead of him. For Southampton FC had agreed to undertake a tour of Brazil at the end of the 1947-48 season, the trip having been promoted by the strong links between the City Council and the Brazilian consulate in Southampton.

The rest of the squad travelled out to Rio aboard the cruise liner The Andes, on which they were treated like princes. All the petty restrictions of rationing were abandoned, like the weekly allowances of just 13 ounces of meat, one and half ounces of cheese, two pints of milk and one egg. ‘We had food like you never saw on the mainland. We had five- or six-course meals laid in front of us. And the training on board was pathetic, just running around the deck, so by the time we arrived we were hardly in peak condition,’ says Eric Day. ‘We could eat all we wanted. A lot of us put on half a stone in ten days,’ remembers Ted Ballard.

Alf did not have it nearly so easy. With the Southampton tour well under way in Brazil by the time he returned from England duty, he had to fly out on a circuitous route to Rio via Lisbon, Dakar and Natal in South Africa. When he arrived at Rio, no one had arranged to meet him and, without any local currency or a word of Portuguese, he spent two hours wandering around the airport looking for assistance, before an official from the local Botafogo club – which had helped to arrange the tour – finally arranged to have him flown on to Sao Paulo, where the Southampton team was currently based. It was hardly the smoothest of introductions to Latin America, and subsequently Alf was never to feel at ease in the culture. His presence, however, was badly needed by Southampton, who had been overwhelmed by the Brazilians and had lost all four of their opening games on the tour. ‘The skill of the Brazilian players really opened our eyes. We had never seen anything like that. The way some of them played shook us,’ says Ian Black. The Brazilians’ equipment also appeared to be light years ahead: ‘They laughed at our big boots because they had such lightweight ones, almost like slippers,’ remembers Bill Ellerington.

It is a tribute to Alf’s influence on the team that, almost as soon as he arrived, both the morale and the results began to pick up. ‘When Alf came out there, he made a big difference. We were all down, because getting beaten on tour is no fun. Alf was great on encouragement, at getting us going. He was a terrific motivator, an amazing bloke,’ argues Ted Ballard. Alf’s influence lay not just on the motivational side; he also helped to devise a tactical plan to cope with the marauding Brazilian defenders, who, in contrast to the more rigid English formation, played almost like wingers. Alf felt that the spaces that they left behind, as they advanced up the field, could be exploited by playing long diagonal balls from the deep into the path of Eric Day, the outside-right. It was a version of a system he would use with dramatic effect a decade later with Ipswich.

Assisted by Alf’s cool presence, Southampton won their next game 2-1 against the crack side Corinthians in Sao Paulo. But, in the face of victory, the behaviour of the crowd – and one of the Corinthian players – fed Alf’s nascent xenophobia. At one stage, after a black Corinthian player had been sent off for a brutal assault on Eric Day, the crowd erupted. Fireworks were let off. Angry chanting filled the stadium. Then, as Alf later recorded, ‘just when I thought things had quietened down, some wild-eyed negroes climbed over the wire fencing surrounding the pitch and things again looked dangerous’. A minor riot was only avoided by the intervention of the military police. The banquet with the Corinthians was just as awkward for Alf, as he had to sit beside the player who had been sent off. The event, said Alf in 1952, was

among the most embarrassing I have ever attended. I tried to speak to him and in return received only a fixed glare. Even when my colleagues tried to be pleasant with him all they received for their trouble was the same glare. There was something hypnotic in the way this negro stared at us. He certainly ranks as the most unpleasant man I’ve ever met on or off the football field.

The Southampton team then went on to Rio, where again they won, with Alf captaining the side for the first time when Bill Rochford was rested. They were installed in the Luxor hotel overlooking Copacabana beach, but their stringent training regime prevented them enjoying too much of the local life. ‘Brazil had the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life,’ says Bill Ellerington. ‘They used to parade up and down the beach, though they always had one or two elderly women with them. And by the time we finished playing and training, we were too tired to think about anything like that.’ The last two games of the tour ended in a draw and a defeat, before the players took the plane, rather than the boat, back to Southampton.

The tour had been a revelation for Alf. On one hand it had enhanced his footballing vision, encouraging him to think in a far more original way about tactics and his own role. He now saw, he wrote, that ‘a defender’s job was also to make goals as well as stopping them’. But on the other it had given him a negative opinion of Latin American crowds, administration and the press. He was astounded, for instance, when walking on to the pitch for the match at Sao Paulo that ‘radio commentators, dragging microphones on to the field, rushed up to us and demanded – yes, demanded! – our views’. It was the start of a not very beautiful relationship with the world’s media.