They say you should never meet your heroes, with the suggestion that they will inevitably disappoint you.
Nevertheless, there I was, a recently retired Deputy Head of a secondary school, preparing to meet two heroes from my teenage days, and as nervous as if I was still the youngster who first became aware of them in the 1960s.
November 16th 2013 was the 50th anniversary of the first time I watched Southport FC at their Haig Avenue ground, a 2-1 victory over Walsall in the FA Cup. That week in November 1963 would resonate for many reasons. On the following Friday, John F Kennedy would be assassinated in Dallas, and the Beatles would release their phenomenally successful second album ‘With the Beatles’.
However, for me, it would be the week I fell in love with Southport FC and, in particular, established a lifelong passion for ‘going to the match.’
It was classic timing.
Born in Edinburgh into a Hibernian supporting family, we had moved to Southport after my father’s death when I was just five. Hibs were, and still are, in my blood, but as an eleven year old in 1963, I wanted to see what live football was like – this thrill that my school pals all talked about, after being at Everton or Liverpool with their dads. Without a dad to take me, the local fourth division team, with gates of four or five thousand, was seen as a safe option.
From the start, I loved everything about it, the whole experience, the cinder terracing, the smell of pipe tobacco, the scalding sweet tea, and the whiff of liniment. It was all magic to me. What I couldn’t know was that Southport would have most successful years in their history in the next decade before I returned to Edinburgh.
When I saw that Southport were at home to Hereford Utd on November 16th 2013, the ‘Golden Anniversary,’ of my first match, and that Hibs had no game, I determined I’d travel down from Edinburgh to celebrate. My son, who had inherited a love of Southport and their Haig Avenue ground from me, would also travel, and I wondered if there would be any chance to meet a couple of sixties heroes.
Alex Russell, a highly talented inside forward (or central midfielder as he would now be termed) and Eric Redrobe, a bustling centre forward, sometimes left winger, were two of my favourites. I knew both still regularly attended matches, and, as Eric had also played for Hereford, there was a good chance he would be there. So I contacted Southport FC comms guru, Rob Urwin, to see if a quick meeting could be arranged.
It looked like it could happen, so, on the day, I walked the familiar streets to the ground, excited for the game, as ever, but developing nerves about meeting my heroes.
Eric Redrobe played nearly 300 games for Southport, Alex Russell nearly 350, and these games were in the club’s most successful period. It should be remembered how different the times were.
Players stayed far longer at clubs and were paid minimal wages – Redrobe received £27 per week – around £35K a year today; bonuses were often paid in kind by the club owner who ran a potato farm! Particularly at third and fourth division level, there was little media coverage outside of the local press, so all you really knew of a player was what you saw on a Saturday afternoon. However, a relationship between support and players could really build over a five or six year period.
So it was for Russell and Redrobe – the former for his marvellous talent, and with Eric, well, because he was Eric.
At 6’1” and well built he was a formidable striker without being the kind of giant you might place at centre half. He could certainly put himself about, and defenders hated playing against him – because of his physical presence, but also because, for a big man, he was quick and skilful, as is attested to by his 62 goals overall for the club.
From Billinge, near Wigan, he had an offer to play Rugby League, but followed his dad’s advice and chose the round ball game. Released by Bolton Wanderers, he was spotted by Port manager, Billy Bingham, on trial for Colchester Utd in a game in Ireland, and was promptly secured.
His bustling style and 100% effort soon endeared him to the fans as he played his part in the team’s first ever promotion in 1967, and he quickly became a cult figure, the chant “Eric the Redrobe” ringing out from the supporters in the Scarisbrick Road End, accompanied by heels kicking the corrugated iron at the back of the terracing, and rust falling from the girders above.
He clearly loved playing for Southport, and his lifelong association with the club provides proof of his love for the men in Old Gold, his every appearance at the ground being welcomed, and his being voted the fans’ favourite ever player.
I loved watching him play and he was a real teenage hero to me.
So, before the game, when Rob Urwin signalled to us in the stand that we should come down to meet the man himself, despite my age and experience, I found myself feeling daunted. The closest I’d ever been to him was watching from the terracing; I don’t think I’d ever even heard him interviewed. What if he was just puzzled by this retired schoolteacher wanting to meet him?
At the same time, I was excited.
This was a guy I’d watched throughout my teenage years, held him up as my hero while classmates raved about Best, Law and Charlton or Kendal and Young, or St John and Callaghan. Through a lifetime, I’d never really let him relinquish that place in my affections. What a thrill to finally meet him!
On the other hand, what could I say to him?
But then we were pitchside and Rob came towards us, explaining to his companion who we were and why we were there. And his companion was Eric the Redrobe! Clad in a comfortingly predictable sheepskin suede coat, he looked much the same as in his playing days, even in his seventies.
I intended to thank him for the enjoyment he’d given throughout his time at Haig Avenue, but when we were introduced, emotion overwhelmed me, and I hugged him!
Well, there’s an embarrassment!
I had no need to fear, Eric the Redrobe hugged me back, and when I said it was lovely to meet him, he replied with a big smile: “Lovely to meet you too!” Thankfully, he understood the affection in which he was held by my generation, and obviously still enjoyed it.
My son was equally pleased to finally meet this hero he had heard me talking about for the last twenty five years and we had a brief chat about the sixties and how much I had enjoyed watching him in those ‘Golden Days’.
When I remarked that it was great that he still came to games, his reply was typically Eric the Red: “Well, otherwise, my wife would have me at home doing the wallpapering.”
It was equally thrilling to meet with Alex Russell at half time, though he seemed a little more bemused at the length and duration of my fan boy commitment!
Stories will be repeated this week with the sad news of Eric’s death on New Year’s Eve.
In the famous third round cup tie in front of 19,000 at Haig Avenue, he made Everton keeper Gordon West cry, with a perfectly fair shoulder charge. The Blues fans were not impressed, but when he lingered after full time to let them disperse and eventually dropped in to the bar at Chapel St station on his way home, he was taken aback to find it full of the Everton support.
“Aren’t you that lad playing for Southport today?” he was asked rather abruptly.
“No, not me,” he said, taking on his dad’s identity as an escape, “I work in Wareing and Gillow’s Furniture store, just done a late shift.”
He thought they believed him, but as he would recall,
“I was never more pleased to see that Wigan train.”
Always game to promote the club he loved, few will forget the sight of him in ballet tights – one of manager Bingham’s innovative training ideas to minimise the risk of pulled muscles in cold weather.
I’ve often thought about our meeting, and many fans have a similar story. It was a fine reflection of how football was in those times, with the connection between players and supporters. As youngsters, we couldn’t know that those guys, and our affection for them, would be with us for the rest of our days, no matter how many new heroes would emerge over decades of Saturday afternoons.
The ‘old man thing’ of “Everything was better then” does not really apply. It was just different, and, for my part, I’m glad it was, so players like Redrobe, Russell, Spence, Reeves, Field and Smith have accompanied me all through my life, like childhood friends remaining in contact.
I’ve been watching football for over sixty years now and there’s never been a player with the particular appeal of Big Red. The fans just loved him, he was iconic, fearsome and loveable at the same time, known to folk in the town who never went near Haig Avenue, an effective footballer and a lovely man – just as you would wish your heroes to be.
In those archaic times, I used to cycle to the game, and on the way home would stop at Byrom’s Chip Shop in Birkdale, opposite Ginger McCain’s car showroom and stables, to buy a bag of chips.
Mr Byrom was a cheery sort, cooking and chatting, while his wife fulfilled the orders and took the money. He knew me well and, clocking the old gold and black scarf, would engage in the usual football banter.
“Well, here he is! Did they lose again? Dear me!”
I would smile as I anticipated the chips.
“Have they still got that big fellow playing for them, then? What’s his name, then? Redrobe is it?”
A smile from me.
“Dear, dear! Big Eric Redrobe! He’s a lad, isn’t he!”
Mr Byrom was right – Eric was a lad – a lovely lad – and I’m going to miss him in my world.
I’m so glad I had the chance to hug him.
There's a light in the Sky 