Banksy by Gordon Banks Read Free Book Online Page B

arrived at twenty past three and were told to take a seat in the stand for the rest of the game. Nobody said another word to us about the matter that entire afternoon. Come Tuesday, however, the three of us were pulled out of training and told to report to the manager’s office. Duggie Livingstone sat stony faced as he listened to our tale. Then he took to his feet. We would have to drive to Sheffield station and point out to Duggie the platform attendant who put us on the wrong train.
    We felt like naughty schoolboys being admonished by the headmaster. Eventually, I spotted the miscreant attendant.
    ‘That’s him!’ I piped up, like some nine-year-old lad pointing out the school bully.
    ‘You! Come here!’ Duggie barked. ‘The station master’s office. All four of you. Now!’
    Once inside the station master’s office, we repeated our tale and, luckily for us the platform attendant admitted his mistake.
    We sat in silence on the journey back to Chesterfield. Duggie Livingstone never apologized for having doubted us. All he said was that we’d have to come in for training the following night to make up for the session we’d missed, and that he would be docking our wages for missing the match.
    No manager today would treat even junior players like that. But that’s how it was in those days. More often than not, players had more respect for a manager’s position and his seniority ofyears, than his actual expertise as a football manager. You did what you were told. Irrespective of your character or individual circumstances, if you weren’t playing well or if you didn’t do as the manager wanted, you got a rollicking. The onus was on the individual player to shape up, not on the manager to assess and address that player’s idiosyncrasies or emotions and adapt his methods of management accordingly. Nobody thought anything less of a manager for that. His word was law and there was a democracy of sorts – all players were treated the same, albeit, at times, like naughty schoolboys.
    I was later to enjoy revenge at Duggie’s expense. The money I earned at Chesterfield enabled me to buy my first car – by which I mean an old Ford van owned by a brickie I knew from my days as a hod carrier. This van had seen better days. The front passenger seat wasn’t secured to the floor as the brickie often removed it when loading the van with building materials. The headlights would intermittently cut out and their silver backing had perished so that they provided only a dim glow. The tyres were nigh on bald and the van had the disconcerting habit of jumping out of gear. All of which made even the shortest journey an adventure.
    One night, after training, Duggie Livingstone asked if I could give him a lift back into Sheffield as his car was in for repairs. I readily agreed and once out on the country road back to Sheffield, put my foot down. The road home was full of twists and turns and Duggie was forever sliding backwards and forwards on that unsecured passenger seat. When, at fifty miles an hour, the gear stick popped out of its column I thought Duggie’s eyes were going to pop out of his head. Then as we were approaching Dronfield the van veered to the right and we were suddenly in the direct path of an oncoming car. It was at this point that the headlights decided to give up on me. I think that was when I heard Duggie utter a muted scream. I swung the van back over to the left. The headlights came back on and in the rear view mirror I saw the tail lights of the other car disappearing downthe road. It had been a close thing, too close for Duggie. When I dropped him at his home, I could see his face was ashen.
    ‘Gordon. Don’t ever let me ask you for a lift again!’ He meant it.
    My career with Chesterfield was interrupted when at seventeen I received my call-up papers for National Service. I joined the Royal Signals and after weeks of square-bashing at camps in Catterick and Ripon found myself posted to Germany. Fate