2 May 1936
It was the final day of the season.
The final minute of the final day.
Arthur Epworth, the new signing that year, was running up the pitch with the ball. The Yorkshire flyer, that’s what they called him. The fastest man in the league.
He was just outside the 18-yard box now. He chose his spot then blasted the ball past the keeper into the back of the net.
The crowd exploded, the roar barrelling round the ground. A heaving mass of noise and waving caps.
The ref blew his whistle. Full time.
‘Well done, lad,’ said Mr Barrett, the team manager, putting his arm round Arthur’s shoulders as he reached the side line. ‘Great game.’
‘Thanks, Mr Barrett,’ said Arthur, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his shirt. ‘We didn’t do too bad, did we?’
‘You did very well, son. We’ll be joining those buggers up in League Two next season. Anyway, get yourself inside now,’ Mr Barrett went on. ‘You’d better get tidied up. We’ve got a posh do later at the Mansion House, remember.’
At the end of every season, the mayor put on a civic reception for the club. This year, with promotion secured, it would be an especially grand affair.
Arthur grimaced. A posh do at the Mansion House was not his idea of a good Saturday night. He wasn’t one for fuss.
‘Do I have to go?’ he asked.
‘’Course you have to go, son. It’ll be bloody good. A real celebration. Now come on, get yourself in there,’ he said, gesturing towards the players tunnel and the changing room just inside.
‘And anyway,’ shouted Mr Barrett, as Arthur walked off, ‘you might just enjoy it. You never know who you might meet, lad!’