One grey February day, Alf made his debut for the Juvenile side, Yoker Fernlea. He scored the only goal of the game on a quagmire of a pitch. The games were fiercely contested, with Alf playing to such calls from the touchline as, ‘Get intae him, ye big feartie!’ or ‘Awa hame, ye mug ye!’ There are references to some of these games in his diaries: ‘Played Ettrick Thistle today – fiasco. Two of our lads sent off and one carried off. We lost 2–1 in front of a big crowd.’ ‘Played Tweedhill and drew 3–3 … got a wallop on the shin which has stiffened me up.’ Conditions could be primitive. With pitches often composed of ash and gravel, sliding tackles frequently resulted in sharp stones being driven deep into the wounds of battle.
The games were watched from the touchline by the ‘support’. This collection of largely unemployed individuals followed the team wherever it went, gleaning great satisfaction from the games by shouting and swearing at both the players and the referee. They were a motley collection, some fat, but most of them thin and sallow-complexioned, usually with cigarettes dangling from their mouths and beer bottles bulging their coat pockets. They could, on occasion, contribute dramatically to the outcome of a match and, more than once, Alf observed the abrupt cessation of progress by a member of the opposing team, brought about by the timely intervention of a leg darting out from the touchline.
Sometimes, however, their enjoyment could be rudely punctured. It was not uncommon for the team to be short of players at the start of a game, leaving only one course of action open to the manager – that of making up the numbers by procuring the assistance of one or two of the supporters.
‘Are we all here, Hughie?’ Alf asked one day before the start of a game.
‘One man short,’ replied the manager. He was a small, dark man with sleek black hair, who looked like a friend of Al Capone – and the club was his life. He was not only the manager, he was the secretary, the treasurer, the physio; in fact, he ran the club almost single-handed. He looked towards the line of shambling characters eagerly awaiting the start of an afternoon of shouting. ‘We’ll ha’ tae strip the support!’ He cupped his hands and bawled in the direction of the assembled supporters. ‘We’re a man doon! One o’ ye, get yer kit on. Come on noo!’
‘Strip the support’ became a regular cry at Yoker Fernlea. The man who drew the short straw usually had an uncomfortable afternoon. These men were not prepared for the rough and tumble of the games and Alf had vivid memories of white, skinny legs and baggy shirts flapping on scrawny torsos as the ‘support’ was thrust unmercifully into battle. They soon discovered that watching was considerably less exacting than playing, as heaving, sweating forms bludgeoned into their pale bodies.
In the mid 1960s when Alf was starting to write, he produced several short stories which failed to reach publication. One of these was about a timorous, downtrodden little man whose only escape from his aimless life was on a Saturday afternoon when he gave vent to his feelings by screaming at the players on the football pitch from the sideline. It was the only time he felt powerful. His world collapsed around him one day when he himself had to turn out and perform on the field – his frail body almost destroyed by the conflict. This story was based on Alf’s own observations of the uncomfortable afternoons experienced by the ‘support’ on the raw football parks of Glasgow. It was another of the many vivid memories he committed to paper, but one that was never published.
Alf played his last game for Yoker Fernlea on an ash pitch one afternoon at Govan, a hard and uncompromising part of the city. His team committed one serious error that afternoon. They won. The referee for the game, intimidated by the crowd, did his utmost to sway the game their opponent’s way, but Yoker Fernlea still won. The local supporters vented their displeasure by attacking the players who barricaded themselves in a shed while hooligans tried to break down the door. It was a frightening experience and one which made Alf think twice about continuing to play. He was going to enter a rough and sometimes dangerous profession but there was no point in getting himself maimed before he started. He would play for Yoker Fernlea no more.
That unnerving experience in Govan, however, was not his last game of football in Glasgow. He played several games for Old Kilpatrick Amateurs in the West of Scotland Amateur League, as well as turning out regularly for the veterinary college team. There was not so much pressure playing in this team. Games often took place on a Saturday following the Friday night dances at the college, with many of the participants in no condition to start charging around a football field. The exercise was good, however, and helped to dispel the hangovers induced by the previous night’s revelry.
He played alongside many of his friends, including Bob Smith, Eddie Straiton, Donald McIntyre, Adam Farrell, Johnny Ogg, George Mcleod and V. J. (Pat) O’Reilly. During one weekend spent visiting Dublin to play the veterinary college there, they all had such a rubustuous weekend that Alf wrote an essay about their experiences. Although having by now abandoned the conscientious keeping of his diary, the urge to preserve his memories to print had not been lost.
In 1936, the Wight family had moved from their home in 2172 Dumbarton Road to take up residence, about two miles away, in a semi-detached house at 724 Anniesland Road, Scotstounhill.
One of the reasons the family were able to move to a more salubrious area was that they had inherited some money. Alf’s grandfather, James Wight, died in Sunderland in November 1934, and he had left a tidy sum. The estate was valued at £7,366 which, in those days, was quite a fortune. He had been a frame-turner in the shipyards but also a bit of a property speculator. He had owned no less than six houses which, after his death, were distributed among his offspring – bequeathing to Pop his house in 65 Fulwell Road, Sunderland, together with a share in the residue of the estate.
Their new house was on a relatively quiet road, commanding fine views of the hills surrounding the city. Although close to their previous home, it was very different – more like a leafy suburb, in contrast to the tenement-lined streets of industrial Yoker with their whining tram-cars and noisy public houses. Here Hannah had more room in which to carry on her thriving dress-making business, while Pop was still within easy reach of the fish and chip shop that was now providing him with an income. Not only did the move to the new house mean that Alf had the advantage of a quieter environment in which to study but, as he worked, he could pause occasionally to gaze happily from his bedroom window at the sweet places that had given him such pleasure, the Campsie Fells and the Kilpatrick Hills.
In September 1938, he was beginning, what he fervently hoped would be his final year, and he needed plenty of encouragement. Having failed his Pathology exam just two months previously, he realised that, although he was enjoying some great times with his friends, he must never lose sight of the most important objective of his life – to qualify as a veterinary surgeon. In that month, he got his head down; he knew that there was still a lot of work to be done.
CHAPTER SIX
For the Glasgow Veterinary College students, their studies took on some real meaning when they began to study Medicine and Surgery – the diagnosis and treatment of disease. They had the thrill of trying their hand at surgical procedures, getting a feel for their future lives as veterinary surgeons.