GLIMPSES OF STARS

The recent death of legendary Preston NE footballer Tom Finney carried with it inevitable echoes of days when players travelled to the ground by bus or bike, and looked after a pub when they finally retired. My hero Sam Bartram kept a newspaper and sweet shop, just a few short paces from The Valley. In Tom's case, he had already decided he wanted to be a plumber, and evidently drove to morning training in his van so he could work at his plumbing business during the afternoon. He was also like many of his generation in that the Second World War sliced several seasons out of his career. I believe he drove a tank in the Army.
Tom Finney, by popular account, was a refined and elegant footballer who would happily play on either wing, or in the centre of attack; a one-club player, then, of considerable value. And a player who, according to some who knew him and his game well, they would happily place alongside the likes of Eusebio, Puskas, and Di Stefano.
Alas, I never saw Tom Finney play. I don't know why, it was just one of those things. The dates, or something, never worked out. For that matter, I never saw Raich Carter play, either, or Frank Swift, but I did catch Stanley Matthews several times, though late in his playing career. Even then, he was still capable of giving cameo performances in front of crowds swollen in anticipation of his appearance.
One man I did see play, albeit after his League career had finished, was Wilf Mannion. In the late 1950s and amid great excitement, Wilf turned up at Carter's Park, Holbeach, as part of (I think) the Cambridge United side for an Eastern Counties (or was it United Counties?) League fixture. I seem to recall he played a peripheral role in the game, but no-one seemed to mind. Holbeach had seen the great Wilf Mannion grace their turf, and that was enough.
There was excitement in Spalding, too, also in the late 1950s, when the Tulips were drawn at home in the FA Cup against Kettering Town (the Poppies), a very powerful side whose attack was lead by one of the most famous No 9s in the business - Tommy Lawton. My weekly paper's sports pages also quivered with excitement, and on the great day there was, by Halley Stewart playing field standards, a big attendance. Anyway, Spalding, for some reason now forgotten, had to play their young reserve goalkeeper, and despite a Kettering victory during which, I think, Lawton scored, the lad performed well.
At the final whistle I made my way through the throng towards the dressing-rooms to try to have a word with Tommy, and he finally came out with his team-mates, wry-faced and thin as a whippet. In the midst of the melee I asked him for his thoughts on the match, and he shouted something back about the Spalding goalkeeper. 'Aye, the lad played well. That he did,' he said, or something like it. Then he was away, back on to the team bus, chased by youthful autograph hunters.
I admired this pre- and post-War generation then, and I still do. It was a hard, grafting life with little monetary reward and damn-all support when their playing careers were over. Then there was the intervention and wastage of the War itself. Also, the affection the crowds felt for them was genuine, because they were not mega-men living in gated seclusion on monumental salaries. Instead, there was a strong sense that they were a part of the community. Like Tom Finney, any one of them could have been your neighbour.