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NICK SMITH – BUILDS
A TEAM
This episode
taken from The Rover No. 1280 – January 7TH 1950.
Too Much
Training.
Arnold
Tabbs, Kingsbury Rovers’ left-half, strolled into my office a couple of days
before the third round of the Football Association Cup, writes Nick Smith, the
international inside-left, in another story of the season in which he was
player-manager of the Third Division club, Kingsbury Rovers. Though I was boss,
you know what pals we were, and I was glad to see him. The phone rang just as
he came in – it was the motor-coach firm confirming arrangements for Saturday –
and Arnold picked
up my newspaper. “It’s taken for granted, isn’t it?” he said, after a look at
the sports page. I knew what he meant. Everybody took it for granted that
Ramboro’ would knock Kingsbury Rovers out of the cup. “Listen to what Howard
Horton has to say,” exclaimed Arnold, and
started to read the article by that well-known and well-informed football
critic. “This could well be the Boro’s year for the cup. They have certainly
been favoured by the luck of the draw. In spite of the presence of Nick Smith
and Arnold Tabbs in the team, Kingsbury Rovers are unlikely to create a
surprise. Ramboro’ are not the type of team to fall victim to giant-killers.”
Horton was expressing the general view, and it would have taken a bold man to
have held any other. We were second from the top in our section of the league.
The Ramboro’ team had gone to the top of the First Division as the result of
four successive wins in their Christmas and New Year matches. Arnold tossed
the paper down. “Well, I’ll get into my strip,” he said. “More passing practice
for us, I suppose?” “Yes, we’ll have another basinful,” I replied. “The chaps
have stuck it well.” I told you last week how I was going in for intensive
practice in passing. This had been kept up throughout the present week – and I
had even fetched the players to the ground on Monday. “I haven’t heard many
grumbles,” remarked Arnold.
“You’ve kept it interesting.” I was putting my correspondence away in a drawer,
so that I could go out and join the players, when I received another phone
call. The speaker was Sir Henry Tuxford, head of the Kingsbury Atomic Research
Station, whose hobby was the study of football. I was hoping to get him on the
Board of Directors, but the three present members were against this. “Could you
get me another ticket?” asked Sir Henry. “An American colleague, Dr Hiram Dyke,
is staying with me and I’d like him to see one of our cup ties. Fortunately I
still had a few tickets left, so I was able to give the right answer. “I hope
your atomic pile won’t erupt while you are away watching a football match, I
joked.” Sir Henry chuckled. “I think we have it well under control,” he said.
The conversation had held me up, and the players were going out when I hurried
to the dressing room to change. Arnold called
out that he would get things going. I have told you how we started the practice
by banging balls round a circle. We had gone a stage further from that. Five
players were now lined up at one end of the pitch, and five at the other. Each
winger of these five had a ball at his feet. Stumpy Ellis, the trainer, blew a
whistle, and each line started to move at speed. The balls came in from the
wings and out again. When the lines of players passed each other in mid-field,
the passes were still kept going. It was striking to see how a player like Bull
Ketley, the centre-forward, had improved during the ten days or so that we had
been practicing. I joined one of the lines and we kept the passing going in
short sharp bursts for the best part of half an hour. Then we split up for
individual practice. In mid-morning we had a break and then carried on until
after half-past twelve. I told the lads to be back at two sharp. “More ball
practice?” asked Harry Harper, the left-back. “Yes more ball practice,” I said.
“Well I think it’s worth it,” he replied. “It’s been monotonous at times, but
we’re a hundred time more accurate than we were.” When the players came out
after dinner, all three directors had turned up – George Brace, Dan Dodd, and
Syd Cassey. “Still at it?” Brace asked. “Till to-morrow night,” I said. “We’ll
start with the circle lads.” With a dozen balls or so to kick around, we formed
a circle on the pitch. Stumpy’s whistle started us off. I passed ahead to Arnold and
turned to take the next ball from Slim Gerrity. It came nowhere near me. Our
inside-right put it a couple of yards wide. Another ball came to him. He tried
another pass. He was wide again. I caught a glimpse of Arnold. His
passes had been accurate all the week. Now the ball he tried to send on to Bull
flew off his toe on to the cinder track. When I looked on round the circle I
saw that more passes were missing than were finding their man. Pete Mareen put
a ball in the stand. A ball whizzed just past my left ear. “Sorry,” Slim called
out. “I meant to keep it low.” Syd Cassey sniffed loudly. “I don’t call this
smart,” he said. I snapped my fingers and Stumpy threw me his whistle. I blew a
long blast. “Right boys, we’ve finished,” I exclaimed. “No more training. You
can have Friday off.” Brace waddled forward. His double chin shook. “Are you dropping
training a whole day before a cup-tie?” he demanded. “They’ve had enough,” I
said. “That’s what’s wrong. If we carry on, it might make matters worse.”
Cassey shrugged. “We don’t stand a chance at Ramboro’, anyway,” he pronounced.
“We’ll bring back a couple of thousand quid,” said Dodd, who was more
interested in cash than football. “It will be a day out,” grunted Brace. Those
remarks just about represented their individual outlooks. There was not a man
on the Board with whom I could talk over a problem. Was it surprising that I
would have given a lot to have Sir Henry as a director?
The
Rovers v. Ramboro’.
We
were in Ramboro’, a big industrial city, by midday on Saturday, and had lunch at a hotel.
The ground was not far away. While the others were taken along in the coach.
Arnold and I decided to walk. I think we both liked mingling with the crowd. We
were old cup-tie warriors, and we liked the atmosphere of it all. We worked
through the crush to the grandstand. I heard my name called and turned to see
Sir Henry Tuxford approach with his visitor, Dr Hiram Dyke. “Are you going to
surprise the football world to-day?” Sir Henry asked. “We suddenly went stale,”
I said. “On Thursday afternoon everything went cock-eyed. I stopped all
training immediately.” “I think you were wise,” Sir Henry declared. I was glad
to have Sir Henry’s support, but the truth was of course, that the sudden
breakdown had worried me a lot. Ramboro’ had five internationals out that
afternoon. Harrington, the centre-half, Mansell, the right-half, Llewellyn, the
outside-right, and the left-wing pair, Moloney and Imrie had all been “capped”
within the last season or so. I discovered that some of my lads were looking
round the huge dressing-room with wondering eyes. The impressiveness of the
place, with its lavish equipment, seemed to overawe them. I saw Slim Gerrity
turn back and wipe his shoes on the mat. The white coated attendant asked
Stumpy for our togs so that he could put them in the airing rack. Gil Booth,
the Boro’ manager came in to shake hands and to see if we had everything we
wanted. I had a glance at a programme. The teams as printed were:- Ramboro’ –
Harlock; Willoughby; Syston; Mansell; Harrington; Russell; Liewellyn, Searle,
Hopton, Moloney, Imrie. Kingsbury Rovers – English; Anvil, Harper; Foley,
Boland, Tabbs; Brind, Gerrity, Ketley, Smith, Mareen. The togs were nice and
warm when we put them on. A moment or two later the bell rang and I picked up
the ball., “Whatever happens, no wild kicking,” was the extent of my pep talk.
“The ball can move faster than we can run, so let it do the work.” We were the
first out into the great arena. There were Kingsbury people in the crowd,
plenty of them, but they made little noise. I think that, like Brace, they
regarded it as a day out. Harrington led out the Boro’, and the cheers were
loud. They were magnificently turned out. Their shirts had blue colours that
rose high at the back; their stockings were white with blue tops. They looked
powerful and self assured. They had the poise that matched their reputation.
There was a brief pause while they formed a group to be photographed. We were
not asked to pose. While we went on shooting in, Bull skied the ball halfway up
the bank. I won the toss and the Boro’ lined up facing a wild breeze. There was
a hush, and then before 65,000 spectators the whistle put the Boro’ in action.
Searle put the ball back to Russell. The left-back came along till Gerrity was
on to him, and then glided the ball ahead of Imrie. The fast left-winger beat
Arthur Anvil and smashed the ball across the goalmouth. Hopton got his head to
it, nodding the ball down. Joe English made no vain attempt to reach the ball;
he would have needed a fishing rod to touch it. It skipped into a corner of the
net and so, within twenty seconds, we were a goal down. The crowd roared, but
the Ramboro’ players hardly bothered to compliment one another. I suppose they
thought it was too easy. Arnold rubbed
the back of his hand across his nose. “That was a bit sudden,” he said. The
dozen photographers clustered round our goal lowered their cameras. At the
other end one solitary fellow was sitting with his camera on his knees. The
ball was put on the centre spot. At the whistle Bull rolled it on to me. I
side-stepped and went past Moloney. I ran, and put the ball to Pete Mareen. He
had Willoughby
looming ahead, so turned and pushed the ball back to Arnold. From Arnold’s foot
it flashed square to Foley. Our right-half sent it speeding to Bull. Bull
shoved it to the right, and Slim crashed it into the back of the net, from
outside the penalty area. The game had not yet been going for a full minute.
The silence was profound for a moment. Then the din was confused. Our Kingsbury
people were cheering. The home fans chattered like a million magpies. We had
equalized, but it was affront to the dignity of the Boro’ that they meant to
wipe out. An attack swiftly developed and Imrie was on the move. He let the
ball run a trifle too far. Then I had the surprise of my life. Arthur Anvil
passed across the goalmouth, passed in the face of the advancing forwards,
spot-on to Harper. Harper whipped the ball upfield to Arnold Tabbs. This time Arnold put it
to Gerrity. Out it went to Brind, and flashed back inside. Gerrity turned the
ball back to Foley. He cracked it to me. All this happened so fast that there
was not a man near me. I raced in, and as Harlock came out lobbed the ball over
him for a simple goal. The Boro’ were shocked. You could see it in their faces.
They hadn’t given away more than one goal in a match since the beginning of
December. We had come up from nowhere and bagged a pair. Weaving through us
they took the ball along, took it along till Searle tried to beat Arnold. Our
left-half shouldered him fairly off the ball, and sent him down on to the seat
of his freshly-laundered pants. Arnold’s pass
to the wing was just right for Pete Mareen to take as he ran. He was travelling
fast, and he raced round Willoughby and
parted with the ball. It came to me. I flicked it into the middle. Bull came
pounding up in a manner worthy of his nickname. Anything could happen now. I
held my breath. Bull hit the ball with every ounce in his burly frame. The net
bulged, and the ball went spinning along the top. That was out third goal. That
time we really heard our supporters. They came to life and yelled and whistled.
The home crowd seemed slightly dazed. It was perhaps the emotion of the moment
that caused Moloney to foul Fred Foley. Our right-half took the kick. He sent
the ball to Bull whose back was naturally turned to the goal. Our
centre-forward shoved the ball to Gerrity, standing back. Gerrity slipped it
instantly to the wing. In came Brind, and sent in a cross shot that was a goal
all the way. Four-one. Arnold gave
me a toothy grin. “It’s more like magic than football,” he said. “Who is it
that’s top of the First Division – us or them? And who is the struggling Third
Division team? Surely not us! I hope we shan’t wake up in a minute,” I replied.
Second-Half
Fireworks.
We
held that lead up to half-time, and we held it easily. Then we were out for the
restart and almost at once seven of us shared in a passing movement started
when Joe English tossed the ball out to Harper. I was unmarked when the ball
reached me. Mareen was slightly better placed, so I pushed a ground pass to
him, and he crashed the ball home. With forty minutes still to go it was
apparent that only a miracle could save the Boro’. The Boro’ became so rattled
that after six of us had brought the ball through, Gerrity had his own jersey
clutched from behind by Mansell. It was a penalty. Gerrity took the kick, and
that was our sixth goal. The seventh was one of Bull’s specials. He chased the
ball nearly to the goal line, and screwed it in from what the newspapers would
inevitably describe as “an impossible angle.” Still it went on. We could do
nothing wrong. We had the ball working for us all the time. Our most intricate
movements came off. I scored our eighth goal from a header, and five minutes
from time Arnold, lying
well up, took a crack at the goal and found the net. That was the result – 9-1.
When the referee ended the game, Harrington, the Boro captain came up to me and
shook hands. “I’ve played in top-class football for ten years, but I’ve never
seen such a display,” he said. “There isn’t a team in the world that could have
stopped you.” Our supporters were pouring over the barriers. For the first time
they were really on our side. Hitherto we had been looked upon as a lucky team,
a team in a false position. Our win made nonsense of that sort of talk. We had
run to dodge the back-slapping. I remember how Slim Gerrity stood in the middle
of the dressing-room muttering “What came over us?” Cassey came in burbling,
and also conveyed the news that Brace was so excited he felt ill. Dodd burst in
and declared that he hoped we were drawn against another big team, so that we
should pick up thousands more pounds. I had had my bath, and was half-dressed
when the attendant asked if Mr Howard Horton might come in to see me. I agreed
readily enough, and the football writer was admitted. He congratulated me on
our game. “I was a dismally bad prophet, like everyone else,” he said, “but in
forty years I’ve never seen anything like it.” “We surprised ourselves,” I
admitted. He looked into the hat he carried in his hand, and then at me. “You
have the atomic research station at Kingsbury haven’t you?” he asked. “Yes,
it’s only a couple of miles or so from the ground as the crow flies,” I said.
Sir Henry Tuxford is one of our keenest supporters.” “Is he here?” asked
Horton. “I’d like a talk with him.”
The
Atomic Theory.
I
had some hint of what was working up, but on Monday I had a surprise. When the
newspaper came through the door I turned at once to the back page to find
Horton’s report on the game. To my amazement it wasn’t there. When I turned to
the front page I found out why. It had been made the main news of the day. The
headline printed right across the top of the page was: - “Was Atomic Energy
Behind Amazing Cup-Tie Win?” “Is this a gag?” I muttered and started to read: -
“Was the astonishing 9-1 defeat of Ramboro’ by Kingsbury Rovers due to atomic
influence? Football has never known such an amazing victory. The Rovers
exhibited speed, craft and precision of such bewildering perfection that their
win is to-day the subject of serious discussion by scientists. “The new atomic
research station is within three miles of the ground, and within recent weeks
the new atomic pile has been put into operation. Is it by some force generated
by the atomic pile that is responsible for the display put up by Nick Smith and
his players? “In an interview Sir Henry Tuxford, chief of the establishment,
admitted that this might be so. “‘The study of radio-active substances is still
in its infancy,’ he said. ‘We are dealing with forces about which there is a
great deal to be learned. We know that harmful effects may arise from the use
of atomic piles, and against these we take precautions. But it may be possible
that there are beneficial effects, and that radiations, of which at the moment
we know next to nothing, are, so to speak, escaping from the atomic pile and
influencing people who live in the vicinity.” “Sir Henry emphasised that this
was surmise. But he admitted the possibility.” There was a lot more about it,
but these were the main points. It was on Thursday of that week that the
following speech made by Mr Goss-Harris, President of the Kingsbury Chamber of
Commerce, was printed in the papers:- “From enquiries I have made and figures
obtained this week, there is evidence that radiations from the atomic pile is
influencing not only footballers, but also industrial workers in the town. ‘The
managing director of the Kingsbury Weaving Company informs me that on the first
three days of this week production had risen by twenty-three per cent, over the
corresponding days of last week. ‘A coal ship was unloaded in seven hours at
the gas works wharf as compared with the average of ten hours.
Goals
Galore.
I
have given you only two newspaper extracts, but believe me, I could have quoted
scores. Scientists all over the country were getting hot under their collars
about the subject. Meanwhile the draw for the fourth round of the cup had been
made. We had a home game. Our opponents were to be Wroxford Albion, the Second
Division team with a long tradition as cup fighters. But before that match came
along we had two league games to play. Our Saturday’s League match was with
Penstone, who lay two places below us in the table. The first thing that struck
me was that I was getting astonishing demand for press tickets. On the Saturday
afternoon the turnstiles worked so fast it was a wonder they did not get
red-hot. Half an Hour before the kick-off we knew the gate record had been
broken. Dodd paid a call on me in the dressing room just before we went out. I
had never seen him so worked up. “We’ve had to close some of the gates, Nick,”
he said. “Lummy, what a crowd! D’you know that when Penstone came here last
season we only had seven thousand spectators.” “You can thank Sir Henry Tuxford
and his atomic pile,” I said, spotting an opening. “I put it to you, Mr Dodd –
don’t you think it would be a good idea now to have him on the Board? He’s
known all over the country. He would give us a lot of prestige.” “We could do
worse than that,” he said. I need not go into details about the game. For the
first quarter of an hour there was not much in it. Penstone, a bustling side,
had as much of the ball as we did. Givens, their centre-forward then put in a
stinging shot that would have beaten most goalkeepers. Joe English leapt to the
side, and caught the ball cleanly. He bounced it, caught it again, and ran.
From the edge of the penalty-box he bowled it along the ground to Foley. The
right-half square-passed to Arnold, who switched the direction of the attack
again by a long lob to Brind. The winger beat the back and let Gerrity have the
ball. Gerrity in turn gave it to me. I had a clear shot, and I couldn’t miss.
That set the crowd roaring. We touched the form that had licked Ramboro, and
pluckily as they fought Penstone did not have a chance. We won the game 9-0.
When the other results came through we discovered that we were at the top of
the Third Division. I was in the Board-room with the directors when we worked
this out. They were all keyed up with excitement. “It’s that atomic pile that’s
done it,” Brace exclaimed. “I’m sure of it,” said Cassey. “There’s no other
explanation.” I caught Dodd’s eye. He took the hint. “I reckon we ought to have
Sir Henry Tuxford on the board with us,” he said. A fortnight previously Brace
and Cassey would have fought the idea tooth and nail, for if there had had to
be an extra director they would have wanted one of their business friends. The
astonishing events I have described swung them round completely. “Ay, let’s
make him a director,” Brace said. “We ought to have him with us.” “Grab him
before somebody else gets hold of him,” urged Cassey. I took prompt steps to
get the business settled. I had the atomic pile to thank for this. But I can
promise you that the sensations were not finished.
It’s
Goals that Count 27 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1119 - 1145 (1945 -
1946)
It’s
Goals that Count 8 episodes
appeared in The Rover issues 1158 -
1165 (1947)
It’s
Goals that Count 24 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1180 - 1203 (1947 -
1948)
Football
is my Job 24 episodes appeared in The Rover issues 1218 - 1241
(1948)
Nick
Smith’s Ragged Rovers 5 episodes
appeared in The Rover issues 1260 -
1264 (1949)
Nick
Smith’s Rovers 1 episode appeared in The Rover issues 1265 (1949)
Nick
Smith Builds a Team 20 episodes
appeared in The Rover issues 1266 -
1285 (1949 - 1950)
It’s
Goals that Count 10 episodes
appeared in The Rover issues 1286 -
1295 (1950)
It’s
Teamwork that Count 6 episodes
appeared in The Rover issues 1316 -
1321 (1950)
It’s
Teamwork that Count 10 episodes
appeared in The Rover issues 1341 -
1350 (1951)
It’s
Goals that Count 15 episodes
appeared in The Rover issues 1365 -
1379 (1951)
It’s
Goals that Count 14 episodes
appeared in The Rover issues 1390 -
1403 (1952)
All Over
the World It’s Goals that Count 15
episodes appeared in The Rover
issues 1677 - 1691 (1957)
The above list has not included the various
repeats.
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2004
