From Flat Cap to Bronx Hat

By Terry Wills

Terry Wills is one of West Bromwich Albion’s best-known supporters. He saw his first Albion match in 1940 and has witnessed over 2,000 more since in almost three quarters of a century of support.

His devotion has been recognised with awards from the Premier League and all the local newspapers. For decades, his opinion has been regularly sought by the local media and more latterly by the football club itself.

With so many unique memories and experiences to share, “From Flat Cap” will be available in stages over the next few years. The first three stages cover the war years up to 1976. This includes winning promotion, the frustrations of National Service, securing the FA Cup twice and the fury of relegation. Along the way, there were the perils of being coached by Jock Wallace and Bobby Robson, overnight ticket queues and an embarrassing army camp fire to endure...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Terry Wills
• Release date: Mar 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301777211

Terry Wills

Terry Wills is one of West Bromwich Albion’s best-known supporters. He saw his first Albion match in 1940 and has witnessed over 2,000 more since in almost three quarters of a century of support. His devotion has been recognised with awards from the Premier League, Sunday Mercury and the Express & Star. Enhanced by over a decade as co-editor of Grorty Dick fanzine, his opinion has long been regularly sought by the local media and more latterly by the football club themselves. Since its inception, Terry has sat on Albion’s Liaison Committee. “Recycled teenager” Terry is rapidly approaching his 80th year and lives in South Birmingham with his wife Dot

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INTRODUCTION

Welcome to readers old and new. A famous author once said the best part of writing a book is finishing it. After another six months of mental gymnastics, I understand his sentiment perfectly. But at last, I have something new to add to my previously released first chapter. .

For those who are downloading my effort for the first time, I saw my first Albion game in the early days of the War, probably in 1940. I so wish I could rhapsodise at length about my first 90 minutes but my memory fails me completely. Even so, going to the Hawthorns during the war laid down the ground rules that shaped my ‘career’ as a dedicated Albion nut case!

Since then, I must have seen over 2,000 WBA games over three quarters of a century and witnessed pretty much everything. Albion winning the Cup, losing the Cup, winning promotion, missing promotion, relegation and near relegation, in and out of the Third Division and playing in Europe. Note my cautionary pretty much everything. In response to the email wags, no, I didn’t see Billy Bassett play. Neither was the Relief of Mafeking any relief to me because I wasn’t there. But I do have so many unique memories to share and I’m eager to commit them to print to add a human angle to the bare facts.

For convenience, I’ve bundled the original chapter as a rather lengthy preface to my new material. Part One spanned my very early days up to the 1954 FA Cup Final and has been slightly amended after some thoughtful feedback from readers and a handful of typographic errors have been corrected.

The new chapter, which cost much of my remaining hair, moves into familiar territory for the more mature supporter. It features a period which also concludes with another running-round-Wembley-with –the-Cup experience in 1968. Wembley showpieces feature large, and why not? I’ve seen my team running around Wembley twice with the Cup. Winning the Play-Offs was delightful but it’s not the FA Cup. Only WBA supporters over 50 years old can really appreciate that unique euphoria.

I must stress this book is not an Albion history. I can’t better the experts so I’m not going to try. Instead, this e-tome majors on the life and times of WBA supporters from the era of Flat caps right up to hopefully bronx hats though that ultimate ambition is probably two years or more away. I still have so much ground to cover that I sometimes doubt whether I will see the project through.

I’m grateful to several people for their assistance in making my autobiography more readable and erudite, namely my demonic publisher Simon Wright and my patient proofers and contributors Katrina Baker, Colin Mackenzie, Cyril Randle and Steve Carr

TERRY

The Early Years 1941-1945...

I was born within walking distance of the Hawthorns. The aura was strong, being just two years after West Bromwich Albion created football history by becoming the first, and to date, the only team to win the FA Cup and promotion to the top tier in the same season. Equally, I was born just two years before another Wembley final. Thus it's not difficult to understand just why I had an upbringing steeped around the fortunes of the Baggies.

From the age of eight (the earliest I can recall), I have been trundling the paths to and from the Hawthorns, and as any supporter knows, once that hypnotic football drug needle is injected into your system that’s it. You're hooked. The fix becomes a necessity that is way out of proportion to life’s really important happenings.

But nevertheless it's always there, nibbling and gnawing away at your innermost thoughts. The only difference being that as you grow older, and wiser, the knowledge that you have access to a comfortable seat affording a perfect sightline, holds far greater appeal than those early days when a packed ground meant a swaying crowd tumbling up and down the terraces, whenever the action moved anywhere near the goalmouth. Oh happy days!

For me, those terrace scenes remain unforgettable. Thousands of men wearing flat caps, boys like myself clad in short trousers (only 14 year olds and above wore longs), not too many women, clouds of cigarette smoke, buying a penny programme, glancing at the teams, and crumpling a piece of history into a coat pocket, without any thought that in years to come it would become the focus of outstanding memories of previous generations.

So many memories of childhood are forgotten, mercifully in many instances, but in the magical world of football, it's amazing just how many fans can remember their embryonic days of going to the match, even if the rest of their upbringing remains a veritable blank. I'm no different, and while it would be ridiculous to suggest that I have a perfect recollection of those so long ago years, I do have some very powerful images of those times and can recall certain events very clearly indeed. I believe that’s because children of my generation were bought up and survived a period that can and never will be forgotten - the Second World War.

Attending Oldbury Road Junior and Infants School was never much of an attraction for me. I moved onto Smethwick Hall Secondary Modern School but that didn’t appeal either. Sadly, my strongest memory of the place is that some light fingered soul decided that my lapel badge with the inscription "West Bromwich FA Cup and Promotion Winners" would be a treasure for him to keep. Even now, I miss that badge.

Like most kids of my age, I just wanted to be out on the streets kicking a ball. There were no distractions and not too many alternatives. No television or personal computers, no shop windows full of mega-drive video games and mobile phones. It was an age of technical ignorance and innocence.

Family entertainment meant sitting around a coal fire listening to a wireless set that boasted the Home Service and Light Programme wavelengths as its majority output. That was a normal life until that fateful date of September 3rd 1939 when the outbreak of the war to end all wars was declared.

Initially it meant little to me. But in 1940, when German bombers began blitzing Birmingham and its suburbs, I soon realised that something was very wrong; especially when my mother tried to explain why my favourite foods were in short supply. This led to the introduction of ration books, and clothing coupons. These were issued to combat the shortage of virtually every daily commodity such as meat, cheese, butter, bread, etc. When any item was purchased, the appropriate number of coupons was detached from the ration book. And if the prescribed monthly allocation of points were all used on the first day of the month, that was it. No more until the start of the next four weekly cycles. Naturally these restrictions led to a ‘black market’.

Even at my tender age, I couldn't help noticing the news bulletins were listened to so intently by every adult, all wondering just how long this imposition would remain in force. It was during this `unreal' period that I have my first memories of football in general and Albion in particular.

History tells us that the League was suspended between 1939 and 1946. With players being called up for National Service, it would have been impossible for clubs to rely on their own players for fixtures , so a joint meeting of the Football League and the Football Association decided to suspend all such contracts until definite decisions could be implemented.

. Within weeks, permission was given to resume competitive football based around 13 restructured regional leagues, to ensure that journeys to away matches would be completed on the day of the fixture. The Baggies actually participated in both the Football League South and the Football League North, and in common with every other club, were faced with the worrying problem of finding sufficient players to make up a team. Often it depended simply on what players happened to be in the vicinity at the time. The great English International Tommy Lawton remarkably once played two games on a Christmas Day - Everton in the morning and then Tranmere Rovers in the afternoon. It's also on record that one Bradford City player turned out for no less than eight different clubs in just nine weeks!

Under these conditions, Albion subsequently fielded a variety of guest players. I can remember seeing Gilbert Merrick and Don Dearson of Birmingham City turning out as did the Brentford outside left Leslie Smith, another international who later enjoyed a distinguished career after leaving Brentford to join Aston Villa.

My first ever live game was during the 1940-41 season. I honestly cannot remember my first ever match but I can recall one early match that still haunts me! It was May 25th 1942 against a team wearing claret and blue shirts and they won 4-3.Yes, it was that team from Aston who ensured, for me at least, that they'd forever be our greatest rivals. As a curly haired schoolchild in short trousers I screamed, groaned, and cursed at the injustice. No swearing, that was for grown-ups! Villa's Frank Broome scored a hat- trick and as far as I was concerned, every goal was offside and Villa were very lucky to win. Not that I was biased of course! The game was billed as a friendly as were many at the time for instance such as unlikely-sounding opponents such as Hednesford and Revo Sports. In fact, in one friendly against the RAF the immortal W. G. Richardson scored all the Throstles goals in a 6-1 win but, sad to say, I can't remember any of them.

At the tender age of eight, the memories became more focused, not just war memories, but also regular trips to the Hawthorns. I ran there. I ran to the ground via Smethwick High Street, over the railway bridge, and up Halfords Lane, just to ensure that I’d be able to claim my space on the Smethwick End terrace right behind the goal. I ran even though kick-off was at least two hours distant. For me, the time would soon pass. I simply needed to be there.

For the first time, I was identifying my own favourite players. With no TV and no great interest in the opposition, I only knew those who wore the famous blue and white stripes. My favourites were players such as Cecil Shaw, Jack Sankey, Billy Gripton, Cliff Edwards, Sandy McNab, Ike (Nobby) Clarke, Sammy Heaselgrave, Len Millard, Harry Kinsell and Peter Mckennan. These gentlemen and others introduced a wide-eyed youngster to the raw emotions of the game - delight, ecstasy, despair, and abject disappointment – mandatory staples for any supporter.

Others were to follow such as young Len Millard, in the early stages of a glorious career which would ultimately lead to a fine marking job on Tom Finney in the FA Cup Final of 1954. Another favourite was Sandy McNab; a ferocious tackling red-haired Scotsman who was small in stature but big in heart, who bore comparison to Billy Bremner, Alan Ball, or Paul Scholes.

Billy Elliott was a fast raiding winger who had the marvellous knack of disguising his intentions, much to the chagrin of his opponents. Billy would set off at top speed and, once in full flight, he miraculously gave the distinct impression that he was about to check his run by dragging his foot over the ball. He rarely did, and simply carried on regardless leaving more than one full back lying on the turf suitably nonplussed, and Baggie fans wondering at his skill. To this day, I have never seen this touch of magic repeated and if it hadn't been for a certain Stanley Matthews, the name of Billy Elliott would almost certainly have been seen in a lot more International matchday programmes. Without question, Billy was worthy of many more than his two England caps.

.Sammy Heaselgrave was more than a great favourite. He was also a family friend who made many visits to see my parents. I remember once he asked me if I was going to the match on Saturday. When I shyly answered "Yes", he said he would do his best to score a couple of goals, just for me. The result? A 2-2 draw against Northampton Town, and yes, ‘Uncle Sammy’ did keep his word as he netted both goals. What a pity he didn't say he would try to score a hat trick!

Sammy was born in Smethwick and was a regular in my parents’ sweet shop. Even to a schoolboy, he wasn't a tall fellow. Sammy was probably best described as dapper, with a neat trimmed hair style and a cheery disposition. .He was a frequent customer to Mom and Dad's Sweets/Chocolates/and Cigarette shop directly opposite the 'Smethwick Empire' Picture House. He was always happy to chat with the family and fellow customers, with endless variants on When do you think the war will end? to the latest events at the Hawthorns.

Leaving Albion after 13 years loyal service and 57 goals, he went on to play for Northampton Town and as a guest player 'down the road' at Walsall. I was sad to see him go. Sammy was not an average footballer. After all, how many players, after retiring from the game, were knowledgeable enough to become a solicitor? He was and being true to his roots, the name of 'Heaselgrave-Solicitors' would be prominent in Bearwood Road for years to come.

I can’t remember with any certainty whether Uncle Sammy smoked. Most of the population did. Smoking was considered to be good for your health at the time and it was one way of relieving every day stress. Many children smoked and even more were aware where I lived. If I'd given in to a series of virtual non-stop pleas, I'd have been the most popular kid for miles around.

The question? Can you nick me a few fags, I can't afford to buy ’em.

The answer? Yes I could but I won't

My parents were VERY trusting. If I came home to discover they'd gone out, I simply had to put my hand through the letter box, grab hold of a piece of thick string, and firmly pull. This was attached to the inside handle knob so 'Bingo'- the door was unlocked-a firm push-in we went! Can you imagine such a scenario these days? Thought not!

Football was an essential distraction for me from the desperate realities of the war. Children learned to grow up very, very quickly as the chilling implications of constant air raids filled all and sundry with fear and trepidation. Everyone was issued with a gas mask, to be carried at all times, although this instruction was often ignored. If air raid wardens had heard that gas bombs were being dropped, they'd grab their rattle and run up and down streets swinging it around, to remind people to take their gas masks with them into the nearest community Air Raid shelter. These masks varied in size, ranging from adult to children, and for babies they were accommodated in a box type package. Gas warnings were thankfully rare, but bombings of cities and industrial areas were common. Whenever an Air Raid warning sounded in the middle of the night, residents were awoken by that hideous screeching high pitched siren. Air raids were truly frightening. Frantic scrambling ensued as Mom and Dad urged me and my sisters, all bleary-eyed, to get dressed in the middle of the night.

As we rushed pell-mell from our house, we were only half-aware of a pitch black sky criss-crossed with searchlights beams and floating tethered whale shaped barrage balloons. Those dirigibles were to become a familiar friendly sight as part of England’s defences.

We crammed into the shelter, hoping to find a spare bed or chair available. An orchestrated "singalong" attempted to drown the drone of the bombers, and more ominously, the thud of the bombs exploding on your neighbourhood. This feeling really was terrifying. No war film can adequately replicate living through the trauma of hearing bombs being dropped. Singing songs from the 'Top Twenty' of the era acted as some kind of distraction. It was all we had. Tunes such as 'Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run" made famous by Flanagan and Allen, and Vera Lynn’s classic (long before she became a Dame) "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when"

Eventually the All Clear siren would sound to confirm it was safe to leave our refuge, and venture out with one question in everyone’s mind. Will our house still be standing? Many were destroyed, but mercifully we were lucky. Yes we sometimes found doors and windows jammed and other superficial damage, but compared to others less fortunate who had been made homeless, these problems were trivial.

Even so, next day you'd find me and other kids scrambling around what remained of homes just reduced to rubble hoping we could find pieces of the bombs that had caused carnage, homelessness and, worst of all, a loss of life. I've got some, I've got some we’d frequently yell only on closer examination to prove that the prize was simply a piece of shattered guttering, kettle, saucepan or cutlery. Just occasionally, I did find genuine gleaming shreds of shrapnel, which I kept as a souvenir until the novelty wore off.

If you didn’t live through the war, you couldn’t begin to understand the emotions when peace was finally declared on May 8th 1945. VE-Day (Victory in Europe) meant a day and night of all-out rejoicing. Street parties were organised and people dressed in whatever would pass as fancy dress, but it was the bonfires that captured the