Life as a

Red Reserve

Gwyn Thomas gets nostalgic...

Last season, after an absence of 50 years, I travelled all the way from the footballing wilderness of Lincolnshire to see the Reds play Swindon. What a revelation the ground was. Well, it's no longer a 'ground' but a handsome stadium. As I sat, taking in all the changes, I slipped back in time to the Second World War days, when there were regional leagues, with Wrexham playing teams like the Manchester sides, Everton and Preston.

In my mind's eye, I saw cinder terraces on three sides, with two small stands on the other. The crowds were mostly men dressed in drab macs and flat caps, from under which rose clouds of smoke. The only colour came from one of the local brass bands, which would circle the pitch, followed by a blanket inviting coins to be thrown from the crowd. These were not 'fans', but supporters, whose highlight of an unexciting week would be The Match. 'See you at the 'Course. 

Excited anticipation built up towards three o'clock, or earlier in winter as there were no floodlights, A player would appear at the top of the steps leading from the dressing room, but a cheer would be strangled as only one player descended, and he was going to the only lavatory (underneath the steps) - probably for a 'drag'. It became a standing joke. 

What of the football? It wasn't 'soccer' then - that was too posh. In the kickabout before the game, there was only one ball per team, and that was leather and very heavy in wet weather. There were no substitutes, no hugging and kissing, no abuse of the referee. 

One Saturday we flocked to see Tommy Lawton, but Bill Tudor, our centre-half, crippled him in the first few minutes, so all we saw was Tommy limping on the wing. I can see Stan Cullis coolly emerging from defence, ready to distribute the ball; Jock Dodds back-heeling the ball from the centre circle right into the path of a teammate in the penalty area; Peter Doherty feinting to shoot several times and each time causing the defence to topple backwards; and Sam Weaver, of Chelsea and England, flipping the ball with his wrists right into the goalmouth. But the greatest favourite was Johnny Hancocks, the mighty atom - small, with size-four boots, making fools of left-backs. Programme changes were frequent and expected, but sometimes replacements were internationals. Altogether, watching Wrexham lit up a drab wartime experience. 

Looking to the future, Wrexham nurtured local talent. Gib Bellis, from Mold, and Cyril Jones, from the Rhos area, were ever-presents. In contrast, my involvement was extremely modest. As a sixteen-year-old, I 'trained' with whoever was around, if you could call it training. As we lapped the pitch, I listened to the old pros gossiping about clubs and the quality of pitches. Wrexham's came high on their list. 

I went as reserve to several matches. On our way to Goodison Park, having lunch in a hotel, Hancocks asked meekly for a second helping of rice pudding. The request was firmly turned down by Joe, our bandy-legged, bucket-carrying trainer. 

Sitting in the stands at Chester as reserve, I was suddenly called down to the dressing-room, where Len Duns (Sunderland and England) and Hancocks (later of Wolves and England) were arguing over who was to play on the right wing. Neither wanted to feature on the left and I was the other option. What a relief it was to see them sort it out with the manager, as I was dreading the thought of playing out there in the pouring rain -and against a tough right-back.

I played in reserve matches. Before one, against South Liverpool, I stood urinating next to the great 'Pongo' Waring, of Aston Villa and England. Even there I made sure I kept out of reach of those sharp, bony elbows. Against Northwich Victoria, our outside-right was 16-year-old Colin Gralnger, destined for Sunderland, Sheffield United and England. I played a couple of times for the first team. One was against Nescliff Army Gamp, and the other against Accrington Stanley. 

Now work this one out. The previous week I'd gone as reserve to Accrington, but even with Hancocks and Willie Watson (a double international in football and cricket), we lost 2-1. A week later, with me playing left-winger and another local lad on the right, we won 1-0. Nothing to do with me, though. More to do with Ronnie Dix, of Derby and England (and later of Spurs) who scored with an explosive free-kick. Before the match, in the dressing-room, Matt Armstrong (Aberdeen and Scotland) sat having a last few desperate puffs on his fag. One interesting detail: for that match I received ten shillings, a princely sum when you consider that the return bus fare from my home in Llay was fivepence. 

My last visit to the Racecourse was in 1950, when 18-year-old John Charles made his international debut against Northern Ireland. Playing for the opposition was a slim Danny Blanchflower, of Barnsley.

Back to the present, to the multi-coloured Racecourse, with its flashing lights and music, its bars and its clean toilets. And, of course, its colourful favours, the programme and Red Passion. During the war, the programme had been a single sheet, with the teams on one side and comment on the other. I thought the crowd was generous and supportive against Swindon, especially when Dearden dropped the ball, leading to their goal. When we equalised, my son and my granddaughter, aged 13, leapt to their feet and threw their arms into the air. Old men around me risked heart attacks and slipped discs. Altogether, a great day out - and one to be repeated.