Autobiography

To this day I remember him calling out to me
when I got the ball, ‘Goldie, on me ’ead! On
me ’ead, son!’ I was desperate to become a
full-time professional, and I thought my time
had come when the great Ted Fenton, the
famous manager of West Ham United, one of
the all-time greats, called me into what I
remember as a huge office.
‘Gold,’ he said, ‘I have had some great reports
from the A team manager. I have some forms
for you to take home for your parents to sign
so you can become an apprentice professional.’
At that precise moment everything that had
gone before was forgotten. At last I had
achieved my dream.
At least I thought I had. That was as far as I
travelled on my yellow brick road to football
stardom, for my father, in his wisdom, refused
to sign the forms. He was the archetypal alpha
male who had hardly ever been at home,
trying to show he was the boss and enforcing
his word as law. I could think of no other
reason for his refusal to sign.
Maybe it was because at that time, there was a
maximum wage of only £20 a week and no
prospect, but I don’t think so. After all, what
was the alternative? At the time I was an
apprentice bricklayer who ran errands and
earned less than £3 a week.
I do believe, however, that a degree of
jealousy was involved. I remember being in
the garden kicking a ball against the shed,
using both feet and generally practising my
110