He mentioned one manager who went in for a lot of changes, always bringing in new people. The press and public liked him because he was a great enthusiast, always going on about his latest player, but later he tended to drop them, which led to trouble all round. And if the player had been bought from outside, it landed the club with a huge salary which had to be paid long after the player had been dropped.

  Then there is the policy of equality which is favoured by several managers. With this system you try to have a large and completely equal first-team pool, with the idea that everyone is considered each week for a first-team place. ‘I’m against that as well. It’s just unsettling. I know Eddie, for example, would drop certain players because they don’t play well away, but if he was a manager he’d probably change his views. The manager has to make his decision on his best team and, barring injuries, it’s best to stick to it. If someone starts to prove to you that he’s better than someone in the first team, that’s different. But that doesn’t happen overnight.

  ‘It’s ridiculous to drop a player because he’s had one bad game. What do you do then? You have to bring in a reserve whom you’ve always considered the poorer player, when he might not have played a match since the last time you saw him. He could turn round to you and say, “Why am I playing? I haven’t touched the ball since I was last in, so why do you choose me now?” No, you can’t defend change for the sake of change. All that happens is that you upset people. The following week you send the reserve back to reserves and you’ve succeeded in upsetting two players.

  ‘It’s different when a player comes into the team through injury. That’s a special circumstance and he’s got to be well aware of it and not kid himself. It’s his chance to show what he can do, but it’s not his chance to get into the team for good. It’s hard for him to take but it’s the only way.’

  I mentioned the case of Tony Want. How upset he was that time when Bill had told him that Cyril would be back for the next game, whatever happened, just because Cyril was the first-team player. Bill had been sticking to his principles, but wasn’t there a better way of explaining them?

  Bill thought for a long time. ‘I don’t think Tony can grumble. He knows he’s not the first choice. He was being included through injury. If he was the first choice, he would know it, wouldn’t he? No, there’s no use giving people false hopes. They have to be told the truth.

  ‘But when I do include a player in the team through choice, because I’ve come to the conclusion that he is now better than the first-team player, I always tell him he’s in on his merits, not through injury, and he’s going to be given a run of three or four games. I give him a fair crack of the whip. I don’t want to make him feel it all depends on one game. If he fails then, he’s only himself to blame.

  ‘You have to drop players if you think someone can do the job better. As a player I was dropped into the reserves to give Danny Blanchflower a chance. And then as manager I dropped Danny to give a young kid his chance.

  ‘I know the reserves grumble about not being put in when they think someone in the first team isn’t playing well. I know only too quickly when someone’s not playing well. It’s happening to Steve at the moment. He hasn’t progressed this season as much as he should have. And Mike England hasn’t yet regained his confidence. But I’m too aware of the weakness of the reserves who could take their places to start chopping and changing. We have to live with it. All the players know the principle. They can have few real grumbles.

  ‘Each week the first team is easy to pick. Unless there are injuries, it picks itself. Each week my biggest problem is the substitute. Sometimes I can take two hours deciding who will be the twelfth man.’

  Basically, all the players understand his problem and agree with his principles. But couldn’t he perhaps be a bit more cheerful and encouraging in handling his players . . . ?

  Again, he thought for a long time, then he started talking about the old days. He knew that some players thought he went on about the old days too much, but really, the 1950s team he’d played in and the 1960s team he’d managed, both had been better than today’s team. He ran through the people he’d played with. ‘Look at Ron Burgess, Ted Ditchburn. They would have been first-choice players at any time. They were the best in their position in the country. Then look at the 1960s team. Who was better than Blanchflower, or Mackay or Bobby Smith, or tell me a winger better than Cliff Jones?

  ‘I suppose it is unfortunate for the present team that I should have been involved in two excellent teams, but I think that should be a help, not a hindrance. By having seen so much, it should help me to get the best out of them. The team can only benefit from my experience. I should know what I’m talking about. If I was a player in the present team, that’s what I’d think. But I know some of them don’t accept it. They think I’m living in the past.’

  It was strange that he should have said this. I’d not heard one player say such a thing. To a man, they’re all in awe of his record, as a player and as a manager. They know he’s had more success than they’ll ever have. They might think he’s old-fashioned in some senses, being against long hair, but that didn’t worry them. That was a joke. But as a football manager, they had the utmost respect for him. The only moan I’d ever heard was that he didn’t praise them enough.

  ‘I was no different with the 1960s team. I only ever wanted the best. There is satisfaction for everyone in doing things right. There’s no use being satisfied when things are done wrongly. I want perfection. It’s no use telling players they’re good when they’re not. That doesn’t help them. I read about managers who “get the best out of players”. I don’t know what that means. What does it mean? You tell me. I’ve spent all my life learning to read character. In the army I spent six and a half years handling people. I’ve discovered that it’s best to tell people there’s always a bit to go, that they must try harder, that they can do better.

  ‘I get no pleasure out of being a manager. It’s a job. I prefer coaching. I was happy as chief coach and didn’t want to do anything else. Coaching is still what I like best, though now I can’t give as much time and thought to it. When I was the coach and nothing else I used to try to spend two hours every afternoon, just sitting thinking things out, scribbling ideas on a bit of paper. I’d throw most of them away because nothing was coming. But sometimes they’d make a pattern which I could carry out in training. It might be a pattern which would keep me going for two or three weeks, with other ideas and patterns coming from it. I enjoy that very much. I still do it today, when I have time. Very often when I’m sitting at home I’m thinking of coaching routines. The thing about coaching is that you never stop thinking about it.

  ‘When I took over as manager I introduced the best training schedules which any club had at the time. I can’t tell you how we were trained when I was a player. I just can’t. It was too bad to talk about, even now. I was one of the first to introduce the sort of organised training which all clubs have today. Danny Blanchflower once asked if I didn’t think we were doing too much. Now it’s accepted by everyone.

  ‘I enjoyed discussing things with Danny. He’s a great talker and he was a bloody good player and a good captain. He was as proud as I was of the success of the 1960s team. I ran everything, but as today, any player in the team-talk can suggest ideas or changes. I want them to talk about the game, to think about it, but few of them do today. But Danny, he always did. He was a good captain in that sense and I backed to the hilt any decision he took on the field. Since Danny went, I’ve never been able to talk as well to anyone about the team. I miss that sometimes.’

  He talked for a long time about Danny, as if he was worried about something. He kept on stressing how well they’d got on and how good Danny had been. When Danny’s playing days were over, Bill had made him assistant to the manager – not assistant manager as is sometimes thought – to help him with coaching and training. But it hadn’t lasted long. Danny Blanchflower is now out of football, working as a sports journalist.

  We were making such good time to Bristol, thanks to the new M4, that Bill suggested a cup of tea and a sandwich. We stopped at the next service station and sat down at an empty table. We were joined after a few minutes by a man who asked if there was a seat free. ‘I might as well sit down with Billy Nicholson,’ added the man, smiling in Bill’s face.

  Bill looked stern and his face showed no change of expression. The man wasn’t at all aggressive or pushy. He was well dressed and rather hesitant. We all sat in silence for a few minutes. The man sensed the atmosphere but wasn’t quite sure why.

  ‘You are Billy Nicholson?’ he said, stirring his tea, thinking perhaps he’d made a mistake.

  Bill looked at him, then grunted an admission.

  ‘I thought you were. When are Spurs going to come good, then? Been a while now, hasn’t it? Do you think they’ll win the FA Cup?’

  Bill said nothing. He was tearing open the cellophane wrapping of his ham sandwich. He started to eat the sandwich slowly and deliberately, staring straight through the man.

  I felt sorry for the man, saying all the wrong things, yet doing it politely and pleasantly.

  ‘My lad will be thrilled when I tell him I’ve met you,’ he said cheerfully, drinking his tea. ‘Who is it you play in the Cup? I’ve forgotten.’

  I said it was Everton, away, and he nodded. I wasn’t sure if Bill wanted him encouraged in any way, or whether he was hoping he’d just simply give up and disappear into a hole in the ground.

  ‘This is not a new signing, is it?’ said the man, looking at me, smiling. ‘I’m not a reporter, don’t get me wrong,’ he added quickly. Bill gave a quick smile at this but still didn’t reply.

  ‘You know, Billy, I used to watch you play at Tottenham. You and Ron Burgess playing together. I remember it well. What a team.’

  He’d now revealed something about himself and I could feel Bill softening. He didn’t mind talking, as long as it wasn’t to reply to questions about today’s team. He asked the man if he lived round Tottenham. He said no, but he’d been born there. He’d played in the district team as a schoolboy and even played once at White Hart Lane. Bill was very interested. The chat from then on became quite animated as Bill asked the man details about the district team and who else had been in it.

  Back in the car, heading for Bristol, he said he hated being recognised by people. ‘They always ask the same inane questions about football. There’s nothing I can say, so I prefer to say nothing.’

  At Bristol City’s ground, the doorman at the directors’ entrance smiled at once when he saw Bill and welcomed him in. There was a murmuring round the box as Bill sat down. One or two leaned across and said hello but most people gave a quick stare and then nudged each other. We sat down just as the whistle blew for the kick-off.

  I’d been looking forward to the match. I’d only seen Spurs’ reserves once that season, and it had been a scrappy, disappointing game, a 1–0 win at home against Plymouth reserves.

  The Bristol crowd looked much bigger, more like a real match and less like a shadow game, the way it had done at Tottenham. But the first half was just as poor as the previous reserve match I’d seen, full of bad passes and bad positional play. Peter (Spud) Collins was continually misjudging the ball, going forward to head it, missing it and having to run back. I suggested perhaps there was a deceptive wind. ‘There can’t be a wind just out there,’ said Bill.

  Tony Want looked aggressive, but in coming forward he was losing the ball. The two wingers, Jimmy Pearce and John Cutbush, were getting nowhere. ‘Why don’t they swap?’ Bill kept on saying to himself. Only two Spurs players looked convincing. One was Terry Lee in goal who was brave, self-assured and made no mistakes, though twice he punched the ball away rather dangerously. Bill was very pleased, as he should have been, considering Terry was the club’s third-choice goalkeeper. The only other Spurs player who was showing any real signs of skill or class was little Phil Holder, all five foot three of him. Various people were leaning over to Bill and asking who he was. Bill sang Phil’s praises, saying what a worker, what a tackler.

  I followed Bill down to the dressing-room at half-time, but I didn’t stay long. I’d never heard Eddie in such a rage. I’d seen him many a time frothing at the mouth on the bench, screaming abuse at the first team, almost without realising it. But this time he was uncontrollable, shouting at Spud Collins, lashing into him about his diabolical game. Spud started to make a reply but Eddie turned and shrieked at him to shut up. He was only good with his mouth. The other players were hiding, keeping well out of the way. Bill stood silently in a corner.

  I went upstairs and joined Mr Cox in the directors’ room, where I had a cup of tea with the Bristol City directors. I knew why Eddie was so furious. Spud is one of his best reserves, one he admires tremendously, one he has great hopes for, one he would personally find a first-team place for, if it was his decision. He’d been telling Bill for several weeks about how well Pete was doing in the reserves. Yet here he was, his big chance to really impress the manager, and he was throwing it away. He was letting himself down and he was letting Eddie down.

  In the second half, Spurs played a bit better, but not much. Spiring for Bristol still looked the most dangerous player. ‘They’re never going to score,’ groaned Bill. Seconds later, almost as if they’d heard him, Spurs did score. From a throw-in the ball went into the penalty area where Jenkins headed it across the goal for Jimmy Pearce to shoot. Not long afterwards, Spurs got another goal from a free-kick headed in by Clarke. They won 2–0, which rather flattered them.

  ‘Amazing, isn’t it,’ said Eddie afterwards in the dressing-room, walking round and shaking his head. ‘They do nothing yet score twice from a throw-in and a free-kick. I don’t understand it.’

  John Pratt was coughing alarmingly in the corner. Graeme Souness looked white. He’d come on for the last five minutes for Jenkins who’d been injured. ‘I can feel blood in my mouth,’ said Graeme, feeling his chest. ‘I think it’s with sitting in the cold for so long then suddenly coming on.’

  Johnny Wallis was silently packing up the gear as usual. The coach driver from Tottenham had arrived and was standing waiting.

  ‘Terry Lee did well,’ said Bill walking round. Terry was in the bath and didn’t hear the praise, alas for him. ‘He got down very well,’ continued Bill. Eddie nodded but said nothing. He’d exhausted his invective at half-time. Despite all his screaming and shouting they’d managed to win, yet without playing very much better. Bill went up to the directors’ room. The City manager congratulated him, said Spurs had done well, and Bill thanked him and agreed they were a good set of lads. Bill had a glass of sweet sherry and asked the best way out of Bristol to get on to the motorway.

  Mr Cox came back with us in Bill’s car rather than in the team coach. Bill religiously referred to him as ‘Mr Cox’ and was very attentive and polite. He’d come a long way on a cold night for a football match, considering he was seventy-four, but he said he enjoyed it. Being a widower and being retired he could get away for midweek matches more easily than some of the other directors who had family and business commitments.

  Bill talked for a while about the match, especially about how well Phil Holder had played. He said it wasn’t really a worry about his height. ‘Every team can stand one small player.’

  While Mr Cox dozed on the back seat Bill got onto his next day’s problems, planning what he was going to do in training. He’d already done a thirteen-hour day, training all morning at Cheshunt, working in his office at the ground in the afternoon and then going to Bristol for the evening. But his mind as ever was still on football, thinking out new training patterns. I asked if he didn’t think there was too much training today. A lot of the old-timers maintain that teams have become regimented and soulless, with all individuality gone.

  ‘I regret the day that the theories of 4-3-3 or 4-4-2 came in. People think that one is an attacking formation and the other defensive. There’s no such thing. It misleads people, including players. Players think they are there to defend rather than attack. It makes a so-called defensive midfield man think he should always drop back rather than push forward, even when he’s got the chance. I never talk about 4-3-3 or 4-4-2. It restricts thinking.’

  He then moved on to his other perennial problem, scouting for new players. Hardly a week goes by without him showing an interest in some player. Even when he knows there’s not a hope of the player moving, he might still ring up the manager and register interest. ‘Some you never bother to ask about. Would a manager ever ring me up and ask to buy Chivers?’ He half smiled. Chivers might think from time to time that his manager doesn’t love him enough, but Chivers just has to think about the rivals for his position, and he’s bound to smile all the way to the bank.

  Bill said he’d gone the previous Saturday morning to watch some primary schoolboys play. That means eleven-year-olds, kids hardly out of the cradle. Scouts don’t usually start till boys are thirteen and fourteen. ‘There was a boy there who scored a text-book goal. He got the ball on the halfway line almost, came forward, beat his man and shot from twenty yards out. It made me smile to see it. You couldn’t have wished for a better goal.’

  He’d got the boy’s name, contacted his teacher and generally made himself known. It’s illegal to sign boys at eleven but you can make contact. The chances are that a precocious boy of eleven might never develop any further, but it’s still worth showing an interest. At eleven, Bill himself was playing for an Under-14 team.

  It was misty and rainy at Spurs. Bill got out of his car and went across to Mr Cox’s car and wiped his windows for him and saw him safely out of the carpark. Then he turned his car round and drove up White Hart Lane and home.

  It was just after midnight. Darky was pleased to see him home so early. When he goes to the north or to Scotland for evening matches, he’s home a lot later.