Aussie Mike’s guest post!
During the 50`s, my dad bore the sweat and tears of toiling down the pit ripping out coal while doing his very best to raise two very young disabled children. A normal day for him involved rising at 5 am, travelling by the first bus of the day to Manchester Children`s Hospital to feed his son, who would only eat from his parent`s hand. From there straight to the pit for a gruelling 8 hour shift one thousand feet underground, a swift shower at the pit head then back to the hospital to feed his child again before returning home to Bolton for sleep in readiness for a repeat the next day.
His only salvation arrived on those Saturday afternoons when without ever a spare penny in his pocket, he took the opportunity to pass through the Burnden Park gates at half time for free, to catch a glimpse of the truly great players of that era, the likes of Harold Hassall, Willy Moir and the irrepressible legend Nat Lofthouse. He would eulogise about the great Nat, such power, drive, ability, sweeping defenders aside as he scored one goal after another.
My early memories of my dad are of gazing into the eyes of a hard man, a quiet gentle man, cut and bruised by the burdens life had placed on his shoulders. Those eyes, bearing the permanent coal dust signatures of his work, only ever truly sparkled when he saw his children smiling back at him, or when he reflected on the Wanderers players who transformed the simplicity of football into sudden moments of brilliance and cheer.
Life during the 50`s was hard for most people , Burnden Park offered a haven of temporary escape, supporters shared common lifestyles , a common understanding prevailed, a common bond existed amongst men united in following their team, comprised of local players cut from the same cloth as the supporters. Everyone was equal, players and supporters alike bore pride in their allegiance to Bolton Wanderers. The harshness of life during this period gave rise to honest values, respect towards others, that hard work and sheer determination was the only road available at a time when people had to stand on their own two feet without any respite, there was no state support or free benefits in those days . These conditions shaped the history of our club and the players of that time, hard working men flocked in their thousands to Burnden Park, standing shoulder to shoulder absorbing and responding to the combat unfolding out on the field of play.
Now 86 years old, frail and in his twilight years my dad`s eyes still sparkle whenever he talks about those match day memories, of being privileged to see Nat Lofthouse during his prime, memories my dad was able to snatch during times of sadness that carry a value etched in his mind forever.
As a young lad in the 60`s I followed in my dad`s footsteps, listening to the roars from the Burnden crowd as I stood outside the ground with my mates patiently waited for the gates to open at half time. I always dashed into the embankment end, attracted by the high open stepped terrace with the upper tiers built from York flags and cinder soil, too small to look over the stanchions or stand behind grown men I would climb as high as I could to gain a vantage point allowing me to gaze across the field of play, it seemed like another world to me as I soaked in the excitement and emotion generated by the crowd.
In those early days the team was Hopkinson, Hartle , Farrimond , Rimmer, Edwards, Hatton, Lee, Hill, Davies, Bromley, Taylor. Roy Hartle was a fearsome full back always seeking to bowl the opposing winger off the field and if possible down onto the running track at the first opportunity, no doubt the logic was the winger will think twice about trying to get past me again. Wyn Davies who played for Wales was a great centre forward, powerful in the air, scoring lots of goals with his head, ably assisted by the wing play of Frannie Lee and Gordon Taylor who had thighs like tree trunks. The team was led by Warwick Rimmer, a powerhouse in midfield and we had of course the ex England Goalie Eddie Hopkinson in the nets, who seemed small in stature but tall in ability. Freddie Hill always appeared to have both shoulders dropped as he weaved past defenders with the agility of a wizard and the speed of a sloth.
As I recall formations were traditional, 5 forwards, 3 centre backs and 2 full backs, the leather ball was laced always heavy especially in wet conditions, it took a strong player to send a corner ball high across the goalmouth and a brave player to leap and head it. During winter games the players would leave the pitch drenched in mud, I grew up thinking commitment and contribution to a game was measured in the amount of muck on them at the end. Of all the memories I stored from those days two seemed to be representative and poignant from that time for an impressionable young supporter : Firstly, being entrapped in what seemed a record crowd of 57,270 in 1965 for a 5th round cup tie against the best team in the land, Liverpool. My elder brother had taken me to the game and I was hoisted on top of a stanchion so that I could see the pitch over the bodies around me; the crowd resembled a complete ocean of heads, like sardines in a can, it was surreal.
As for the game itself and the efforts from the Wanderers to create a major cup shock, Wyn Davies hit the bar and post, Frannie Lee had a shot tipped onto the post by Lawrence, sadly Ian St John and Ian Callaghan combined in the 85th minute to snatch the game from us 0-1. As the sea of supporters filed out of the embankment end, everyone was funnelled into the narrowing space leading towards the exit gates, this generated immense pressure within the bottleneck that developed, I became separated from my brother and recall being lifted off my feet and literally crushed against the back of a man in front of me, my cries saved me as the man behind used his arm strength to push the guy in front creating just enough space allowing me to breath.
Next, in the late 60`s during one important evening game, with the famous Burnden Park floodlights casting long shadows across the pitch, the referee blew the whistle for full time with the score at 1-1, as the dejected crowd began to leave the players suddenly returned, seems the ref had blown too soon and another 5 minutes remained. During the dying seconds of this reprieve we were awarded a free kick 35 yards out, Gareth Williams a truly powerful midfielder who we had recently signed from Cardiff, stepped forward, placed the ball, wiped his boot on the back of his socks and then sent a missile shot straight into the top corner, absolute jubilation , for any youngster memories are certainly made from moments like these.