My mother enlisted the help of my primary school headmaster Mr Hamilton, who had given me the crimson shirt as though it might have been the Holy Grail. My mother said, ‘I’m delighted Bobby has passed for the grammar school, but there is no question about one thing – he just has to play football.’ Mr Hamilton agreed and said that he would petition the local education authority. He did so successfully, winning me a place at football-playing Bedlington, and it is something that I’ve always appreciated, along with my mother’s determination to do the best she could for me.
Sometimes the enthusiasm she displayed in supporting my progress as a young footballer of local celebrity could be embarrassing, but I realised that she was from a footballing family and that the game was in her blood, and that however aggressively she went about it, she always had my best interests in her heart.
I wasn’t going to break any academic records, but I thrived at Bedlington through the football. It gave me confidence in the new, big school and, if I had doubted it before, the regard of those schoolmates who lifted me on to their shoulders when I scored that winning goal at St Aloysius. However, such a celebration of my football prowess was not always shared in the headmaster’s study, where I was refused permission to leave school early to travel to Wembley when I was picked for England Schoolboys. Normally, I was able to fit in my football without too much difficulty. On that critical occasion, however, I had to be saved by the Bedlington games master, George Benson, who took it upon himself to drive me to the station for the London train. His faith in my ability was rewarded quickly enough. I played with great confidence for the England Schoolboys; I was sure of both my talent and my ambition, partly because Manchester United had already made it clear that they wanted me.
I had the feeling that my whole life had turned into a great adventure and that was intensified when I waited for cup draws. I always wanted to be drawn away, and that wish came true when my team, East Northumberland, beat South Northumberland in the English Schools’ Cup. When Hull Boys came out of the hat, my first thought was not that they were a formidable team but whether the journey would be long enough for us to stay in a hotel.
We lost to Hull, 2–1, but we did stay in a hotel and for me that was the greatest thing I could imagine. When I graduated to the England Schoolboys team and, all in one year, stayed in London, Cardiff, Leicester and Manchester, I might have been travelling on a magic carpet. The future was golden and without horizons, far more glamorous than I had suspected when I spent those summer weeks in Chesterfield with my Uncle George, which had been such an important part of my early football education. Then, even though I was entranced by seeing professionals at work, I had been a little homesick. Now, though, I thought of myself in the Marco Polo league of travellers and had absolutely no qualms about the days when I would leave both school and home.
One day Harold Shentall, the chairman of Chesterfield and the Football Association, was getting a rub-down from Uncle George, and as he lay on the board he nodded to me and said, ‘Has this lad signed for us yet?’ and when I shook my head he said, ‘Well, at least you can sign our visitors book.’ So I did. Later, we ourselves had a visitor, one among many, at home in Ashington, who announced he was a scout for Chesterfield. He said, ‘You know you’ve already signed for us – now wouldn’t you like to do it properly?’ I said that it was impossible. I had given my word to someone else. I had done it earlier in 1953, on 9 February, when I was fifteen years and four months old.
Joe Armstrong, the twinkling little man who had made a great reputation for himself as chief scout of Manchester United, had come up to me after I had given what I thought was a very ordinary performance for East Northumberland Boys at Jarrow. The conditions had been nearly impossible with the pitch frozen into ruts. Later, though, Joe would say that he had been certain about my ability that day. He would give Matt Busby and Jimmy Murphy a rave report, but here he was, straight after the game, showing the force of his conviction. He said to me, ‘My name is Joe Armstrong and I’m from Manchester. I want to know if you would like to play for Manchester United when you leave school this summer.’
In a few months’ time, after I had had my spree with England Schoolboys, and scored twice at Wembley against Wales, it seemed league scouts were never away from our door. In all, eighteen clubs made me an offer. They all had different stories, reasons why they were the clubs I should join. The man from Wolves made the most novel pitch, though I have to say it was among the least convincing. He handed me a match programme which had a drawing of the Molineux ground on the front. It wasn’t even a photograph, but he pointed to it and said, ‘Look, you must join us – you will be playing on pitches like that.’ Arsenal came into the running late, but I have to say they did have a lot of appeal for me. They had a wonderfully classic image and so many names that were part of the football legends I
