Shirts, Shorts and Spurs. Roy Reyland
with me, son…’ It was brilliant.
The reserve team was pretty hot at the time, with players like Ian Crook, Tony Parks, Ian Culverhouse, Peter Southey and Mark Bowen all making appearances. Even big players like Ray Clemence and Chrissie Waddle would play in the reserves when they were coming back from injury, so often the team was as star-studded as the first team! It was an early taste of working with some of Tottenham’s biggest names, like David Howells who had a spell in the team. The reserve team league was called the Combination and we finished top a couple of times, and won the Combination Cup. Occasionally, you’d have one of the under-18 boys in the team, playing alongside the likes of Chrissie Waddle. If you ask me, it was fantastic for the younger players and I began to really enjoy being involved in the reserves.
The reserves games were always so competitive. It was full-on, because every player was either fighting to prove their worth or their fitness. Goalkeeper Tony Parks really stood out. He always had such wit and character – he was a confident boy and he played that way, even as a teenager. Micky Hazard used to shine in that reserve team, and I personally think that Micky was unlucky to be in the same era as Glenn Hoddle, for his ability on the ball was amazing. But getting in that team ahead of a player like Hoddle was beyond him, or anyone else for that matter.
So why didn’t players like Glenn or Stevie Perryman ever leave? As Bill Nicholson had told me, we played good football, there was a good atmosphere and we were a family club. Who would want to leave? Stevie sacrificed his England career for Spurs, he’ll happily admit. He just loved his Spurs. I remember he had what he called his ‘fat ankle’. It was permanently swollen, because he’d refuse to miss a game. Stevie would be last out of the dressing room because he’d ice his fat ankle, then have it strapped – he never liked to miss a game. If you look at photos of him playing, look at his ankles and I’ll guarantee one will be swollen. He just played on it because, like everyone else, he wanted to be on the team.
I’d caught the same bug, and, from when I first started work with my dad at Beautility furniture to my last day at Spurs, I never had a day off sick. I’ve gone to work in terrible states and even been sent home, but I have always attended. It stems from my dad, who was a stickler for not being tardy. He told me as a kid, ‘You’ve always got to go in.’ So, even if I turned up and vomited in the dressing room, at least I tried. And when I was at Tottenham, I hated missing a day’s work, because it was more than just a job.
It was unlike any other job I’ve ever done. Some of my mates became painters, printers and couriers, but my job caused a stir when I told people. They’d ask, ‘What’s it like?’ I’d just answer, ‘It’s hard work.’ Because I couldn’t explain it any other way. I felt like a crucial member of that team. The job was gruelling, more so than you could ever imagine. But I loved it.
Every morning Johnny and I used to leave the main stadium at 8.50am; I had the job of driving the mini-bus, with wicker skips full of training kit stacked on the roof rack. One of the apprentices would get on top and we’d throw it up. Then I’d drive them from White Hart Lane to Cheshunt, up the A10, with the apprentices in the back. Imagine the banter! We’d get there about 9.30, drag all the stuff off the top, and me and the boys would lay out the dressing rooms for the first team, the reserves and the Academy. Then, Johnny and me would drive the van back to the Lane, where the laundry ladies would have washed the previous day’s kit. For years, there was always a wash on, as we had one set of kit in the wash, one on the players’ backs and one spare. Then we’d start preparing the match kit for the Under 17s, Under 18s and the reserves’ weekend games. You’re talking thousands of items of kit, and it was quite the operation. Then we’d be back to the training ground to pick up the dirty stuff.
The laundry ladies were unbelievable. One of them, Sylvie, was there in 1978 when I joined and she must have done 20 years’ service before leaving. She was less of a laundry lady, more a magician, such was her ability to make stains disappear from those white shirts. Sometimes the kit was horrific – so rank you wouldn’t touch it. But Sylvie just sorted it, as if on autopilot. Like me, she was a perfectionist, and nothing was too much trouble. She had two massive industrial machines, one dryer and one spin dryer at White Hart Lane, and she’d get there as early as Johnny and me, keen as mustard.
I’d started to really admire Johnny Wallis, because he was a no-nonsense man who made the job look easy. Johnny never used to have any lists, but, although he never had names or squad numbers to deal with, and you could argue that was easier, he did it all off the top of his head and never forgot a thing. Myself, I needed a checklist. I had 60 printed off in the office and I would religiously check the list as I worked. Johnny also had this knack of being abrupt, and strong, and sometimes even quite offensive to the apprentices. He used to tell me, ‘Test them. See how they react to criticism.’ But I was only 26 and I was nervous about doing that, at first.
Johnny was a stickler for timing and getting things done. I was always lenient to the apprentices and I’d wait in the car park for them to arrive if they were late, but he wouldn’t have that. One day Johnny was pulling out of Bill Nick Way, and when he got to the end of the road we saw some apprentices who’d just got off the train, running towards us. Of course, they were late, and they were 30 yards away. But Johnny sped off, leaving them there, stranded. As he put his foot down, I asked him why he didn’t wait. ‘What time did they go home yesterday?’ he asked.
‘Half-four,’ I said.
‘Well,’ Johnny said sternly, ‘they’ve had from half-four to half-eight this morning to get here and they’re late. Unlucky.’
And those boys were never late again.
Sometimes, Johnny was just as harsh to me, too. He’d snarl, ‘Do that’ and ‘Do this’ and I’d say, ‘Slow down!’ But we soon became close. He’d tell me trade secrets, like how to keep boots soft. Johnny used to wipe them off right after the game with a damp cloth – he’d never hang them in direct heat – and then he’d place them in a naturally heated room so the leather didn’t shrink. After that, with a bit of black boot polish and dubbing, they’d be perfect, and the players would be happy.
And when the players were happy, the results came in. Spurs were going great guns, and we got to the 1981 FA Cup Final against Manchester City, one of the most exciting finals in football history. The game was played over two legs and what people tend to erase from history was that Ricky Villa played a real stinker in the first game. When I used to watch him train, I always noticed how he was so laidback. He had this great ability of drifting past players, and, boy, could he play the ball. But he could also drift in and out of games, and would often either have a fantastic game or a poor game. This was one of his poorer games.
Some spectators think that, on the wages they earn, players should play great every game, but anyone who has played to any decent level knows that’s just not possible. If you don’t have at least seven players firing on all cylinders, you’ve got a problem. I remember after that first final, which we drew, Ricky was trudging off with that gold chain swinging around his neck. I really felt for him, as it was the Argentine lads’ first big moment in England, and the FA Cup had such prestige in those days.
During the build-up to the next game, everyone was thinking: ‘Are they going to drop him?’ But Keith had said to Ricky, ‘You’re playing, no matter what happens.’ And that really made the difference to Ricky.
In the second final, I was sitting behind the goal and I saw Ricky as he started on that mazy run. I was thinking, ‘Good one, Ricky, now pass it.’ Then, ‘Oh, well done. Now pass it.’ Then… ‘OK, you’ve beaten two, please pass it!’ He went to shoot, but didn’t, then checked inside once again. Now, next time you watch the goal, try to watch Garth Crooks instead of Ricky, because he’s swinging his right foot, kicking every ball with him, as if he was urging him to hit it! It’s hilarious! Of course, the rest is history.
The reception was in the Chanticleer banqueting rooms, next door to White Hart Lane. It was a fantastic evening. We came out at six the next morning and went straight to the café for breakfast. I don’t normally drink, but I drank that night and I couldn’t walk! What great memories. To be a part of a successful