MUCH TO THE FRUSTRATION OF my friends and family, I am a vocal, lifelong supporter of Hull City. I have rejoiced in the good days (there have been a few, but not that many) and wept when the bad times have descended (of which there have been too many). Yet, despite the urging of almost everyone I know to adopt a team like Leicester City (the nearest ‘big club’ to where I live), I have always found myself drawn to the black and amber of the Tigers. I look out for their results every time they play and, for seven years, I followed them – home and away. During this time, I witnessed some wonderful performances, as well as quite a few stinkers. I have seen them win at Wembley and Wycombe Wanderers, and get walloped at White Hart Lane (home of Tottenham). Yet no matter how many times I have witnessed a painful Tigers defeat, my support has never wavered.
In the late summer of 1977, my excitement knew no bounds, for the football season was about to kick off, and City had a plum opening day home fixture against Sunderland. Fourteen months earlier, the Black Cats had visited Hull and thumped us by four goals to one. It was a painful afternoon, and the win guaranteed Sunderland promotion to the First Division (albeit they were relegated the following season). Anyone with a football brain was predicting a similar score this time round against one of the clear favourites to lift the title, for the pundits and doomsters had us earmarked to finish in the bottom three (which meant dropping into the third tier) long before the season had even started. But not me. For I saw myself as being something of a good luck charm for City, as I had never seen them lose.
Shortly before travelling to Auntie Kathleen’s, I received a letter from Mac Stone of the Tigers. He wasn’t someone who typed correspondence and took down shorthand notes, but a man who was actively involved in the day-to-day running of the club. He was an important part of the management team. A decision-maker, no less. And it wasn’t just any kind of letter he sent me, it was a response to an offer I had sent John Kaye, the manager, in July, begging to be considered as a potential replacement for Chris Chilton, the club’s revered (and now long retired) centre forward. Even though I was only twelve, I really believed I could do a good job for Hull. I was tall for my age. I was quick. And I could mix it with boys older than me. Unfortunately, Mr Stone didn’t share my confidence. His warm reply stated:
Dear Tony.
Many thanks for your recent correspondence about becoming our new centre forward. It is kind and generous of you to put yourself forward this way.
Unfortunately, we must decline, for professional football doesn’t work this way. If we want to sign you, we will get in touch with you, or your parents, directly.
Good luck with in fulfilling your footballing dreams, and I hope you continue to support City.
Yours sincerely, Mac Stone (Club Secretary).
The polite rejection did nothing to affect my passion for my hometown club. If anything, it just fuelled my desire to don the number nine shirt one day. My acute lack of footballing prowess (I would go on to play rugby union for twenty-eight years) didn’t matter one bit. I was confident I could overcome any obstacles put in my way until I achieved my destiny – to be Chilton’s worthy successor. At the very least, I was determined I would mirror Stuart Pearson’s achievements before he moved to Manchester United for a transfer fee of two hundred and forty thousand pounds. Until the day I signed my own professional contract with the club I loved, I would simply turn the snub into enthusiastic and tangible support, starting with the upcoming clash against the Wearsiders.
Before I had played my sugar bowl trick on Uncle Jim, I had asked my Auntie Kathleen and mum if I could go to the match. They both said ‘yes’, provided I behaved! Even though I had strayed off the straight and narrow a little bit already, there had been no mention of not letting me make my pilgrimage to Boothferry Park. So my excitement mounted all week, and by the time Saturday arrived, I could barely contain myself. I was up at the crack of dawn, still energised after being buzzed by RAF jets. My bed was made, my room tidied, and I was dressed and at the scullery table by seven-thirty in the morning, a good thirty minutes before Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Jim awoke from their slumber. After downing two bowls of Rice Krispies and benefitting from all that ‘snap, crackle and pop’, the next six hours passed by slowly. Every ten minutes, or so, I looked at my watch, and as I did so, I could see Uncle Jim, who had recently emerged from the bathroom, getting more irritated as he wiped the sleep from his eyes and tried to read the newspaper.
“The time won’t go by any faster just because you want it to,” he said to me. “Why don’t you read a book, or play with your toy soldiers for a while? The morning will go by a lot quicker if your mind is occupied and you’re not just staring into space.”
My uncle’s words fell on deaf ears. I couldn’t stop thinking about the game. I was getting over excited. I knew it, as did he. The source was the attachment I had to my hometown team and my firm belief City would claim all the points, just as they had done when I last saw them play, against Wolves in October 1976. That day, they ran out victors by two goals to nil. But, if City could beat Sunderland, that really would top everything.
Shortly before one o’clock, Uncle Fred emerged from his room. His grey flat cap was anchored to his head, and his tweed suit looked slightly out of place on a bright summer’s day. So, too, did his chequered scarf and the grim expression he was wearing. It certainly didn’t look as though he shared my pre-match optimism.
“Aren’t you going to wear your City colours?” I asked him as he sat down on the settee for a moment, waiting for me to put my training shoes on, all traces of the previous day’s cowpat cleansed and erased.
“Nay, lad. This will do me fine,” he said, uttering several more words than we were all used to hearing. “Quick about it, now. We’d best be off. We’ve got a bus to catch, and we mustn’t be late, I want to make sure I get my usual place on the terraces.”
I quickly did double knots in both my shoes and tied my City scarf around my neck. “I am ready, Uncle Fred,” I muttered, joy etched all over my face, the kind all football fans have before kick-off. As we were about to leave, Auntie Kathleen suddenly appeared from the back of the house. She smiled warmly, dusting off the self-raising flour that had found its way onto her apron and suspending her baking duties momentarily. “Make sure you take good care of him, Fred,” she said. “Don’t lose one another, because we don’t want to have to get a search party to come out and find you. And make sure you have a good time, win, lose or draw.”
“There’s only going to be one winner today,” I replied. And then we were gone, Uncle Fred set a brisk pace as we marched up the Avenue before turning left onto the Lane. From here, the number thirteen bus stop at Hall Road – from where we would catch a specially chartered supporters bus – was a mere ten minutes away.
Football crowds are like no other large gathering of people. Experience has taught me they are predominantly made up of men, many of whom behave like teenagers when they don’t have their wives, or partners, holding their hands. A large number also smoke, drink until they are drunk as skunks, and then talk utter tripe. Funnily enough, I have always found them to be quite comforting and exhilarating company, especially when there are less than a couple of hours to go before kick-off time and the sense of expectation reaches exaggerated heights. This starts from the moment you put your scarf on and jump onto the bus, or into the car that’s carrying you to the stadium. So it was that Saturday, as I sat with Uncle Fred on the bus as it slowly made its way down Hull’s tree-lined avenues to the hallowed terraces of the Boothferry Park stadium.
Being a man of few words, Uncle Fred barely spoke for the duration of the ride. The most I heard him say was “reet” and “ta” as he swapped some silver-coloured coins with the bus conductor in return for two return tickets. In fairness, he didn’t need to speak. I was too busy daydreaming about what was going to happen that afternoon in front of a sixteen thousand-strong crowd on a pitch City fans regarded as the finest playing surface in England. Such was my state of delirium, Uncle Fred had to shake my shoulder to get me to focus on the present as the bus ground to a halt at its ultimate destination. The thirty- minute journey had passed quickly. It was time to make tracks. “Wake up,” he said in a slightly raised voice. “We’re here, Tony. There’s not long to go now, so follow me, and remember to stay close. Don’t forget what your Auntie Kathleen said – she doesn’t want you to go missing. And neither do I.” And with that, we had climbed down from the bus and were mingling with the large crowd that was gathering on Anlaby Road. Interestingly, none of the fans we were standing alongside were wearing black and amber scarves; theirs were red and white. What’s more, we appeared to be in a queue full of men vocally displaying their loyalty to Sunderland, and a handful of them were pointing at me, clenching their fists and shouting words I couldn’t comprehend. I looked for Uncle Fred, who had become the Invisible Man . At first, I couldn’t see him. Then, after subduing the mild panic that was starting to grow within me, I spotted his flat cap. He was about ten feet (that’s six men) in front of me, in a long queue that was snaking its way towards... the away end. “Uncle Fred,” I called. “Uncle Fred. Uncle Fred!”
All I got out of him was an arm wave and a stern look that said ‘be quiet’. So I was, all the way to the turnstile, where I paid my fifty pence admission charge and earned a curious look from the man who took my money. Once inside the ground, I again looked for my uncle. He should have been waiting for me on the other side, but he wasn’t there. I looked again. Nope, he was nowhere to be seen. Then I had a brain wave: I remembered where he always stood on the terraces – directly in line with the corner flag, on the top steps (unless it was raining, when he always sought shelter). Sure enough, after picking my way through the massed ranks of opposition supporters, I eventually found him.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered as loudly as he dared. “You need to keep it down a bit, Tony. We’re surrounded by Sunderland fans. If you don’t keep it quiet, they’ll lynch both of us and our lifeless corpses will be hung on the floodlights. Now, be a good lad and keep quiet, particularly if we score. No jumping up and down and celebrating. Please, promise me you will do that.” Reluctantly I nodded my agreement. But I was confused. Here we were, about to watch City, and my uncle had led me into the den of the foe without any mention of it when we were on the bus. Whatever was going on?
“This isn’t the time for questions like that,” he blustered when I probed him. “Not right now. The game’s about the start. Let’s enjoy it, remembering not to get too excited, and I will explain everything when we’re on our way home. But you must promise me you won’t say a word to Auntie Kathleen or Uncle Jim. Do you understand?” I had little choice but to agree. And as soon as the word ‘yes’ had passed my lips, an enormous roar echoed around the old ground, as both sets of fans welcomed our respective heroes onto the pitch. In the City team that day were Jeff Wealands and Peter Daniel (two of my favourites), but no Billy Bremner, who was unable to play due to a knee injury he had picked up in the pre-season. I was gutted not to see the Scottish midfield terrier in a Hull shirt that day, but I put my disappointment behind me. Instead, I turned my attention to the events unfolding in front of me and, after squeezing myself in between two large, tattooed visiting supporters, I managed to secure a great view of the clash.
For the entire first half, the game was a complete anti climax. A promising start petered out into nothingness, with neither side willing to step up the pace. Forty- five minutes passed by uneventfully and slowly. Although we hadn’t troubled the visiting goalkeeper, there was at least one major consolation for all home supporters: City weren’t trailing by the time the referee’s whistle signalled halftime. After becoming wedged between the two Sunderland fans, who I learned by eavesdropping on their conversation were called Eric and Carl, I discovered it was impossible to turn around. I was so tightly wedged in. I looked up pleadingly at Eric, whose left hand had the letters L-O-V-E tattooed near the knuckles while the right hand only had three fingers on which H-A-T had been inked. Presumably an 'E’ was on the missing pinkie? I asked politely: “Excuse me, do you mind letting me through so I can go and find my uncle?” As soon as I had finished speaking the man roared with laughter.
“What? Are you telling me there is another imposter in the away end?” he enquired with a degree of menace laced into his thickly accented voice. His beard was discoloured by the stains of tobacco, and he had one large yellow tooth protruding from the top of his mouth. His sarcastic and unfriendly tone instantly put me on a state of high alert. “Tell you what, point out where your uncle is standing and we’ll take you directly to him. It would be nice to meet him and have a cosy chat.”
I have always had a sixth sense that identifies potential danger. Therefore, I was thankful I didn’t have time to point Uncle Fred out to these two men, for no sooner had Eric finished speaking to me, and closed his tight-fitting mouth thereby hiding his solitary tooth than uproar broke out among the Sunderland fans. I looked towards the pitch and quickly saw the source of their agitation: it was a ginger-haired, Sheepskin coat-wearing Hull fan, who had run onto the pitch and was now baiting the visiting supporters. In response, hundreds of proud Wearsiders moved like waves washing up against the seashore. One second I was going forward, the next I was being taken in the opposite direction. It was frightening. It was exciting. All the while it was happening I was desperately trying to identify Uncle Fred’s face among the wall of flesh that enveloped me. Throughout the ordeal, all I could hear was a single swear word being repeatedly chanted in unison by the men in red and white, their arms pointed at the lone City fan who dared to strut his stuff in front of them while issuing some sort of primeval combat challenge (albeit the rapidly approaching stewards and police officers ensured he faced minimal danger). As I watched the spectacle unfold, I made a mental note to ask Auntie Kathleen what the word “wan-ker” meant at an appropriate moment. I thought I knew, but it was always good to be sure.
As both teams emerged for the second half, both sets of supporters settled down once again. Regardless of our age, or gender, we were all eager to enjoy the main reason we had all been drawn to Boothferry Park in the first place. In this regard, I was to enjoy a far more profitable afternoon than those from Wearside, albeit it wasn’t until the fifty-seventh minute when our bearded Welsh defender, Dave Roberts, broke the deadlock. Three quarters of Boothferry Park erupted when the ball bounced into the back of the net. Despite my promise to Uncle Fred, I found I couldn’t contain myself, and I didn’t hold back my jubilation – until my unbridled glee drew some scornful and abusive remarks from those around me.
“What the heck is he doing in here?” someone standing close to me muttered. “He’d bloody well better behave himself, or he’ll find himself feeling the back of my hand.” The angry words meant nothing to me. I was immune to the threat they carried. All that mattered was my beloved City were in front. We were avenging the four- one drubbing of two seasons earlier in the best possible way. Soon it would get so much better. A second goal was scored seventeen minutes later, again by Roberts (who was not usually a prodigious marksman). This led to Hull fans breaking out into wild celebrations. You’d have thought their horse had won the Grand National. Forgetting where I was, my own jubilation went into overdrive once again. Any inhibitions I had were well and truly cast off. Unable to stomach me any longer, Eric grabbed my tracksuit collar, which I had put on at halftime in a bid to conceal my City shirt and true allegiance, and shook me violently.
“Calm down, or I will clip your flipping ear,” he growled, as the thumb and three fingers of his right hand gripped me tightly. “If that doesn’t shut you up, I will take you up to the railway line and strap you to it. And you know what’ll happen to you when the train leaves, don’t you?” As he spat out his threats, Eric turned and pointed at the railway track that ran parallel to the East Stand. He then slowly drew his finger across his throat so I could have no doubts about what he was suggesting. Boothferry Park was the only ground in Britain that had its own siding, which enabled supporters to travel to Paragon Station (the city’s main rail connection) and then easily negotiate the last couple of miles by jumping onto one of several match day specials that ran directly to the stadium. At that moment, I really believed Eric would carry out his threat. I looked at him blankly, the joy of the occasion drained completely from my face. It was the contrition he needed to let me go. As he did, my gaze returned to the turf and the closing minutes of the game.
I made sure I heeded Eric’s words, particularly as fulltime approached and Hull fired in their third goal to seal the win. I watched on as Bruce Bannister, an acquisition from Plymouth Argyle, turned and saluted the City faithful as the roar of “Tigers! Tigers!” echoed around the stadium. In the away end, there was no such joy. I heard comments like “bloody useless” and “what a bunch of donkeys” mouthed by multiple mouths as hordes of Sunderland fans streamed away from the ground. Among those who beat a hasty retreat were a downcast Eric and Carl.
“Hey, lad. Next time, make sure you go in the sodding home end,” shouted Eric, as he made his way to the packed carriages of the match day train. “If you don’t, you might find yourself standing next to fans who are less tolerant than us, and then you’ll be in a spot of bother. And your age won’t protect you.”
I waved and tapped my forehead acknowledging the warning. In truth, I had no right to be among the Sunderland fans as they mourned their side’s capitulation. At that moment, I appreciated his frustrations and hurt, not that I cared. As the visitors continued to drift away, large gaps appeared, and that’s when I saw Uncle Fred’s solitary figure once again. He was a good fifty feet away from me, standing on his own where one of the cast iron pillars, which held up the rusting East Stand roof, was erected. As I walked towards him, he looked up and locked his eyes on me. I knew instantly he wanted me to come no further, a point emphasised when his hand made a subtle ‘stop’ motion – the second time he had communicated such an instruction that afternoon. I don’t know how long I was left there on my own – mere seconds or a couple of minutes – but soon enough the game drew to an end, overjoyed City fans let out an almighty roar, and what remained of the red and white horde trooped off to return to the north-east, their wings well and truly clipped. With the terraces empty, I spied some discarded programmes that had cost their owners the princely sum of twelve pence. I picked up a couple and popped them in my pocket; they would be my own spoils of war, souvenirs that I would look at in the weeks ahead and recall the electricity of this charged afternoon.
“Come on, daft lad,” said Uncle Fred, who had ghosted his way to me as I collected the programmes. “We need to have a good chat before we get home, and we need to agree what we’re going to tell your Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Jim, don’t we?”
Neither of us uttered another word as we walked to the turnstiles, the very ones we had entered a couple of hours earlier. Our silence continued all the way back to the bus stop, where the familiar blue and white colours of the East Yorkshire double decker and an animated queue awaited us, and that’s when Uncle Fred decided to begin what would prove to be a very short discussion.
“Now, Tony,” he said in his most earnest of voices. “I really don’t want you telling your aunt that you have spent all afternoon in the away end at Boothferry Park. That will not be what she wants to hear. I would really prefer it if we could keep it our little secret.”
I nodded, slowly, understanding what he meant. When Uncle Fred spoke again, we had climbed the stairs to the first floor of the bus, which would give us panoramic views of the tightly packed rows of terraced houses that lined the populous avenues of Hull. We had settled nicely in our seats when the bus driver started the engine and all the passengers were momentarily overwhelmed by the powerful, acrid smell of diesel, which flooded the vehicle thanks to all the windows being open. A few choking coughs filled the air as the fumes dispersed and the bus pulled away and made its way through the thick blanket of traffic towards Cottingham. “By all means,” he continued, once the journey was well underway, “tell Auntie Kathleen about the great win you’ve seen this afternoon. That’ll keep her happy. You can describe the goals, and even tell her about the bloke who tried to take on all the Sunderland fans at half time. She’ll roll her eyes and have a good laugh at that. But that’s all she needs to know, for Auntie Kathleen is like a lot of ladies – she doesn’t really understand what football is all about.”
Puzzled, I asked: “But Uncle Fred, why did we have to watch the game in the away end? Their fans are really nasty. I nearly got into real trouble. Why didn’t we stand with the other Hull supporters?”
A big smile spread across his face. “Sometimes you have to make little sacrifices in life,” he explained. “The one I make every time City play at home is to go into the away end, from where I watch the match. I do this not because I want to be in danger. I do it because the away end has the cheapest prices, it’s nearest to the bus stop, and it also has the best view of the pitch. I’ve been standing on the same spot for more years than I care to remember, and have never had any bother. Today is the nearest I have ever come to trouble, and that was only because you nearly gave the game away. But we won’t dwell on that. I’m sure, if you don’t fully understand what I’m saying right now, you will sometime soon.”
Even at my tender age, Uncle Fred’s logic left me baffled. And then I remembered it was the rationale of a man who had once mixed paraffin with two-stroke petrol over a naked flame. Suddenly I found this kind of logic amusing and reassuring, understanding now why my family constantly referred to his ‘special’ status. Thereafter, any confusion I had quickly evaporated and I thoroughly enjoyed the trip back to Auntie Kathleen’s house, not least because Uncle Fred was more animated and talkative than he had ever been when in my company. And so he should have been: we had enjoyed an eventful afternoon watching our team secure a handsome and very unexpected victory.
It is a Saturday I will remember for a long time, not least because it was the day I pledged, on a rickety old bus, that no matter how many Hull games I attended in the future, I would never again follow my Uncle Fred (or anyone else, for that matter) into the away end at Boothferry Park.