Henderson - When footballers were skint: a journey in search of the soul of football

H ere, I want a word with you.

The youth, his face freshened by a raw easterly wind, answered his trainers call.

Stan Anderson understood that when Tommy Urwin barked a command after practice, you did as you were told.

Urwin was, though, for all his bluffness, a kindly man. His charitable nature reposed in the gentle upward curves of his mouth whenever he smiled, which was frequently. He was in his mid-fifties, having been born at the end of the nineteenth century, and came from the historic mining village of Haswell in Durham where people looked out for each other.

He had played as a forward for the north-easts three great clubs starting off with Middlesbrough and Newcastle before making his debut for Sunderland at the age of nearly forty and gained four caps for England in the 1920s. Now he trained the Sunderland B team and wanted the best for his callow charges.

His abrupt summons to Anderson, the most promising of the clubs young recruits, who was coming up to seventeen, was at once commanding and avuncular.

I know you and your father are going up to see George Crow about turning professional, Urwin said. Im telling you, ask for the biggest money you can get.

Crow, a long-time servant of Sunderland AFC, was the club secretary but had also held other posts. Twelve years ago, in 1939, despite having no background in football, he had stood in as manager for three weeks after John Cochrane resigned. He would do so again in 1964 when Alan Brown quit the club.

How much is that, Tom? Anderson asked.

Hell probably offer you three quid a week, maybe four. Ask for seven.

Anderson also came from a mining community, Horden, not far from Sunderland, where his father, Jim, worked underground until the chest problems that were the coal miners lot caught up with him.

When his health failed, Jim Anderson was found a job working above ground on what they called the Horden Aerial Flight. This was a ropeway suspended between pylons that carried coal waste to be dumped out in the North Sea. Not far enough out, though, to prevent the local beaches from wearing a heavy coat of black coal dust. For a full weeks work, Anderson Sr received no more than 8.

Are you sure, Tom?

Anderson, a shy lad, did not relish the prospect of having to negotiate with Crow. Nobody did. Crow was small and grey-haired, with a face distinguished only by its pallor. If he had a lighter side, he regarded it as a vice to be exercised in private.

Yeah, youll get it, Urwin assured him.

OK, Tom.

But dont tell anyone I told you.

Full of trepidation, despite having his father beside him, Stan Anderson knocked on the door of George Crows office.

Crow greeted them with as much warmth as he could muster. Were going to sign you on as a full-time pro, Stanley, he said.

Thank you very much.

Were prepared to offer you four pounds a week.

Anderson, who had shared Urwins advice with the family, watched now as his father cleared his throat and prepared to speak. Anderson Sr was only marginally more worldly than his son, who held his breath waiting for the reply.

Oh no, Mr Crow, he said, but still could not quite find the courage to ask for the full, outrageous amount Urwin had suggested, I think Stan is worth six pounds a week. Young Anderson looked on as George Crow froze, his face suddenly a rictus of incredulity. The usually phlegmatic secretary was struggling to keep his composure. For a moment Anderson thought Crow was going to faint.