‘Got a club tie?’ asked someone.

  ‘How about a club jockstrap?’ said another.

  But despite the jokes, they obviously wished they were in on something which could make such easy money. Most of them get approached by agents with a view to sponsorship, but very few of the big ideas ever happen.

  The Queens Hotel in Leeds was already full of Spurs supporters, the well-heeled ones, from rag-trade moguls to car salesmen, who’d driven up during the day in their limousines. Morris Keston was there, installed in his suite. So was Phil Isaacs, boss of The Sportsman, the Tottenham Court Road club well frequented by footballers. (Their names go up in the foyer to let more humble members know which big stars are in tonight.) Some of the players’ relations had arrived – Ray Evans’s sister was sitting in the lounge. Bill Nicholson was wandering round the reception looking worried, waiting for his daughter Linda and her husband John who were coming over from Bradford. The next day, approximately eleven thousand Spurs fans were due to make the journey up from London, the biggest contingent of the season. There’s nothing like an important Cup match against a major team for bringing out the big crowds.

  Linda, Bill’s daughter, eventually arrived. She was very excited about the match. ‘I probably won’t sleep tonight.’ She joined her father for sandwiches. Bill’s son-in-law John had remarkably long hair for a member of the Nicholson family. It was as long as any of the players’, apart from Roger Morgan’s. Roger was having his sandwiches in a far corner, talking to some friends from the motor trade.

  Just before ten o’clock, two of the Leeds stars, Eddie Gray and Peter Lorimer, popped their heads into the lounge on their way to bed. ‘We stay here every Friday night before a home match,’ said Eddie Gray. ‘Room 303, always the same one. We’ve both got young babies who keep us awake. Don [Revie, their manager] rings us at ten to make sure we’re in bed.’

  In one corner Steve Perryman and Pat Jennings were being chatted up by two blokes trying to interest them in using their names for sponsorship. One was the managing director of a Leeds sportswear firm and the other turned out to be someone I knew, Paul Trevillion. Fresh from his success as an artist drawing footballers (he did the diagrams at the end of this book, which proves how successful he is), Trevillion now apparently was moving into new fields. I knew nothing about it till I went across and listened to his spiel.

  ‘I’ll be the biggest name in sport in a year,’ he was telling Steve and Pat in his usual modest way. They didn’t blink, being too polite to laugh in anyone’s face. ‘I’ve taken over the Leeds team in just six weeks, haven’t I, Harvey?’ he said, turning to his friend for confirmation. ‘Tomorrow Leeds will come out and do things which have never been seen on a football field before, I promise you.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Harvey, on cue this time. ‘When the Beaver says something, he does it.’ Trevillion is known by himself, and hopefully by others, as the Beaver. It can be rather confusing for strangers when he starts talking about himself in the third person as the Beaver.

  ‘It might not be tomorrow,’ added Trevillion, for once being careful. ‘Don might keep it back for next week’s home game against Arsenal. But you’ll see in the end. The Beaver’s done it again!’

  Steve and Pat looked polite but unimpressed. I got the feeling they didn’t understand what was going on.

  ‘I only want five special players and I’ve got two already, Francis Lee and Terry Cooper.’ He pulled out a portfolio of drawings and plans and started ranting about something called the TC6, which was a new training shoe, so revolutionary he couldn’t reveal the details. ‘It’s no use doing something irrelevant like The Clan. They’ve gone for the wrong image, concentrating on being swingers and chasing birds. That’s going to put the mums off. It’s the mums who buy most football shirts and tracksuits. The Clan should stick to its image as footballers. Nothing else.’ Steve and Pat nodded. They’d been thinking this on the train. ‘I want you two on my list because you’re both special.’ Steve and Pat sat up waiting to hear what was so special about them, wondering why Chivers or Peters hadn’t been picked to benefit from the Beaver’s brilliance.

  ‘You’re playing very well, Steve,’ said Trevillion, pausing for breath, giving his hard sell a chance to sink in.

  ‘No I’m not,’ said Steve quickly. ‘I’m not playing well at all.’

  Trevillion had slipped up on his homework for once. Any close study of Spurs that season should have told him that. And any close study of Perryman would have shown him that flattery would get him nowhere. Steve is nothing if not a realist.

  ‘I know you’ve got an agent, Pat,’ said Trevillion, changing the subject.

  ‘He’s done very little for me . . .’ said Pat.

  ‘But I don’t want to be your agent,’ said Trevillion, giving Pat no chance to continue. ‘I’m not after your twenty per cent. If you decide to sponsor any of the goods we have in mind, you keep it all.’

  ‘So what’s in it for you?’ I asked Trevillion.

  ‘I get a copyright fee as the designer of the products,’ he said. ‘It’s got to be gloves for you, Pat, for a start. From this minute on I want you to deny you’ve got big hands, okay? In interviews you say it’s not true.’

  Pat held up his huge hands, great slabs of them, as if amazed himself by their size.

  ‘It’s not your big hands which help you, Pat. It’s your specially designed gloves. Isn’t it? Yes! Well, don’t forget it.

  ‘What would you say are your best points, Steve?’ said Trevillion. ‘Tackling? I’d say you were a brilliant tackler. Harvey, we’ll do a special tackling boot for Steve.’

  ‘It’s getting in the right position for a tackle that matters most,’ said Steve quietly.

  ‘Yes, I’d say it was your tackling, plus your non-stop energy,’ continued Trevillion. ‘Energy, that’s it. Perryman Dextrose tablets! I can see them now. It’s what the chemical industry’s been waiting for. When you give interviews or go on telly you’ll suck them all the time, okay? As the whistle blows, you put one in your mouth, facing the cameras, okay? And when reporters ask you afterwards if you’re tired, you say you’re never tired. You could do with another ninety minutes, you’ve got so much energy left.’

  ‘What if the tablets are no good?’ said Steve. ‘You can sell things once, but not a second time. It wouldn’t do Pat or me any good, or Spurs.’

  ‘They will be good. If you believe in them, others will. Listen, you’ve got just ninety minutes a week to project yourself. Life is short. You’ve got to look after yourself. In that ninety minutes you’ve got millions watching. Spurs are on TV every week, aren’t they?’

  ‘Almost,’ said Pat.

  ‘So it’s the biggest free commercial slot in the world! You could do anything, yet no one’s tried. Tomorrow you’ll see something which will kill you. Leeds have seen sense. The players went in to see Don saying we want the Beaver. He refused at first, now he’s agreed.’

  ‘Bill would never agree . . .’ said Steve.

  ‘I’ve cracked harder nuts than him,’ said Trevillion.

  They both smiled.

  ‘Look at your team,’ said Trevillion. ‘You’re all faceless. Apart from Chivers, who is there? Who does the public know? Look at Coates. A British record at £190,000 and the only thing people know about him is his dodgy knee. I could guarantee to increase Spurs gates by ten thousand a time, just by promoting the players. The club does everything wrong. The manager only moans. The directors are faceless. Look at Shankly, screaming about his new star Keegan. People come specially to see him. When has Bill ever said any of his players are great?’

  There was no answer to that one.

  Saturday morning was misty. The directors and their wives were up early and went window-shopping along the Leeds boulevards. Most of the players had a late breakfast, spinning out the morning.

  Over in the Leeds camp they were all quietly confident of victory. Don Revie had said publicly that with the home advantage they could have no excuses. As at Spurs, the scouts and spies had produced masses of notes on the rival team. I talked to one of the Leeds spies who’d been sent specially to see Spurs on three occasions in recent weeks. His report was damning. Each Spurs player sounded like a condemned man about to be sentenced for life. These reports are meant to be destructive. The scout was looking purely for weaknesses which could be exploited, not for points to praise.

  ‘Spurs are not co-ordinating as a team,’ he said. ‘They have too many individuals who are not giving enough. Personally, I wouldn’t have Peters on my side. When a side is winning he plays very well, getting round the blind side into space, but he lacks the strength to contain the opposition in midfield when things are going badly.

  ‘I wouldn’t have Coates in my side either. All he can do is run, usually into people or through people. He has no distribution. To have an ace team you need people who can play well in all circumstances. Peters and Coates can’t.

  ‘Spurs’ big weakness is in midfield, mainly because of Peters and Coates. I only hope they don’t put Holder in. When I’ve seen Spurs play recently he’s been their best midfield man. I can understand the decision if he’s not picked because of his lack of experience, but personally I’d take a chance and play him.

  ‘I rate Perryman, but he hasn’t yet developed into the great player that seemed likely last season. It might just be lack of help. A midfield player has to be a winner and a creator. It’s pointless winning the ball if you can’t then do something with it, which is what often happens to Perryman. But Perryman might be able to create more chances with more help around him.

  ‘As for Morgan, I’ve never rated him. But I must admit he’s fighting hard at the moment, now he’s been moved back to midfield. But I wouldn’t have bought him.

  ‘Amongst the forwards, Chivers can be magnificent. He’s so powerful and strong and deceptive, accelerating just when you think he’s going to stop. But away from home he’s being left too much on his own. He needs someone like our Alan Clarke beside him, capitalising on his work. I’m not saying that Clarke and Jones together don’t do well, but Clarke and Chivers would be unstoppable.

  ‘Gilzean is an enigma. He’s a good asset in set-pieces, with his flicks, but he’s too easy to blot out. He hasn’t got the strength or the aggression to burst the skin off a rice pudding. He doesn’t want to know if anyone comes in hard. You can’t afford this sort of player in any team.

  ‘The defence is fairly sound. Beal and England are doing grand jobs. I didn’t think much of Evans earlier on. I thought he was very ordinary but he’s getting better all the time. But Knowles, he’s not to my taste. I think he’s awkwardly aggressive.

  ‘Pratt has never played when I’ve been scouting Spurs. I didn’t give a report on him.

  ‘That leaves Jennings. I take my bloody hat off to him. I’ve thought once or twice I’ve spotted his weakness. I saw him once go for the near post a bit early, leaving his far post empty. I thought, that’s it, that’s his weakness. But he never did it again. Every time I’ve seen him he’s been magnificent.

  ‘These are just my personal views. All I’ve done is put them in my report and give them to Don Revie. He has his own views, from his own observations. He alone decides the tactics. I’m sure the Spurs scouts will have picked on Sprake and Charlton as our two weaknesses, but they always underrate Jack. They think because he’s thirty-seven he’s past it. But we’ve only had one game a week recently and it’s been just what he’s needed.

  ‘People still underestimate the Leeds team. Most of the players were not rated at all by other clubs at one time, now the whole team is blossoming, just the way we all knew it would. Spurs are a good team. No one ever underestimates what they can do. But at this moment the whole is not co-ordinating. Their weakness in midfield is stopping the rest from developing.’

  Back at the Spurs hotel, John Pratt came out of the team meeting looking quietly pleased. Ralph Coates looked straight ahead, catching no one’s eye. John was in the team. Ralph wasn’t. Then they all went into the dining-room for an early lunch.

  Even by Bill’s standards, he’d been unusually pessimistic in the meeting, telling them not to worry if they got beaten 2–0. ‘Someone’s got to lose,’ he’d said. ‘And if we’re losing, just keep playing as well as you can.’ In going through the Leeds team he’d made them all sound like superstars. As his players all knew that, anyway – it didn’t help their confidence very much.

  On the coach to Elland Road Bill spread himself out on a double seat and beamed round. ‘Okay, Martin,’ he said, smiling at Chivers who was grimly looking out of the window, ‘you could put the fear of death into them today. Sprake’s scared of you and so is Charlton. That’s two for a start, Martin. That’s not bad, is it?’

  Martin smiled bravely but didn’t reply. He was sitting alone, knowing only too well how everyone, manager, player and supporter alike, was expecting miracles from him.

  The Leeds United ground was already full of chanting fans with still an hour to go. The players as usual went straight onto the pitch to inspect it and were greated with a welcoming cheer from the eleven thousand Spurs fans who’d collected at one end. The Leeds fans at the other end replied with the usual obscenities – Tottenham Shit – just to get the right party spirit.

  Bill was talking to Martin Peters in the middle of the pitch, working out which way the sun would be in the second half. The others prodded the surface, trying to ignore the screaming fans. Pat Jennings had his hands behind his back in the best Prince Philip style. I could see them visibly shaking. I pointed it out to Dr Curtin.

  ‘I’ve noticed it for some time,’ he said. ‘It means nothing. But footballers who are going to get diseases in later life can perhaps get the signs earlier than other people. Their physical training is so hard that it can bring out weaknesses that wouldn’t normally be apparent in such young men.’

  They all trailed slowly back into their dressing-room. Spurs were to play in yellow, being the away team, while Leeds would be in their normal all-white. In the corridor, Bill asked Ralph if he was fit. Ralph said he felt great. In that case he was to be sub.

  Inside the dressing-room, unaware yet that Ralph had been chosen as sub, Jimmy Pearce and Peter Collins were sitting in a corner in their good suits watching the first eleven getting undressed. ‘Have you seen the boots yet?’ whispered Pete to Jimmy. They both stared round, looking for signs. Ralph came in and started taking his clothes off. ‘You owe me a quid, Spud,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Any of you players want oiled?’ said Ralph, smiling and looking round. ‘I might as well help out.’

  John Pratt came back from the lavatory and announced that he’d seen a sign on the Leeds dressing-room as he’d come past. It had said ‘Keep Fighting’.

  Nobody said anything. They knew that it was true. It was the first time I’d been consciously aware of the Spurs team worrying about their opponents. Against Nantes, earlier in the season, they had been tense but more because of the strangeness of the setting than worry.

  About two-thirty, Bill started going round the players in turn, going over what they each had to do. ‘Watch Eddie Gray when he drags the ball back,’ he told Ray Evans. ‘He does it with either foot, then he suddenly moves forward. Don’t be fooled by it.’ Ray nodded solemnly.

  He went over to Steve and John Pratt about their roles in midfield, working out who would take whom. ‘I’ll take Giles,’ said Steve. ‘I’d prefer to.’ Bill looked at him and said what about Bremner, wouldn’t he be better with Bremner? Steve said no, he thought he’d be best marking Giles.

  Bill then moved on to Roger Morgan. He was told to make a tackle only when he had a good chance. ‘I don’t want you throwing yourself around when you haven’t a chance. I don’t want you on the ground. Keep on your feet. Only commit yourself if you’ve got a chance.’

  ‘This is it, lads,’ said Martin Peters loudly, looking grim, doing his captain’s bit. ‘All out today, lads!’

  ‘We’ll be in the semis after this,’ shouted someone else, loudly.

  ‘Let’s really go!’

  These shouts of self-encouragement had been sudden and now there was silence. The players couldn’t think of what else to say or do, apart from looking round sternly and clenching their fists, showing how serious they were. Bill said little else, waiting at the door to administer his final good wishes. This was a match whose importance didn’t need to be rubbed in.

  The Leeds team had gone out first, in fact a good ten minutes before three o’clock, and were apparently causing a sensation. Their whole squad, twelve players and trainer Les Cocker, were in gleaming white tracksuit tops with their names printed large in blue on the back. It was the first time such a thing had been seen in the English First Division. On the outside of each stocking top hung the player’s number, another innovation. But the biggest gimmick was their exercises. They ran in formation to the far corner of the pitch and started dancing in unison, high kicking, bending and jumping, all perfectly together and in time. They went round the pitch and performed to each section of the crowd in turn. They radiated confidence and fitness and the crowd went wild with excitement.

  When the Spurs came out the boos were equally tremendous. At least at Liverpool, the home of crowd excitement, they’d managed a cheer for the visiting side. But the Leeds crowd were now in a state of almost Nuremburg hysteria.

  In the directors’ box Mr Wale was visibly upset. A big cup match in England is after all supposed to be partly a gala day. ‘I remember when we came here for the first time after we’d won the Double and the European title. We were booed onto the pitch, the only place we were booed. The crowd has never liked us here.’

  Whether it was the excitement of their callisthenics or their innate skills, Leeds played the first twenty minutes as if they really were footballing gods. Their brilliance was frightening. Don Revie said later he’d never seen such twenty minutes of football in all his life. Spurs looked honest, solid journeymen, completely outclassed by the eleven artists of the Leeds team. It wouldn’t have been unfair if Leeds had scored four goals in those first twenty minutes. They built up from the back, through the midfield and out to the wings in an intricate yet inevitable series of moves. Spurs defended stubbornly. They didn’t become desperate or start fouling or obstructing. They simply didn’t have a chance. Leeds hit the bar once, shot just wide three times and missed two open goals. Pat Jennings, the only Spurs player to match their brilliance, saved at least three certain goals. It seemed impossible that Leeds would not to score. Sometimes, when a team is unable to score, despite making all the running, they get over-excited, almost despairing, and start being frantic and eventually lose their cohesion. But Leeds didn’t break rank or break spirit. They seemed to know they were the chosen team. Though Spurs were having miraculous escapes, nothing could stop Leeds, so why panic or worry?