Sheffield FC was formed in 1857 and is the oldest football club in the world, but Worksop Town were only four years behind them. Even when I joined Worksop in 1952, the club had a long history. It was also as broke as the Ten Commandments.
Worksop Town played in the Midland League but, because they ran six teams, were always pleading poverty. The word was, Worksop had been saddled with debt for over thirty years but had somehow managed to struggle on.
In the 1907–08 season, Worksop had reached the first round proper of the FA Cup, the equivalent today of the third round of the competition. The club was drawn away to Chelsea, and though hammered 9–1, it found some consolation in a bountiful share of the revenue from a bumper attendance of 70,184 at Stamford Bridge. The money from the Chelsea game sustained Worksop for nigh on a decade until, once again, the club fell upon hard times.
During 1920 and into 1921 they enjoyed another good run in the FA Cup which resulted in a plum tie away to Tottenham Hotspur. Worksop produced the shock of that season’s competition, a doughty performance earning them a goalless draw and unprecedented headlines in the sports pages of national newspapers. The town was suddenly galvanised. The thought of playing host to mighty Spurs before a record attendance at Central Avenue had even non-football fans excited.
The club directors, rather than keeping one eye on the future, focused exclusively on money. They made a highly controversial decision to concede home advantage and return to White Hart Lane for the replay. According to those around at the time, Worksop stood a chance of beating Spurs on a home pitch that in mid-winter resembled molasses. But there was more chance of hell freezing over than achieving another favourable result at White Hart Lane.
To a man, and woman, the town believed the club’s directors had sacrificed the chance of beating Spurs, thereby earning lasting fame for the town, by opting instead to line their own pockets.
The result of the replay was as emphatic as the fall-out from the decision proved catastrophic. Worksop lost 9–0 before a White Hart Lane crowd of just 12,000 which meant the club’s share of the gate revenue was far less than anticipated. Town councillors and the local press berated the directors for their decision, and the town’s population exacted their revenge by boycotting subsequent matches.
Attendances for matches at Central Avenue plummeted, and once people lost the habit of going along to watch their local team, they never again returned in the numbers they had prior to the Tottenham furore. Thirty-two years on, when I joined the club, Worksop Town were still struggling to make ends meet and were burdened by debt.
The Midland League was semi-professional and its members included the reserve teams of, amongst others, Nottingham Forest, Notts County, Hull City, Rotherham United, Scunthorpe United, Bradford City and Doncaster Rovers as well as crack non-League clubs such as Peterborough United, Corby Town, Boston United, Scarborough and Grantham.
I was a month short of my sixteenth birthday when I joined Worksop in the summer of 1952. I began the 1952–53 season playing in goal for the club’s youth and reserve teams but my performances were such that I soon made the first team. That season we finished six places above bottom club Wisbech Town but won the Sheffield Senior Cup, the club’s first trophy of any significance since winning the same competition way back in 1924.
Every summit marks the brink of an abyss, and two days after the club’s Sheffield Senior Cup success, the club announced an annual loss of £145. It may not appear much by today’s standards, but in 1952 that sum would have covered my wages behind the butcher’s counter at the Co-op for the best part of three years.
In July 1953, as part of Worksop’s pre-season programme, the club organised a friendly at Central Avenue for the youth team against Sheffield United’s youth side. Although I was now Worksop’s recognised first-team goalkeeper, I was still not yet seventeen, so I was delighted when manager Fred Morris selected me to play in goal.
The fact it was the youth team didn’t matter at all. As far as I was concerned, I was playing against Sheffield United, and all their players were heroes to me. United had won the Second Division title the previous season and were preparing for life in the First Division (Premiership equivalent), so to play in this match was a tremendous thrill.
One-way traffic had yet to be introduced to Britain’s road systems, but those present at Worksop Town that night witnessed its football equivalent. I can’t recall much about the game itself but for the fact I was very busy indeed. Apart from having kicked off, I don’t think Worksop managed to venture into Sheffield’s half of the field for the majority of the first half. But, minutes before half-time and against the run of play, we broke out of defence and scored.
The second half mirrored the first. It was like the Alamo as wave after wave of red-and-white striped shirts laid siege to my goal. I had to pull off save after save to preserve our lead. Eventually, we broke away and, to my utter joy, scored again. This served only to annoy the United players even more. Their retribution was a constant pressure on my goal. United did pull a goal back but, after a period of desperate defending, we managed to snatch a third goal a minute from time.
The dressing room after the game was joyous. The final score in no way reflected the balance of play, but that’s football. I’d lost count of how many saves I’d had to make but, as far as I was concerned, that was my job, even if I wasn’t being paid.
Two days later, when I reported for evening training, I was asked to call in to Fred Morris’s office. ‘Office’ was too grand a word for the cubby-hole under the main stand where Fred conducted his business of part-time football management. Forming the underneath of the tiered floor of the grandstand, the ceiling sloped at such an acute angle that anyone coming into the room could only take two paces before having to lower their head and shoulders. Fred’s response was always to nod his head in recognition of what he perceived to be deference.
I knew something was up the moment I entered Fred’s snuggery and bowed my head. He was seated at his desk, flanked on either side by a crouching club director. Not one to stand on ceremony, or upright in that cubby-hole, Fred told me straight off that Sheffield United had been so impressed by my performance against them they wanted to sign me.
I was flabbergasted. I loved playing football but never, at any time, had I ever thought about trying to make a career in the professional game. I simply didn’t think I was good enough.
I was told by one director that the club would be more than happy for me to stay should I want to, but subsequent phrases such as ‘once-in-a-lifetime opportunity’, ‘a golden chance to make something of yourself’ and ‘you’d be a fool to turn this offer down’ suggested they couldn’t wait for me to put pen to paper.
With my mind still whirling, I told Fred I would go home and discuss the matter with my parents and let him know my decision.
‘That’s the sensible thing to do, take as much time as you want. There’s no rush,’ said Fred, ‘I’ll call round your house at six tomorrow morning.’
Neither of my parents were great followers of football. I had two brothers and a sister and none of them was into it either. Having discussed the opportunity with Mum and Dad, they both said the decision should be entirely mine, but that they would support me in whatever I decided.
I slept on it and, when I awoke the next morning, felt the same as I had the night before.
I just didn’t think I had the talent to make a go of it in the professional game. I thought about going to Sheffield United to play alongside junior players who had represented the county and England at schoolboy and, in some cases, Under-18 level, and felt I would be way out of my depth.
Fred dutifully arrived at our house on his way to work. When I informed him of my decision his chin fell to his chest. Undaunted, he left saying he would give me more time to ‘think it over’. When Fred had left our house, I spoke to my dad.
‘The decision is entirely yours, son,’ he told me, ‘but I know you, and by that token I know whichever decision you come to, it will prove to be the right one.’
Later that day