It was an excellent pass, perfectly timed. Ross sprinted down the line to run on to the ball. The boots felt stiff and ungainly. But he managed to check the pass off his inside foot and drive it forward. Looking up he glimpsed Muir hurtling towards him.
Scary as this was Ross saw an opportunity; the big defender’s momentum would make it hard to change direction. So Ross dodged left and cut back inside. Muir brushed past his shoulder with a curse.
A cheer rose from the parents on the sidelines. Nothing stood now between Ross and the goalie but open ground. He drove the ball towards the centre, looking for position. The goalie came forward with a frantic wave of his arms.
“Have a dig. Shoot!” Bob Nelson hollered.
Ross turned on the ball. It was an easy chip. He’d made countless similar shots in practice. He planted his right foot, but as he followed through, the toe of his left boot scuffed over the pitch, and he stumbled and fell forward into the grass. The ball trickled to the edge of the box.
“Smooth,” said the goalie and punted the ball back to Muir.
Ross picked himself slowly off the ground. The rest of the match passed in a blur. He hardly touched the ball again. Over and over the moment replayed in his head like some sick video loop. The final whistle blew and Ross walked off the far end of the pitch.
“Come shake hands,” he heard Barry call, but Ross kept on walking. It wasn’t “sporting”, he knew, but he simply couldn’t bear facing Muir. He found a bench alongside the canal and changed out of the muddy boots.
“Some luck,” he muttered.
Crossing the bridge, he felt tempted to toss his kit bag over the side and forget football altogether.
At Pat’s he called glumly at the open front door, “It’s me.”
“You’re early,” she replied from the kitchen and came out into the hallway.
“Is everything okay?”
But before he could answer she spotted the muddy football boots hanging by their knotted laces over the top of his kit bag.
“What are those?” she asked.
Ross turned away. Pat reached out and yanked the kit bag from his shoulder. Her eyes flared in anger.
“Have you been playing football in these?”
“So what if I have?” Ross snapped back. “It’s just some old boots.”
She stared at him for a moment in disbelief.
“Maybe I was wrong to have trusted you,” she said, and then turned and walked back into the kitchen.
Ross stood a moment alone in the hallway deep in regret. He then sighed and followed her. Pat stood at the sink with the boots on the draining board.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered.
“Put the gas on under that pot of milk,” she replied and began to fill the sink.
Ross sat at the table and watched in silence as she used a wet cloth to carefully daub the mud and grass from the boots. Afterwards she stuffed the insides with crumpled newspaper and left them to dry by the radiator. By then the milk had boiled. She whisked two tall mugs of hot chocolate and sat down at the table opposite Ross.
“Let me tell you something about those boots,” she said. “And your great-grandfather.”
5. The Perfect Fit
A good pair of football boots did not come cheap in 1914 – especially not for a brewery worker with a family of four. Tom Jordan brought home less than two guineas a week from his job at Fountain Brewery. The few coins left over after expenses – rent, groceries, coal – went into a tea tin kept on a high shelf above the range. Here the family banked their savings for summer holidays by the sea at Dunbar.
That first Saturday morning after Jack got his letter from Tynecastle, Tom retrieved the tin, but instead of depositing money he poured the contents out onto the kitchen table and counted out 25 shillings. Jack tried to protest; his old boots had at least another season’s wear. But Tom would not be persuaded.
“I won’t have my son taking the pitch at Tynecastle in some ratty hand-me-downs.”
“Jack Jordan Esq” – the letter had been addressed. It offered a six-month contract and had been signed by the manager himself, John McCartney. He had approached Jack after a match in which he’d scored three goals against Dalry Primrose.
A gruff man in a bowler hat and three-piece suit, he handed Jack a card and said, “Come down to Gorgie Road for a chat.”
Jack had been so dumbstruck that his father had to answer for him.
“Certainly. Delighted, Mr McCartney.”
To play for Hearts had been Jack’s one ambition since the age of seven when his father took him to his first match. Now at seventeen he was being offered a trial with the second team at centre forward. It seemed unreal, like a dream from which he’d soon wake up.
Certainly no one would have predicted that Jack would one day play professional football. He had been a frail child, asthmatic and prone to chest infections. Many a night he spent tented under a blanket with a steaming kettle to ease his breathing. The doctor had told his mother, “He’ll never make a runner; hasn’t the lungs for it.”
But despite such predictions and his parents’ worries, Jack did little but run. Among a gang of children he played tig and street football on the cobbled lanes and drying greens shadowed by the tall tenement buildings of Fountainbridge. Often he’d collapse gasping for breath and a child would run for his mother or his older sister Mary to carry him home.
“I’m okay,” he’d say. “Just a wee bit winded.”
Over the years the asthma eased in severity and his father allowed Jack to play for Shandon Boys. Here he demonstrated both speed and agility on the pitch – first at midfield and then as a striker. The manager at Shandon told Tom that Jack had an instinctive feel for the game, something that couldn’t be taught.
To Jack being in motion with a ball just seemed natural – legs, lungs, head all came together. He could no more account for it than explain the beating of his own heart.
That Saturday morning in late June, Jack and his father took the number 23 tram down to an athletics outfitter on Thistle Street. Here Tom asked to see the best football boots in the shop. The sales clerk looked doubtful but brought out a pair from the back.
“You won’t get better than these,” he said, laying the boots on the counter. “Top quality stitching, fine English leather.”
“How much?” Tom asked.
“Twenty-two shillings,” replied the clerk.
Jack whispered at his father’s back, “We can’t afford that.”
“Fit him a pair,” Tom replied without hesitation.
Jack protested again but sat on the bench and let the clerk measure his feet. The new boots were stiff and springy but the perfect fit. Jack stood up and took a few steps and then a hop. It was as though he had a whole new pair of feet.
Later to celebrate the purchase they went for lunch at Mathers. Workers had just come off a shift at one of the mills and the pub was loud and smoky. They found two stools and Jack felt he’d never seen his father look happier sitting at the bar beside him eating his steak pie and chips.
“Thanks again for the boots,” Jack said.
Tom raised his pint and shouted to be heard over the noise of the pub, “I may have bought them, but it’s you that has to fill them.”
***
Jack turned up for his first training session that next Monday along with two other new players. Drew Hendry had been recruited from a local club at Mossend – a tall, lanky goalkeeper. The other man came all the way from Newcastle. A scout acting for McCartney spotted Hugh Wilson playing winger for an amateur side in Jarrow. He’d been working as a miner before giving up his job to come north to Edinburgh.
Trainer Jimmy Duckworth met them at the gate for a quick tour of the grounds before assigning each a locker. Jack had played against Mossend before so he and Hendry chatted while changing into their kit. Wilson spoke not a word, a grim, unsmiling boy with badly pockmarked cheeks.
All three jogged across the training pitch to join the other
second team players warming up. The squad spent an hour at drills and then the assistant trainer Alex Lyon split them up for a match.
Jack played at centre forward but struggled to find the measure of the game. The defenders were far more confident and aggressive than he was used to – not surprisingly. It was a whole different level of football. Try as he might he could not force an opening near the box.
Word had already spread among the squad that McCartney had recruited yet another Englishman. Some players resented this and one in particular – a defender named Bryson – seemed to take an instant hatred to Hugh Wilson.
All through the first half the older player bumped and jostled the Englishman, keeping him off balance. Each time Wilson got near the ball Bryson was there for the tackle, but always with an added shoulder or elbow. Lyon warned him half a dozen times but it made no difference.
Wilson took the abuse without comment and about ten minutes into the second half the ball came to him again. Bryson charged in, but this time Wilson made a neat side step and turned on the ball, leaving the defender nothing but thin air. He dribbled down towards the corner in position for a cross. Bryson was so enraged by this he charged in from behind with a brutal blind tackle that swept Wilson off his feet. He landed hard on his shoulder.
Bryson walked off the pitch without waiting to be told. McCartney later suspended him for a week. Wilson rose slowly and Jack jogged over to help him up.
“That was dirty,” he said.
But Wilson ignored the outstretched hand and spat.
“Had worse done to me.”
“Fair enough,” Jack replied and turned away thinking, Misery guts.
Wilson missed the free kick but soon took possession again for an attack up the right wing. Jack scrambled for position at the centre and spotted an opening. He shouted though hardly expected to get the pass. In that instant Wilson cut across from the line and lofted the ball just ahead of Jack a few yards outside the box. Jack struck as it landed and the shot rocketed off his boot past the keeper and into the net.
A hearty cheer rose from the players and Jack turned to find Wilson approaching with a grin.
“Nice shot,” said the English player.
“Nicely delivered,” Jack replied.
And with that very first goal the two footballers formed an effective duo. In the opening match of the season against Raith Rovers reserve team, Jack would score two goals both off the boot of Hugh Wilson. In the next dozen matches it would be much the same.
Off the pitch Jack soon realised that what he’d first taken for arrogance in the English player was mostly shyness. Hugh had stepped off the train from Newcastle without knowing a single person in Edinburgh. McCartney helped him find a job in the brewery washing floors. On the little wages he earned Hugh rented a room in a damp basement flat off Dalry Road. Here he subsisted mainly on cold tinned beans and bread.
Jack’s mother was horrified when he told her this one morning over breakfast.
“You get that boy around here for a solid meal,” she demanded.
The next evening Hugh came home with Jack after training and Mrs Jordan made a steaming fish pie with cabbage and tatties. Hugh had three helpings and then steamed pudding and custard.
“Sorry,” he said between mouthfuls. “It’s just so good.”
But Mrs Jordan was delighted.
“So is all your family in Newcastle?” she asked.
Hugh put down his fork.
“Well, it’s just me and Dad back home now. My little sister lives in Durham with my Aunt Bell. Mum died two years ago.”
“How sad for you,” said Jack’s sister Mary.
“Yeah, considering that Dad must be the worst cook on Tyneside.”
“I imagine he misses you,” she added.
“It’ll be a quiet house now – that’s for sure. But he wanted me to come. Dad used to play football for Jarrow but had to give it up at fifteen to dig coal. He told me to take my chance while I could – not as though the pit’ll be going anywhere.”
From that night on Hugh Wilson took most of his evening meals with the Jordans. He tried to offer money for his share of the food but Tom refused. Some nights when Mary’s fiancé George joined the family, there were six around the small kitchen table. On Saturdays Hugh and Jack would go out after tea either to a theatre if they had a spare shilling or to the Palace Dancehall. Here they’d eye up girls across the wide polished floor but rarely pluck up the courage to ask for a waltz or a polka.
Had either of them picked up a newspaper on 29 June 1914, it’s doubtful they would have given much thought to the headlines announcing that Archduke Franz Ferdinand had been felled by an assassin’s bullet in Sarajevo. Too much else was happening in their busy lives. Nor could they have predicted the sequence of events over the coming weeks and months – the tangle of alliances that later in August would lead Britain to war.
6. The Greater Game
Hearts first team opened the 1914 season on 15 August with a match against the defending champions Celtic. A crowd of 18,000 spectators packed the stadium at Tynecastle. Jack had managed to get a free ticket for his father and together with Hugh they sat in the centre of the main stand.
The crowd buzzed with excitement. Hopes were high that season for winning the league. McCartney had fielded the strongest squad in years – evident from the first whistle. In minutes, forward Tom Gracie just missed going one up on a superb cross from winger Harry Wattie. Jack watched in wonder, trying to imagine how he could ever hope to play football in such company.
Hugh shook his head in dismay as if reading Jack’s mind.
Tom Jordan laughed.
“Come on boys. Have some confidence.”
Just before half-time Wattie drove in the first goal. The crowd jumped to its feet with a roar. A minute later the whistle blew and Jack went in search of three hot pies.
Below the stand he passed a table of women taking a collection for soldiers in Europe. Eleven days before, the German army had invaded Belgium, and Britain had declared war. Jack found a kiosk and queued for the pies. Returning to his seat he lingered a moment passing the table in order to read the poster: “Duty Calls! Give to the Prince of Wales Relief Fund”.
One of the women called out, “Young man! What are you doing here?”
Jack turned to see if she was addressing someone else – a plump elderly lady in a starched white blouse, her white hair pulled back in a tight bun.
“No. I mean you with the pies. Why are you here today?”
Jack shrugged.
“To watch football.”
“Yes. I can see that,” she replied. “And do you think this a worthwhile thing to do?”
A few of the ladies at the table looked away in mirth but the old woman was stern and unsmiling. Others in the passing crowd paused to listen. Jack was unsure how to reply.
“I don’t…” But she cut him off.
“Do you know there may be British soldiers dying as we speak? You should be occupying yourself with more serious matters than watching football. There is a greater game and it can be found on the fields of Belgium and France.”
Jack turned and hurried away.
“Wait,” she called. “I’m not finished…”
***
Tom sensed Jack’s agitation when he returned with the pies.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No,” Jack replied.
But he had been shaken by the old woman’s words. Similar statements had been published in the newspapers – even calls to postpone the football season. The Scottish Football Association had resisted. A swift end to the war was expected and the SFA felt such a move would only add to public panic. Jack had not thought of this as being his war. After all, he was only just out of school.
Later that afternoon the trio shoved their way into Diggers along with over a hundred other fans crowding the pub in celebration of Hearts two-nil victory over Celtic. Gracie had scored the second goal from a long drive from outsid
e the box. Beer sloshed from their pint glasses into the damp sawdust with barely elbowroom to take a sip. The air was hot and fumed with sweat.
Tom Jordan shouted over the noise, “Looks like this could be Hearts’ year – barring any disaster.”
But Jack was distracted. He could still hear the woman’s voice in his head – more serious matters, soldiers dying as we speak.
“What about the war?” he asked.
“War?” said Tom. “No need to worry about that now that Britain’s shown the Kaiser we won’t be pushed around. The politicians’ll sort it out.”
“Newspapers are already talking about conscription,” said Hugh.
Tom shook his head. “It’ll never happen. I wager our troops will be back home well before Christmas.”
But Jack wasn’t convinced.
***
Over the next weeks Jack carried on with his busy life – working days as a trainee clerk at the North British Rubber Company and then rushing off in the evenings for training at Gorgie Road. But almost everywhere he went a whiskered Lord Kitchener pointed out at him from leaflets and posters declaring:
BRITONS
YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS
YOU
Newspapers with bold headlines told of British and French troops in heroic battles at Marne and Ypres to prevent the German army reaching the French channel ports. But in many ways life went on as usual – including football. On 31 October a crowd of over 10,000 fans turned out to watch Hearts defeat Ayr United, while in Glasgow over 40,000 watched Celtic defeat Rangers in the first Old Firm match of the season.
Many people considered it an outrage to carry on playing and watching games while men fought and died. Letters published in newspapers condemned clubs and players alike. To Jack it just seemed unfair. Having worked all his life to achieve this one ambition, all he felt now was shame – as did most of the Hearts players. He had heard that a group of women in town had formed a “League of the White Feather”. In their handbags they carried an envelope containing goose feathers collected from butcher shops and old down pillows. Any man met on the street who was of fighting age and out of uniform would be presented with a feather as a mark of his cowardice and lack of patriotism.
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