Читать книгу Shirts, Shorts and Spurs - Roy Reyland - Страница 15

The Spurs kit man at the time was called Johnny Wallis, and he was the most miserable and cantankerous old man you could wish to meet. I remember the first time I ever walked into the kit room – which was a corner room tucked away in the car park – Johnny and Cecil Poynton, the physio, were wearing long white coats as they cleaned the boots and bleached the shirts. They looked like Doctor Death and his mate! Players used to have to beg Johnny for a sock, yet when you got to know him he had a remarkable sense of humour, and what’s more he had earned the utmost respect from players and staff alike. And for that reason, I liked him. So, when Spurs manager Keith Burkinshaw pulled me aside one afternoon and asked me if I’d like to help out Johnny, I said, ‘Sure.’

Johnny Wallis had been a player in the war years, and had shrapnel in his calf. So he retired and became the old-fashioned trainer, or ‘sponge man’. Later he took over as kit man, doing the job for 30 years and becoming part of the furniture at White Hart Lane. But at the time I had no idea that I would later become his successor and that, between us, just two men would have looked after those famous white shirts for nearly 60 years.

Becoming Johnny’s understudy quickly seemed like hard work. But the boss had told me to help him out, so I knew I had to get stuck in. Johnny was 5’5” with a bald head and glasses and was a very clinical man. Now, I thought I had OCD with my autograph books and obsessive Subbuteo matches, but Johnny was absolutely meticulous and I think I caught the worst, or best, of it from him.

But there was more to come. ‘It’s all getting a bit much for him,’ Keith told me one afternoon, and, to be fair, Johnny must have been in his sixties.

With Spurs growing as a club, there were suddenly more teams, more away kits and bigger squads. Tottenham Hotspur was becoming a big operation. So on a Monday, after the weekend’s games, I’d help Johnny sort all the boots and dirty kit. I soon got into the swing of things and, on a Friday, I’d learn to pack the kit for the reserve team’s game. Johnny showed me how we dealt with ordering kit from the manufacturer, which was then made by Le Coq Sportif.

This was the centenary year, and the shirt had a huge crest, with two-tone white stripes. It was beautiful. The shorts were silky, and I remember how Glenn used to wear them very short, while the leisurewear was nothing short of enviable. Johnny introduced me to the system, and told me in no uncertain terms what he expected of me. And as well as the ropes, I also learned that, if I could achieve just half the respect and admiration of Johnny Wallis, I’d be doing well. I joyously embedded myself in the world of football strips, lists and ordering systems.

In those days, the kit man used to be in control of the youth players, and that meant supervising them cleaning toilets and scrubbing boots. It was harder back then. You used to have a ‘top man’ – the lead youth player – who looked after the rest. One such player was loveable goalkeeper Tony Parks, subject of my earlier prank with the ‘polystyrene’ brick. He’d report to Johnny and say, ‘The away team dressing room’s spotless, home team and referees rooms are sparkling,’ and Johnny would say, ‘Are you sure, Tony?’ Sometimes you’d let them go home for the day, other times you’d go and check or make them do it again, even if it was right – you know, just to see how they react to a bit of discipline.

One particular time, Tony went up to Johnny and said, ‘I’m done, it’s all clean.’

Tony had on a beautiful white shirt, and was clearly ready to go home after a hard day’s training and cleaning. Johnny ran his finger across the top of the dressing-room door, looked at his finger and ran it right down the middle of Tony’s shirt, leaving a horrendous black line of grease. ‘Do it again,’ he sighed. And Tony simply turned on his heels and started cleaning the dressing room all over again, without muttering a word of complaint. Was Johnny too tough, or was it character building? Well, soon afterwards Tony Parks became Spurs’ hero against Anderlecht in the 1984 UEFA Cup Final, saving two penalties to win us the trophy. He was just 21.

I too, was doing a lot of growing up. My job had changed from being a novelty to suddenly being a reality. I had a job to do now. Two in fact, because I did a season combining my ground-staff duties and the reserve-team kit duties. I recall Bill Nick saying to me, ‘You’ll be all right here, you might not always see eye-to-eye with Johnny, but look, learn and listen.’ I soon started as a full-time assistant kit man and started travelling to the reserve games. In those days, when the first team were away, the reserves played at White Hart Lane. I don’t know what havoc that caused with the pitch, but you’d get anything up to 3,000 supporters along, and, when we played Arsenal, you could expect up to 10,000 fans there. It was electric.

Doug Livermore, the famous Scouse star, was in charge of the reserve team when I became kit man. He’d played for Liverpool, and against Spurs for Norwich in the League Cup Final. Spurs beat them 2–1. Doug came to Spurs as a coach and he was brilliant. I always thought he was Mr Nice Guy – and he was – but one day I saw him really lose his rag and I quickly learned that you shouldn’t judge someone too soon. I remember thinking, ‘I never want to cross Doug.’

Once, the reserves played Millwall away at the Old Den, and it was a great game, with the ball flying from end to end and goals aplenty. Spurs were on the attack when suddenly a fella tapped me on the shoulder in the dugout, and said, ‘I want to play for Spurs.’

Now, you’d occasionally get some idiot who thinks you can just ask for a game, but, when I turned round, I saw the biggest man mountain I had ever seen! He was about six-foot-six tall and wide, one of the scariest Millwall thugs! And he wanted to play for Spurs! I tapped Dougie, because I wasn’t getting involved in this one. I said, ‘Doug, there’s a fella here who wants to speak to you.’

He replied, ‘Yeah, yeah, Roy, I’m busy.’

But the bloke was still pestering me, so I said, ‘Doug, he really wants to play for Spurs.’

Doug turned to me, and he was about to tell this bloke to sling his hook, when he too suddenly clocked the size of him, and he said quickly, and ever-so politely, ‘Leave your name and address with me, son…’ It was brilliant.

The reserve team was pretty hot at the time, with players like Ian Crook, Tony Parks, Ian Culverhouse, Peter Southey and Mark Bowen all making appearances. Even big players like Ray Clemence and Chrissie Waddle would play in the reserves when they were coming back from injury, so often the team was as star-studded as the first team! It was an early taste of working with some of Tottenham’s biggest names, like David Howells who had a spell in the team. The reserve team league was called the Combination and we finished top a couple of times, and won the Combination Cup. Occasionally, you’d have one of the under-18 boys in the team, playing alongside the likes of Chrissie Waddle. If you ask me, it was fantastic for the younger players and I began to really enjoy being involved in the reserves.

The reserves games were always so competitive. It was full-on, because every player was either fighting to prove their worth or their fitness. Goalkeeper Tony Parks really stood out. He always had such wit and character – he was a confident boy and he played that way, even as a teenager. Micky Hazard used to shine in that reserve team, and I personally think that Micky was unlucky to be in the same era as Glenn Hoddle, for his ability on the ball was amazing. But getting in that team ahead of a player like Hoddle was beyond him, or anyone else for that matter.

So why didn’t players like Glenn or Stevie Perryman ever leave? As Bill Nicholson had told me, we played good football, there was a good atmosphere and we were a family club. Who would want to leave? Stevie sacrificed his England career for Spurs, he’ll happily admit. He just loved his Spurs. I remember he had what he called his ‘fat ankle’. It was permanently swollen, because he’d refuse to miss a game. Stevie would be last out of the dressing room because he’d ice his fat ankle, then have it strapped – he never liked to miss a game. If you look at photos of him playing, look at his ankles and I’ll guarantee one will be swollen. He just played on it because, like everyone else, he wanted to be on the team.

I’d caught the same bug, and, from when I first started work with my dad at Beautility furniture to my last day at Spurs, I never had a day off sick. I’ve gone to work in terrible states and even been sent home, but I have always attended. It stems from my dad, who was a stickler for not being tardy. He told me as a kid, ‘You’ve always got to go in.’ So, even if I turned up and vomited in the dressing room, at least I tried. And when I was at Tottenham, I hated missing a day’s work, because it was more than just a job.

It was unlike any other job I’ve ever done. Some of my mates became painters, printers and couriers, but my job caused a stir when I told people. They’d ask, ‘What’s it like?’ I’d just answer, ‘It’s hard work.’ Because I couldn’t explain it any other way. I felt like a crucial member of that team. The job was gruelling, more so than you could ever imagine. But I loved it.

Every morning Johnny and I used to leave the main stadium at 8.50am; I had the job of driving the mini-bus, with wicker skips full of training kit stacked on the roof rack. One of the apprentices would get on top and we’d throw it up. Then I’d drive them from White Hart Lane to Cheshunt, up the A10, with the apprentices in the back. Imagine the banter! We’d get there about 9.30, drag all the stuff off the top, and me and the boys would lay out the dressing rooms for the first team, the reserves and the Academy. Then, Johnny and me would drive the van back to the Lane, where the laundry ladies would have washed the previous day’s kit. For years, there was always a wash on, as we had one set of kit in the wash, one on the players’ backs and one spare. Then we’d start preparing the match kit for the Under 17s, Under 18s and the reserves’ weekend games. You’re talking thousands of items of kit, and it was quite the operation. Then we’d be back to the training ground to pick up the dirty stuff.

The laundry ladies were unbelievable. One of them, Sylvie, was there in 1978 when I joined and she must have done 20 years’ service before leaving. She was less of a laundry lady, more a magician, such was her ability to make stains disappear from those white shirts. Sometimes the kit was horrific – so rank you wouldn’t touch it. But Sylvie just sorted it, as if on autopilot. Like me, she was a perfectionist, and nothing was too much trouble. She had two massive industrial machines, one dryer and one spin dryer at White Hart Lane, and she’d get there as early as Johnny and me, keen as mustard.

I’d started to really admire Johnny Wallis, because he was a no-nonsense man who made the job look easy. Johnny never used to have any lists, but, although he never had names or squad numbers to deal with, and you could argue that was easier, he did it all off the top of his head and never forgot a thing. Myself, I needed a checklist. I had 60 printed off in the office and I would religiously check the list as I worked. Johnny also had this knack of being abrupt, and strong, and sometimes even quite offensive to the apprentices. He used to tell me, ‘Test them. See how they react to criticism.’ But I was only 26 and I was nervous about doing that, at first.

Johnny was a stickler for timing and getting things done. I was always lenient to the apprentices and I’d wait in the car park for them to arrive if they were late, but he wouldn’t have that. One day Johnny was pulling out of Bill Nick Way, and when he got to the end of the road we saw some apprentices who’d just got off the train, running towards us. Of course, they were late, and they were 30 yards away. But Johnny sped off, leaving them there, stranded. As he put his foot down, I asked him why he didn’t wait. ‘What time did they go home yesterday?’ he asked.

‘Half-four,’ I said.

‘Well,’ Johnny said sternly, ‘they’ve had from half-four to half-eight this morning to get here and they’re late. Unlucky.’

And those boys were never late again.

Sometimes, Johnny was just as harsh to me, too. He’d snarl, ‘Do that’ and ‘Do this’ and I’d say, ‘Slow down!’ But we soon became close. He’d tell me trade secrets, like how to keep boots soft. Johnny used to wipe them off right after the game with a damp cloth – he’d never hang them in direct heat – and then he’d place them in a naturally heated room so the leather didn’t shrink. After that, with a bit of black boot polish and dubbing, they’d be perfect, and the players would be happy.

And when the players were happy, the results came in. Spurs were going great guns, and we got to the 1981 FA Cup Final against Manchester City, one of the most exciting finals in football history. The game was played over two legs and what people tend to erase from history was that Ricky Villa played a real stinker in the first game. When I used to watch him train, I always noticed how he was so laidback. He had this great ability of drifting past players, and, boy, could he play the ball. But he could also drift in and out of games, and would often either have a fantastic game or a poor game. This was one of his poorer games.

Some spectators think that, on the wages they earn, players should play great every game, but anyone who has played to any decent level knows that’s just not possible. If you don’t have at least seven players firing on all cylinders, you’ve got a problem. I remember after that first final, which we drew, Ricky was trudging off with that gold chain swinging around his neck. I really felt for him, as it was the Argentine lads’ first big moment in England, and the FA Cup had such prestige in those days.

During the build-up to the next game, everyone was thinking: ‘Are they going to drop him?’ But Keith had said to Ricky, ‘You’re playing, no matter what happens.’ And that really made the difference to Ricky.

In the second final, I was sitting behind the goal and I saw Ricky as he started on that mazy run. I was thinking, ‘Good one, Ricky, now pass it.’ Then, ‘Oh, well done. Now pass it.’ Then… ‘OK, you’ve beaten two, please pass it!’ He went to shoot, but didn’t, then checked inside once again. Now, next time you watch the goal, try to watch Garth Crooks instead of Ricky, because he’s swinging his right foot, kicking every ball with him, as if he was urging him to hit it! It’s hilarious! Of course, the rest is history.

The reception was in the Chanticleer banqueting rooms, next door to White Hart Lane. It was a fantastic evening. We came out at six the next morning and went straight to the café for breakfast. I don’t normally drink, but I drank that night and I couldn’t walk! What great memories. To be a part of a successful club was intoxicating in many ways.

Back at work, Johnny had started to give me hints, like dropping little trade secrets, not just about keeping shirts whiter than white, but how to keep players happy. It was such a big arena and a big stage on which to make a major cock-up. Everyone’s human, but sometimes something would go wrong that no one could help. Johnny told me that, before one away match, the traffic was so bad that he had the players get dressed on the coach. He stopped the bus, got the skips out from underneath, and the lads got stripped off on board. Johnny was always calm under pressure. And as I suspected, he was starting to groom me for the big job.

I became closer to the players, making sure they had everything they needed, and becoming a bit of a ‘go-to’ guy if they needed anything special. I remember one particular afternoon – 3 April 1982 – when we played Leicester in the FA Cup semi-final. We won, and tremendously; Spurs were on their way to Wembley once again. But one member of the squad was not smiling as widely as the rest of the players: Ossie Ardiles had a concerned look on his face. The day before the match, Ossie’s home nation, Argentina, had invaded the British-owned Falkland Islands, starting what would escalate into the Falklands War. While British and Argentine relationships were flourishing at Tottenham Hotspur, international relationships were strained, and Ossie confessed to me that he was worried about his future.

‘It is incredibly sad how these two countries I love could be at war against each other,’ he told me. ‘This is terrible.’

Later, Mr Burkinshaw tried to reassure Ossie, telling him, ‘Don’t worry, people will only think about football. They all love you,’ and so on.

But, worried about what might happen if the war escalated, Ossie reluctantly took a one-year loan to French side Paris Saint-Germain. And in order to make his journey to the French capital easier on the stressed player, Keith Burkinshaw asked me if I’d like to help Ossie move house. Of course I was flattered, but I was also excited about helping one of my favourite players.

I took a hired van to Broxbourne, Hertfordshire, where Ossie lived, and picked up all of his belongings. He didn’t have any furniture, it was more personal belongings, but there was enough of it. Ossie flew to Paris, and I booked the ferry and drove down to Dover, then across France to Paris. I was to stay for two nights in the Hotel Concorde Lafayette, a posh hotel right near the Champs-Elysées. It was mind-blowing: the hotel was, and still is, a Parisian landmark and it was truly an amazing experience. I drove right around the Arc de Triomphe and it was like wacky races. I’d never driven abroad before and I was terrified by the French driving! Ossie had given me some cash to tide me over for the journey, for petrol and suchlike, but, as soon as I had finished my first coffee in Hotel Concorde Lafayette, I realised I was in trouble. ‘How much?!’ I asked the waiter incredulously. ‘That much, for a coffee?’

When Ossie arrived at the hotel the next morning to take delivery of his belongings, he asked me how I liked the hotel. ‘It’s great, Ossie,’ I said, ‘but I’ve run out of money already!’

Ossie paid the bill and he handed me a wad of francs, and smiled. ‘Here you go, Roysie, for your food and whatever else.’ It was a generous amount.

We drove together to Ossie’s apartment, which was beautiful, and I helped Ossie and his wife lift all the belongings into the flat, and helped him settle in.

Later that evening, I began the long journey back to London. Spurs could have used a courier company, but the club always preferred the personal touch, and they knew Ossie and I were friends, so it was a perfect way of saying that Spurs really cared about him. And after just one turbulent season in Paris, Ossie returned to Tottenham, helping us win the UEFA Cup in 1984. I will always look back on that journey to Paris with pride, because I was so happy to be trusted with such an important job.

A year on, in 1985, Johnny Wallis began to give me even more responsibility, finally letting me in on looking after the first-team kit, which had been a no-go for the first few years. He’d say, ‘I’ve got too much on, can you do the first-team training kit?’ Well, I was over the moon, having my hands on the first-team kit for the first time.

The next time that I was sat in the office with David Pleat and Johnny Wallis was five years later, and I was about to be offered the job of first-team kit manager. ‘I’ve done a lot of years,’ said Johnny solemnly, his face now really showing his age. ‘I don’t need the travelling and the responsibility any more.’

It was a sad moment, yet at the same time an incredibly exciting one. David agreed that I should take over, but for the time being with Johnny working alongside me, as my assistant, to bed me in. It was, as the saying goes: ‘The father becomes the son, and the son becomes the father.’ We agreed that Johnny would work just one last game looking after those famous lily-white shirts: the 1987 FA Cup Final against Coventry.