Downstairs in the foyer Johnny Wallis was waiting, all worried. For the first time in his long career, his precious skips containing the team’s equipment had gone missing. At Wolverhampton he’d gone to the guard’s van to supervise them being taken off – and they weren’t there. They’d been taken off at Birmingham by mistake. After a lot of desperate phone calls, he’d been promised they would be put on the next train. He hoped they would arrive in time to get them to Molineux.

  It had been growing very dark outside and suddenly the thunder and lightning started and down came the rain. Up in the TV lounge, the players were pleased. British footballers tend to like a wet ground. They like to do sliding tackles and have the advantage of a fast skidding ball when they take a shot at goal. Goalkeepers, of course, don’t like the rain. There was a sudden extra roar outside, like a victorious army arriving. Hundreds of stamping boots and raucous voices could be heard charging up the street outside, shouting in unison and clapping, TOT-EN-HAM, TOT-EN-HAM.

  ‘It’s the lovely boys,’ said one of the players, and they all flew to the window and threw it up. The supporters’ special train had arrived and, despite the weather and the fact that none of them had coats, they were charging in formation from the station as if they owned the place, ignoring the thunder and lightning and hailstones. They were too busy shouting to look up and notice the players, cheering back at them from an upstairs window in the Victoria Hotel.

  ‘They’re not soft, that lot,’ said one of the players, closing the window when at last they’d all gone past.

  Alan Mullery appeared with the tickets and distributed them, two each. There was a flurry to get biros and address the envelopes to be left for friends and relations at the ticket office when they got to Molineux, the Wanderers’ ground.

  Just before two, the missing skips arrived and the players all left the hotel and made their way by coach to Molineux. The streets had turned into rivers of rainwater and some stretches were flooded.

  Mr Wale, the chairman, sat on the coach at the front. He was looking forward to seeing the Wolves directors again. They had good relations with Wolves, though a few years ago there had been a minor incident at Tottenham involving a previous Wolves chairman, now dead. ‘He was a terrible woman-hater,’ said Mr Wale. ‘As we at Spurs don’t allow women in our Blue Room, where we entertain visiting directors, this didn’t worry us. But this particular Saturday Jayne Mansfield and her husband had come to watch us play. We’d invited the husband for a drink afterwards – and she took it upon herself to follow him. No one wanted to ask her to leave. So to make it easier and less embarrassing all round, I popped down and asked the other wives to come up and have a drink. But in the meantime, the Wolves chairman arrived. He wasn’t at all pleased to see women around, especially Jayne Mansfield!’

  The visitors’ dressing-room at Molineux, which you enter straight from the main road, was cold and uninviting. The players stood around, chatting, not wanting to get undressed till it was nearer the time. Most of them followed Bill Nicholson on to the pitch to inspect it, a ritual at all away matches. The drainage was working brilliantly and the pipes were disgorging gallons of brown rainwater into a ditch around the side of the park. There was a sudden agitation amongst the police guarding the players’ tunnel. Three cops appeared from the ground, dragging a Spurs supporter, his face streaming with blood. There was still an hour to go but the fighting had already started between the rival supporters.

  Back in the dressing-room, Cyril Knowles and Roger Morgan were larking about, throwing an empty bandage tin across the room, trying to land it on a hook. Cyril then started kicking it noisily across the room. Martin Peters was visibly upset, wincing every time Cyril kicked the tin, wishing he would stop and that everyone would sit down and be quiet. But he didn’t say anything. Finally Cyril threw the tin across the room, aiming at someone, and it went out of a window and into the street.

  ‘You cunt, Cyril,’ said someone.

  ‘Don’t call him that,’ said Martin Chivers. ‘A cunt’s a very useful thing.’

  There was a knock at the door. It opened and Cyril’s brother came in, looking very scrubbed and neat in a short white raincoat. He stood hesitantly in a corner, looking round. Peter Knowles used to be one of the stars of Wolves, and still lives in the area. He gave it all up a few years ago to become a Jehovah’s Witness, something you would never expect Cyril to do. He looked across at Bill Nicholson, knowing that the Spurs manager doesn’t normally allow outsiders in his dressing-room, but Bill recognised him. He didn’t say anything, just caught his eye and looked at him, then turned back and continued talking quietly to Ralph Coates in a corner. Cyril beckoned to his brother to sit beside him and they chatted quietly for about ten minutes. Martin Peters was obviously pleased by the peaceful interruption.

  ‘That your brother then, Cyril,’ said someone when Peter had gone.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Cyril. ‘Still got a lot of skill.’

  ‘Must have,’ said Alan Gilzean. ‘Takes a lot of skill to read the Bible.’

  Everyone laughed. Bill Nicholson even smiled. He asked Gilly if it was the Palladium he was going to tonight. Gilly said yes. Top of the bill.

  Ralph Coates asked Bill Nicholson if he should play on the right or the left wing. ‘As it is in the programme,’ said Nicholson blankly. ‘Start off like that, on the right, then change with Gilly to the left straight afterwards.’

  Bill went round several other players, giving last-minute instructions, and then told John Pratt to get stripped off. He would be substitute. Roger Morgan was visibly disappointed. His journey had been pointless. At the same match last season, away to Wolves, they won 3–0 and Roger had scored one of the goals, one of his few matches before he’d been injured. He knew that his injured knee, which was still swelling up in training, was the main reason for not being picked, but he’d still hoped to have been substitute. If he’d known he’d rather have stayed behind and played in the reserves, just for the sake of some sort of game, rather than drag all the way to Wolves for nothing.

  Roger stood around in his sharp suit and long hair, looking very out of place beside the spotless white virgin Spurs, all booted and padded, ready to work. He said he was going for a cup of tea and went out. He was back in a few minutes. He’d been thrown out of two tearooms for not having the proper passes, or any passes at all, and had been forced to come back, safe in Spurs’ only bit of territory in a foreign land.

  Nobody was really taking any notice of Roger as he rabbited on. They were too busy with their own private last-minute preparations. Pat Jennings was complaining that he’d lost something, searching in his own little plastic bag, one that’s always brought in the team skip and contains his gloves, cap and other bits and pieces that might be needed on certain occasions. On a sodden pitch he needed the right gloves.

  Roger went out again, to get to his seat, and there was a long and artificial silence. Bill paced round, having gone through his final instructions several times already, thinking to himself, his brows knotted, his hands clenched. A few minutes before three, the referee came in, to tell them he wanted a good clean game and to inspect their studs in case any were dangerous. When he’d gone, everyone immediately stood up, banging their boots on the floor, chattering noisily. They processed quickly to the door, turning round to one another, wishing each other good luck and shaking hands. They always wish each other good luck before a match. It’s not purely in the hope that the game goes well – but that no one gets injured.

  At the doorway, Bill clapped the backs of his players, wishing them in turn and by their Christian name all the best, good luck, as each went past him, down the corridor, through the tunnel and out to the pitch.

  For the first twenty minutes of the match, both teams played at full pelt, running and passing with great skill and determination, despite the terrible conditions. Spurs perhaps showed more skill, but their movements were coming to nothing in front of goal, while Wolves were playing more direct and looked more dangerous. They scored just before half-time, helped by a mistake by Jennings. He appeared to let the ball fall from his hands after he’d taken a high cross, and Bobby Gould put it easily in the net. It was the first time he hadn’t handled the ball cleanly and safely.

  In the second half, which began in another thunderstorm, Wolves were even more confident and scored again, this time from a penalty after a solo run from Dougan. Wolves now seemed certain of victory. They were giving nothing away and were playing harder than ever while Spurs showed few creative movements. Then, with just ten minutes to go, Chivers scored after Wolves’ goalkeeper made a similar mistake to Jennings, letting the ball out of his hands. Four minutes later, Gilzean scored Spurs’ second goal, again against the run of play. This time Wolves fell apart, shaken and demoralised, and in the last five minutes, Spurs, having been behind for ninety per cent of the game, even looked like winning, but it ended in a draw, two goals each. It was a great disappointment for Wolves and a great relief for Spurs to have got one point away from home. Wolves are always a strong team at home. Last season they’d finished fourth in the League with the same number of points as Spurs.

  Up in the stands, perhaps with a trace of bitterness, Roger Morgan said that Ralph Coates hadn’t done much. Coates had been playing on the wing, in Roger’s position. But none of the Spurs team had played as well as they can, particularly Mike England who failed almost every time to stop Derek Dougan, and Pat Jennings who had made the mistake which had led to Wolves taking the lead. If they hadn’t had a couple of bits of luck, played for and well taken though they were, the loss of two points might have been blamed on that mistake by Jennings. As it was, the bad luck had been equalled out.

  On the trainers’ bench, where he’d ended up frantically yelling instructions, Bill Nicholson was drained but seemed pleased. He’d signalled towards the end that Coates should play up and Gilly come back, which had made a big difference and might have given them victory.

  The Spurs players trooped into the dressing-room, pleased with their unexpected reprieve. None of them had really thought they were going to do it. They all said how deflated Bobby Gould had been when Spurs had drawn level. He’d put his face in his hands and said that was it, it’s happened again, we won’t win now.

  Bill Nicholson even went so far as to make a joke. As John Pratt came out of the showers, after his exertions of sitting on the bench all afternoon and not being called on to play, Bill slapped him on the back. ‘You didn’t play a bad ball this afternoon, John,’ he said.

  The players smiled, pleased that their manager was happy for once. ‘He’s made up, isn’t he,’ said Martin Chivers in the corner, watching Nicholson.

  ‘What about Mart?’ said Joe Kinnear, pointing at Peters. ‘“Near post!”, he shouts, then he belts it into the crowd.’

  Nicholson was standing in a corner, demonstrating with legs apart and his arms wide some position that Mullery and Coates should have taken up. They listened respectfully, naked and dripping from the bath. The rest were still in the bath, singing and shouting.

  They were quickly dressed and onto the coach, pushing through a crowd of fans, wanting autographs. ‘Well done lads,’ said Ralph, standing in the gangway of the coach, beaming round, but rather nervously, half-knowing that as a new boy he shouldn’t be drawing attention to himself. There was a pause while they thought of suitable insults.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cyril Knowles at last. ‘Must be strange, getting a point from a game.’

  Coates sat down, smiling, glad that the expected insult hadn’t been too wounding. At the back of the coach Roger Morgan went ‘Ralphy, Ralphy, Ralphy’, in a soft high-pitched voice. Coates ignored him, guessing who it was.

  The Spurs fans, marching and shouting their way back to the station, banged on the windows of the coach as it threaded its way through the crowds. ‘Go on, smash the town up,’ said Cyril, encouraging them.

  ‘Didn’t we get at them for that first twenty minutes,’ said Mullery. ‘There was a few lying on the deck.’

  ‘But they got us back,’ said Joe Kinnear. He’d got cuts right across his chest after Wagstaff’s boot had caught him. He didn’t appear angry with Wagstaff. He always has a duel with him. Nothing personal. He only wished it had been the other way round.

  Chivers had put his top front teeth back in and now looked more human. With them out he’s a frightening sight, charging down the pitch, with his deep-set dark eyes and towering physique.

  ‘What would you do? With all those dolly birds watching you,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t like looking like this, but if I left them in I might damage someone else’s chances. They once came out and went through the side of my cheek. I’ve still got the scars.’

  Mike England was very quiet. ‘I had a bad game, that’s all there is to it. But I’m glad I’ve got it over. If you get your bad game over with early, the rest is usually okay.’

  Pat Jennings was saying nothing at all. He was obviously very depressed about his performance. All the same, he gave autographs to the fans with the others on Wolverhampton station.

  On the train home they had dinner and plenty to drink, half of them ordering lagers-and-limes, two at a time. The others were on soft drinks. Steve Perryman stuck to Coke. By the end of the journey Gilzean had several empty lager tins stacked in front of him. From time to time a few fans managed to get into the dining-room and stood around, asking for autographs or just watching the players eating, till they were finally moved on.

  At Euston, Gilzean was off to his car immediately, disappearing in the direction of the West End.

  ‘Did you hear Gilly at half-time?’ said Joe Kinnear. ‘He said only another forty-five minutes to go then we’ll be heading back to London.’

  Joe said he’d once gone with Gilly on a Saturday evening on the town but had to give up halfway. He couldn’t stand the pace. Most footballers drink very little, except for those who like a few lagers on a Saturday after a match, such as Gilly. Nobody can understand how he still keeps so fit. But he does.

  On the coach back to Spurs, they discussed where they were all going that night. Despite all the boasts about nightclubs on the way up to Wolverhampton, they were all going quietly home to their wives, after a few lagers in the British Queen, a mod pub near the ground.

  In the club’s carpark they said cheerio to Bill Nicholson. Cyril Knowles said cheerio loudly to all the players, as if he was going straight home, but when Bill had driven away he went over to the rest of the lads, checking which pub they were going to. Joe Kinnear was sitting in his car. He took a brush out of the glove compartment and brushed his hair in the mirror. Roger Morgan was in his car, dabbing on aftershave.

  Outside the British Queen, a woman in tight trousers with an expensive-looking tan was waiting in a white E-type Jaguar. She rushed towards the players when they arrived and went in with them and stood in a corner of the bar.

  The players seemed out of place, almost elderly, compared with the casual, colourful teenagers and their girls. They looked so staid in their neat three-piece suits, more like business executives or salesmen. The girl in the TV lounge of the hotel in town had thought at first sight that they were all salesmen, arrived in town for a conference.

  The expensive-looking E-type lady was aged about thirty and she too looked out of place. The Spurs players have two or three wealthy female hangers-on who try to get them to go to parties. They seem to live in £70,000 houses in north London and have husbands, usually twice their size, who are always abroad on business.

  About ten o’clock, they said goodbye to each other and headed for home, leaving the E-type behind. They watched the football on TV, then messed around, trying to spin out the time, unwilling to go to bed too early. After a match, none of them finds it easy to sleep. They’d been preparing all week, for four weeks in fact, for one performance, and now that it was over they needed time to calm down again. It had assumed extra importance, just because it was the first.

  Like the players, Bill Nicholson, already back at his home, just round the corner from the British Queen, was filling in time, putting off bed, knowing he’d never sleep. It had been an uneventful beginning to the season. Not a match to remember. But Bill still couldn’t get it out of his head.

  ‘There’s never any problem about sleep during the week. I always get to bed late, exhausted, thinking I’ve done bloody nothing, yet I haven’t stopped. But on Saturdays I can never sleep. I’m too keyed up. I go over every kick.’

  5. BILL NICHOLSON

  * * *

  Bill Nicholson was born in Scarborough, one of five brothers and four sisters. His father looked after horses, working in the winter as a groom and in the summer as the driver of a horse-drawn cab along the front at Scarborough. Bill was the only one of the nine children to pass the scholarship exam for Scarborough High School. Many of the pupils were fee-paying, the sons of local businessmen, but Bill has no memory of being out of it.

  At eleven he was playing for the school’s Under-14 team, but he never thought about being a professional footballer. ‘I lived in a small town, an out-of-the-way sort of place, and it didn’t seem to have anything to do with us. There was nothing like the scouting system we have today.’

  He wasn’t much interested in academic work at school, apart from geography. He never played for any representative or district team. Scarborough High, considering itself a bit posh, didn’t allow its boys to do such common things.