On 18th December 1971, Alan Ball played in Everton’s 2-0 defeat to Derby at the Baseball Ground. Little did he know that when the full-time whistle was blown, he had played his last game for Everton. Just four days later, he left the Blues to join Arsenal for a fee of £220,000 – a British record fee at the time. Evertonians were devastated, and so was Ball.
Three days after the defeat to Derby, Alan Ball went to Bellefield for training. The Everton players were given an early break from training in the morning, and Ball was brought in to the office by club physiotherapist Norman Borrowdale for a meeting with Harry Catterick. Catterick told him that Everton were going to sell him to Arsenal and their manager Bertie Mee was waiting in another room to speak to him, which took him by surprise.
In Ball’s book Playing Extra Time, he said to Catterick:
Why? I don’t want to go. Why are you selling me? I am your captain. I am twenty-seven [sic] years of age. I am playing for England. I am playing for England. I am playing well and you want to sell me. I just can’t understand that.
Catterick’s responded:
It’s business, son. I am doubling my money. I’ve had you for six years. I am making a profit on you and I have had an awful lot out of you. Football’s business, son.
Everton chairman George Watts said the move started when Bertie Mee contacted Catterick to make an offer for him.
The Ball move started on Monday [20th December] when Arsenal manager Bertie Mee got in touch with Mr Catterick to make a firm offer. We called a quick board meeting and the directors agreed to allow Mr Catterick to handle the business as he thought fit. He has our full backing in this decision.
Ball was reluctant to talk to Mee, saying he was happy playing for Everton and he did not need any disruption so soon after the birth of his daughter Keely. Ball wished to talk to his father, Preston manager Alan Ball Sr. Catterick gave him the phone and Ball rang him, telling him that Everton accepted a bid from Arsenal for him. His father said there was no bigger club than Arsenal after they won the league and FA Cup double the previous season and told Ball Jr to head home as soon as he could. He eventually spoke to Bertie Mee and agreed to go to London for further discussions.
When Ball went home, his father tried to get him to move to a club in the north west instead. He rang Manchester United and Manchester City immediately, explaining to both of their managers that Arsenal were interested in signing Ball and Ball did not want to move to London. Manchester United manager Frank O’Farrell said he had little interest in signing him because David Sadler was doing a good job in midfield. Manchester City manager Malcolm Allison, however, was really interested and said he would talk to the board about making an offer. Manchester United then had second thoughts and had arranged someone to be at Euston Station to show that they were interested.
Alan Ball and his father left Manchester and arrived at Watford Junction – the last stop before Euston Station. When they stopped at Watford, Arsenal’s assistant secretary Ken Friar was on the platform looking for them. Arsenal had heard about Manchester United’s interest and the club had hoped to catch them before they go to Euston. Friar told Ball and his father to leave the train and he would drive them to Highbury. They discussed with Friar and Bertie Mee what moving to Arsenal could mean for Ball, talking about finances, bonuses, accommodation and more. Ball said in Playing Extra Time that he would receive a basic wage of about £250 per week – much more than he was on at Everton. Ball Sr left discussions to phone Malcolm Allison and told him about Arsenal’s offer. Allison said Manchester City could not compete with their offer. Terms were agreed and Alan Ball became an Arsenal player, receiving 10% of the transfer fee.
An hour after he sealed his move to Arsenal, Alan Ball spoke to the Liverpool Echo, upset at the fact he was no longer an Everton player.
I feel very sad. It’s not just a question of changing the colour of your shirt. It goes a lot deeper than that. I have just left a great club. Everything about it was great and I have spent some of the happiest years of my life there.
I was shocked when I was told that Mr Mee was waiting for me and that I could go to Arsenal. It is not for me to argue why. But I am going to miss that Everton crowd. I don’t think I would ever have asked to leave Everton but when you are faced with a situation like this, you have no alternative. I shall play my heart out for Arsenal just as I always did for Everton. I am not bitter about it – just a trifle sad.
Ball, talking to the Daily Mirror, also said the way he left Everton had shattered his faith in the club.
On Tuesday [21st December], I was down – about as low as you can get. Shaken by the shock news that my beloved Everton were ready to sell me and stunned by the follow-up punch that the boss, Harry Catterick, delivered – it was Arsenal or the axe.
Mr Catterick told me that he was going to leave me out of the side – even before Arsenal came in for me. All right, I’d had a stinker at Derby last Saturday. I’m not making excuses but there was a fairly human and understandable reason. Last Friday, my wife, Lesley, gave birth to our second daughter and that night, I didn’t sleep. I’d hoped the boss might understand. He didn’t, and that was it.
It wasn’t just my pride that had been hurt. My faith in the club, to whom I had given everything for five years, had been suddenly shattered. How could I be worth over £200,000 to Arsenal and not worth a first-team place to Everton? The only conclusion I could come to was that Harry Catterick must have thought I was going over the hill. Burned out at the ripe old age of twenty-six? Well, everyone’s entitled to an opinion.
Although, he was going to really miss Everton fans and he would always respect them.
It’s hard to imagine that I’m about to leave Merseyside. It’s hard, too, to think of those wonderful, wonderful Everton fans of mine as mere memories. I’ll give them a big welcome to Highbury if they come down for my home debut on January 1 against… wait for it… Everton.
Alan Ball Sr said they went down to Watford initially to not sign the deal, although not mentioning because he tried to get Ball Jr a move to one of the Manchester clubs, but the offer was too good to turn down.
We came down ready not to sign. He is a Northern boy and didn’t want, and didn’t need, to sign. But it was an offer he could not possibly refuse. This offer coupled with the one that took him to Everton five and a half years ago has gone a long way to securing his future.
Bertie Mee had been pursuing Ball for a long while and admitted to contacting Everton every so often asking if he was available.
Some time ago, I asked Everton to let me know if he ever became available. Since then, I suppose I called them once every third or fourth month. I rang them again on Monday. And it appears I called at just the moment they were prepared to sell. It really was a case of being in the right place at the right time.
Harry Catterick said the decision to sell him was not an easy decision to make but was done at the club’s best interests.
I expect to be criticised over Ball’s transfer. No manager parts with a top class player without criticism but – as is the case in every transfer negotiation – only the Everton directors and myself can be aware of all the facts.
We believed it was in the best interests of the club and player that we should part. I want to make it clear that contrary to reports the only we received for Ball was from Arsenal. He is still a very fine player – don’t forget, I bought him so I know all about his qualities. Some people said, when I bought him from Blackpool, that I had paid too much for him, but I have always thought very highly of him.
I am sure he will continue to do well and I am very sorry to see him go. The decision to let him go was not an easy one, believe me.
The day after his transfer, Alan Ball returned to Goodison Park. He despondently spoke about his return to the ground to the Daily Mirror, including saying his goodbyes to his former teammates, Harry Catterick, and the club groundsman.
People tell me I should be feeling the happiest, most contented footballer in Britain after saying, “Goodbye Goodison, hello Highbury.” A few might also be thinking that, apart from being the most expensive player in the country, I am also the luckiest. Well, let me tell you this. Yesterday [23rd December], Alan Ball wasn’t the happy-go-lucky fella you might imagine. He was sad. So sad that when he picked up those easy-to-find white boots and turned his back on the Everton dressing room for the last time, a lump the size of a football came into his throat.
Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t any second thoughts about joining Arsenal. They’re great and, if it’s in my power, I’ll try with all I’ve got to make them even greater. I’ll be out there training with them for the first time at Highbury this morning, feeling exactly the way I did on the day I joined Everton more than five years ago… jubilant, impatient to get on with the exciting challenge ahead. But that goodbye to Goodison really turned me over. It wasn’t easy. In a way, it was hell.
I’d always had it in my mind that when I left Everton, they would have to push me out in a wheelchair. That was until Tuesday, when everything changed and Harry Catterick, the boss, told me he had accepted Arsenal’s record offer. The rest you probably know – except about how flat I felt when the parting of the ways became a reality after I’d trained for the last time with my old teammates at Everton’s training centre yesterday.
There were a few laughs at first from the lads. Like “Where’ve you put the Rolls, Alan?”, “Are you going to commute by helicopter?” and “Rockefeller’s on the phone.” All good humorous stuff, typical of a great bunch of lads, and it helped to keep my chin up when I was feeling a bit down. So did the couple of goals I banged in during a five-a-side finale which my lot won 6-2. As I told them at the time, I’ll be happy to complete that little scoring flurry as hat-trick on New Year’s Day when, by one of fate’s strange quirks, Everton provide the opposition for my Highbury debut.
When I said goodbye to Harry Catterick, there was a bit of a strained atmosphere at each other, and both of us seemed as though we didn’t really know what to say. So we decided on a bit of small talk. And, of course, the handshake.
The real heartbreak I managed to hold over until I had left my teammates tucking into the club’s Christmas dinner and had nipped down to Goodison to pick up my playing boots and to say my cheerios to the staff. It was when I walked out over that famous and familiar Goodison pitch to shake hands with our groundsman, Sid McGuinness, that I felt it most of all.
Sid was trying to hold back the tears and so was I. All right, I know I’m wide open for the “crying all the way to the bank” punch. But only the real pro can truly appreciate how it gets you when you’re leaving a great club – even though it means going to another.
22nd December 1971 was a heartbreaking day for Evertonians and Alan Ball, but even though Ball left on fairly acrimonious terms, he still loved the club and the fans, and the club and the fans still love him.
Nowadays, footballers leaving clubs for big money is commonplace. However, it was a novelty in the turn of the 1950s. A few Everton players were linked with a move to Colombian team Millonarios, who had future Real Madrid star Alfredo di Stefano scoring goals left, right and centre for them. Most refused, one was on the fence, and the other moved and regretted it.
In 1949, a Colombian football association called DIMAYOR broke away from FIFA following a dispute with an amateur football association called Adefutbol. Colombian football was newly professional at the time and DIMAYOR to catch up with the likes of Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay by creating their own league, which Adefutbol disagreed with. Because of this breakaway, the Colombian national football team was banned from all international competitions.
The league was helped by the influx of Argentina-based footballers after they went on strike over pay demands. Over time, players from other countries joined the independent Colombian league, commonly referred to as “El Dorado”, including several World Cup winners. Players from England also joined the league with a couple of Stoke players and a Manchester United player joining Santa Fe. Another significant factor which led to players moving to El Dorado was money. Millonarios and Santa Fe were offering players in the region of £100-£150 per month. By comparison, the maximum British footballers can be paid monthly at the time was around £52.
Millonarios were the most favourable team at the time. In the Colombian football league’s first season as “El Dorado”, Millonarios won the league title on goal difference. They soon became known as the “Ballet Azul” because of their style of play and their blue kit. After successfully signing Hearts striker Bobby Flavell and their failure to tempt Billy Liddell away from the red half of Liverpool, they had their eyes on the blue half of Liverpool.
In all, Millonarios were keen on signing five Everton players.
Ted Buckle was one of the players but a move was swiftly off the table as it was reported that he was having a chat with manager Cliff Britton about moving house from Manchester to Merseyside with his family. Buckle also said he didn’t receive an offer from the Colombian side.
Millonarios offered Jack Humphreys a £100 per month deal with a £4,000 signing-on fee, but he refused, telling Britton he wasn’t interested.
Harry Catterick declined a deal, but he took an interest in the move. He said that he “couldn’t commit himself until a more definite offer was forthcoming.” Two Millonarios representatives had a chat with Catterick in London. Catterick said:
If nothing materalises, I shall re-sign for Everton. It will have to be a good offer to induce me to leave a club of Everton’s standing. They have shown me every consideration and although I am in football for my livelihood, I want to show the same consideration to them.
The other two will be talked out in more detail later.
Another interesting thing about this story was that the agent who has arranged all these deals and tried to persuade British footballers to move to Colombia was former Everton striker Jock Dodds, even though he was still a Lincoln player at the time.
Jock Dodds, the ex-Everton and Scottish international centre-forward, who revealed at his home in Blackpool during the week-end that he is acting as an official agent of the Millionarios in this country, stated that the last day for signing-on for players in Colombia is June 12. Telegrams showered on Dodds today, 30 being delivered to him before noon. The correspondents were footballers whom he described.
Liverpool Evening Express
He once claimed he had a list of over 250 players who were prepared to move to Colombia. He was a bit of a sneaky agent as well as it turned out that all the deals he made were illegal.
Rule 67 states – “Any club, player or authorised agent guilty, directly or indirectly, of inducing or attempting to induce a player of another league club to leave for any purpose whatsoever the club for which he registered, shall be deemed guilty of misconduct and be liable to be expelled, fined or dealt with as the management committee may think fit.”
Nottingham Evening Post
Following his exploitative dealings, he was expelled from all footballing activities.
It is the end of the story. When nearly a month ago, I was warned that the disclosure of my name as the Millionarios secret agent would probably finish me in the game, I said: “I will take whatever is coming.” I will take it now.
Gloucester Citizen
His expulsion was rescinded following a successful appeal.
Back to the remaining two Everton players. One of which is Jack Hedley. When rumours of Hedley soon began to go rife, he was on holiday in his native Tyneside. Cliff Britton said that there was no indication that Hedley would be joining Millonarios. However, the Liverpool Evening Express discovered that a flight to Bogota was booked under Hedley’s name at Prestwick Airport in Glasgow. This gave a strong indication that a deal was agreed, much to Everton’s surprise. The club didn’t have any idea at all about the supposedly done deal. This also surprised Jack Hedley’s father, who said he had no idea of any negotiations that had taken place nor did he know about the flight.
Following several attempts to avoid the limelight, Jack Hedley finally spoke about the speculation the day before his rumoured flight to Bogota.
[Hedley] said that nobody had negotiated with him in this country. He had three cables direct from Colombia, but had not made up his mind whether to go or not, despite the fact than an air passage is booked for him tomorrow night. He added that he was still giving some thought to his club, but that he could earn from the offer more than two years than he would in 12 years playing for Everton. Hedley said he had yet to be inoculated and vaccinated if he goes, and that he has to pick up his visa from the Colombian consul on his way to Prestwick.
Liverpool Evening Express
Hedley then went to Bogota, and returned a week later “bitterly disillusioned” alongside Swansea defender Roy Paul. The grass was nowhere near greener on Colombia’s side.
They said that after an initial promise to play on a two-year contract for £7,000 sterling between them, the Millionarios club tried to get them to sign a contract at a considerably lowly figure. When they refused to sign, the club raised all kinds of obstacles to prevent them from signing with the Santa Fe club, which had made them an attractive offer. Local players disliked them and they felt that British players were not welcome there. They alleged that an attempt was made to get them to sign a contract under the guise that they were signing a release for publication of photographs which had taken of them. They did not sign.
Liverpool Evening Express
Jack Hedley was hoping he would get away with his escapades:
I shall wait a move from them, but if nothing happens, I shall report for training as usual on July 24. I played no football, nor did I sign a contract in South America, and I am taking the view that I may be in the clear in regarding the trip as a holiday.
Liverpool Daily Post
He did not train on July 24th. He came down with a convenient bout of tonsillitis and stayed at home in the north-east. When he recovered a week later, he didn’t return to Liverpool and was yet to sign a new contract at Everton. He didn’t and the Wallsend wanderer joined Sunderland instead.
While one Everton player thought better to not move to Colombia, another made a regrettable decision – Billy Higgins.
When offered the chance to play for Millonarios, Billy Higgins jumped to the opportunity and left his home in New Ferry to catch a flight to Bogota. An hour before he left his home, Everton sent Higgins a letter offering him a contract for next season after initially putting him on the transfer list. However, the offer came too late as Higgins had already had everything arranged for a move to Colombia. He was hopeful for a successful future.
I hope I shall make good over there. I know it is a big step and much will depend on the conditions I find in Colombia. I shall do my best, and with the playing experience I have had here, plus coaching experience under the Lancashire and Cheshire FA’s, I feel I can make the grade all right.
In any case, I am only going to look around, and will not make up my mind until I get there.
Liverpool Echo
He subsequently joined Millonarios in May, reporting on a deal with a £1,000 signing-on fee and £120 per month, with bonuses of £10 per win and £3 per draw. Upon signing, he was promised a house for his family. However, he soon came to realise that not all was what it seemed.
When Jack Hedley and Roy Paul came to Bogota, they met Billy Higgins. When they returned to England, they said Higgins was very unhappy in Colombia and if he had the opportunity to get out of his contract, he would come back home immediately. “Ranger” from the Liverpool Echo said something similar after a letter Higgins sent to a friend.
I have a letter from Billy Higgins this week which throws a blinding light on the Bogota business, and should make any player who has a lingering desire to “have a go” there think twice before taking the plunge. Reading between the lines, Higgins is a very disillusioned young man, who realises now, as he said recently in a letter to another friend of his here, that he didn’t know before how well off he was when with Everton.
I was afraid this would happen. That was why I did everything I could to persuade him not to go. But when one is young one is ready for adventure. I am sorry it has not worked out according to expectations. All that glitters in Bogota isn’t gold.
“After being treated as we were back home,” Higgins writes, “It has been a big blow coming here, I know the lads in England have their little grumbles, but to me, now they seem very petty. I have had an awful lot of worry. There are two words here that seem to ‘mañana’ and ‘momentico’, which means ‘tomorrow’ and ‘just a moment’. Each time you ask to see the directors, you are met with this. Bobby Flavell and I waited nearly a fortnight to get two minor points settled.
Back home, they do at least have a manager to supervise. Here it can be anybody from a director to a bus driver. That is no exaggeration. Flavell and I have been left behind and missed training half a dozen times because the bus driver did not bother to call for us, as he is supposed to do!
The other week we were playing a match about ten miles away, and went by bus. The game was played with the sun blazing down, and we ended up in a lather of sweat. There were no showers or baths at the ground and when we went to join the bus, it had gone. We all had to start walking along the road in our gear, along with the crowd, with scores of urchins pulling at our shirts.
After we had been walking about a mile, the rest of the players jumped on a contractor’s lorry. Obviously they had sampled this before. Bobby and I eventually managed to thumb a lift back to the hotel.”
Even though the money looked far too good to refuse, Higgins was ironically in financial despair.
Higgins tells me that although he and his wife and two young children have a lovely flat, with all modern conveniences, the terrific cost of living takes the cream off the high wages.
“We have to watch every penny of our money,” he says, “Particularly when we don’t get a bonus. You will probably have guessed by now that I am not particularly happy. Having taken the plunge, however, I was quite prepared to stick it out until I was told I would have to pay the passages from England of my two children.”
That must have been a nasty blow for him, because he had been led to expect all his family’s expenses would be paid. Worse was to follow when he was told that the balance of the signing-on fee was “not in order.” I don’t know how much he has had of what was originally promised him, but I believe it is only a comparatively small proportion.
Even worse for Higgins was if his contract was eventually terminated and he were to return to England, he would get into a lot of trouble with the FA and Football League because he had joined Millonarios two months before his contract at Everton had expired. Under Football League rules, a player who was abroad without permission from his contracted club would very likely be refused to join another Football League club. If the FA threw the book at him, it was likely he could not play for the non-league teams either because Higgins did not receive clearance from the FA.
His contract was terminated, much to Billy Higgins’ relief. He returned to England 5 months after joining Millonarios. Upon his return, he was banned from playing for a Football League club, and virtually penniless and homeless.
[Higgins] returned with £19 and with no home to take his wife and two young children. They stayed the night in a Liverpool hotel.
“But we can’t stay here indefinitely – it’s much too dear,” Higgins said. “We shall have to look for some cheaper accommodation until I see how I stand regarding my football career. Things at Bogota did not turn out as I expected. The streets were certainly not paved with gold. The cost of living was much too high and we spent every penny.”
“I am glad it’s now all over, and it’s certainly good to be back in Liverpool.”
An Everton supporter, having heard of Higgins plight on his return, has offered to allow him the use of a cottage in North Wales as a temporary home.
Liverpool Daily Post
Higgins’ first task to rebuild his football career, and his life, was to lift his suspension. He wanted to play for Everton, especially as he was still on Everton’s retained players list. He was still technically an Everton player, but for how much longer?
The FA and the Football League made their decision and it was decided that this suspension would end on November 30th. Billy Higgins had a lucky escape and can play football again. On the matter of whether he will stay at Everton, Cliff Britton referred to Jack Hedley, who almost immediately left Everton when he returned from Colombia, hinting that Higgins’ Everton career was over.
Following talks with Luton and Sheffield Wednesday, Everton eventually agreed a deal with non-league Welsh side Bangor City for Billy Higgins. He made his debut for them two days after his suspension was lifted and scored in a 2-1 defeat to Runcorn in front of 2,989 fans. He stayed at Bangor City for nearly three years. Although his spell in Wales was not without incident. In February 1952, he was “kidnapped” and held for ransom with the head of BBC in North Wales as part of a prank by a group of university students on what was their “rag day” just before a league match against Wellington. He eventually made it to the game and scored in a 2-2 draw. The ransom was for the students’ tuberculosis and silicosis relief fund but it was not paid.
He left Bangor City to become player-manager of Devon-based club Bideford Town in July 1953. He then became player-manager of Canterbury City the following year. He resigned from the Kent club in December 1957 and joined Ramsgate Athletic as only a player the following month. He left Ramsgate to become manager of Herne Bay in April 1959. He resigned from Herne Bay eight months later to return to Canterbury City, where he ended his footballing career. While he was in the South, he became a publican and was manager of the Imperial Hotel in Canterbury for 25 years. He died at his hotel on 23rd March 1981 at the age of 57.
In-between his return to England and his move to Bangor City, Billy Higgins did a series of interviews with the Liverpool Echo about his Colombian hell.
Updated on 16th July 2021.
October 14th, 1950 - Liverpool Echo
Billy Higgins talks about his regret in moving to Colombia, the atrocious conditions, and the severe lack of sportsmanship in Colombian football.
They say the young learn by experience, at that, thinking I knew as much as the next fellow, I am not in that mood today. My experience has been brought in a dear school, but I thrust it be a warning to any other British footballer who may feel attracted by apparently tempting offers from abroad. The old song used to say that "all took me all my time to make ends that glitter is not gold." You can paraphrase that and say with equal-truth that the seemingly fabulous salaries to be earned in Colombian football do not mean that at the end of the month you will be able to rattle a pocketful of surplus cash. It took me all my time to make ends meet. I have finished my football wanderings. You can have Bogota, Bulgaria or Bechuanaland for all I care. Just let me have good old England, I ask for nothing more. Never before in my 26 years have I been so glad to see England as I was when the Isle of Wight loomed up on the horizon last Thursday morning as the Queen Elizabeth made her majestic way across the Channel from Cherbourg. I did a bit of travelling during my six years in the Navy. Never was a homecoming so much looked forward to as this. No matter what the future holds for me, I won’t be tempted to leave England again in a hurry – or at all. Naturally, I am a bit anxious to know what action the F.A. and the Football League are likely to take in my case. Tomorrow [on October 15th], I shall write asking for reinstatement, I am hopeful that the governing body will temper justice with mercy as they have invariably done with offenders against football laws in the past. I can only await the verdict. The sooner it is over, the better.
My own personal problems, however, are of minor consideration. I shall have to face the music, and I am ready to do so. I know that what readers are most concerned about is to get the low-down on football as it is in Colombia, I can give you that from bitter experience. Six months ago, all I knew of Bogota was that it is some thousands of miles away and was several thousand feet up on top of a mountain range. Today, I could almost write a book about it. Take it from me, Bogota is no football paradise, even for a player on top salary and drawing big bonuses. The money sounds tremendous, whether you say it quickly or slowly, but the high cost of living skims the cream off it. It takes anybody with a family all his time to make ends meet. You get little chance to save anything for a rainy day. I shall go into that aspect of living in Colombia, however, in a later article. For the time being, let us keep strictly to football affairs.
First and foremost, the playing conditions out yonder are almost unbelievable to those with a knowledge of English football. You never saw anything in your life like a Colombian club’s dressing room immediately after a match. It is worse than a Barnum and Bailey circus. I first experienced it after the match in which Neil Franklin and George Mountfield made their debut for Sante Fe. Naturally, I wanted to go along and have a word with them as soon as the game was over. When I was shown into the dressing-room I stood transfixed with amazement. It was crowded from door to door with chinos (urchins), who were chattering away fifty to the dozen, swarming round the players, climbing on their knees and shoulders and generally turning the place into pandemonium. Franklin and Mountford looked the picture of misery, although they were endeavouring to put a good face on it. "This," I thought, "must be a special occasion. Surely it can’t be like this always." I soon found out my mistake. It is always like that. There is no attempt at discipline. The dressing rooms are free to all and sundry – and don’t let the youngsters take advantage of it! You cannot imagine any English club, even the most humble amateur side, standing for that sort of thing. This was anything but a happy introduction to Colombian football, but worse was to come. When the crowd had at last thinned out, I inspected the arrangements for the players and got another nasty shock.
Although most of you will not have been behind the scenes in English dressing rooms, I can tell you that the accommodation is first class. Our First Division clubs here have baths capable of taking a dozen or more players at a time, smaller individual baths, plenty of hot water, well-equipped medical rooms, experienced trainers and, in short, everything for comfort and convenience. I never saw a dressing room in Colombia which had more than a table, sometimes an odd chair and perhaps a couple of battered tin lockers. There were not even pegs on which to hang your clothes. You just laid them out; as best you could on the bench. Probably that is the reason why most players out there go to the match from their homes with their football togs underneath a pair of old flannel bags and a sport jacket as they used to do in this country, so I am told, half a century ago. The three leading clubs in Bogota – Sante Fe, Millionarios and University – have no ground of their own. They play on a pitch belonging to the municipality. The dressing rooms have no bath of any description, and only two cold showers. Hot water is not provided at all. Worse than that, if you want a shower, you must not only bring your own soap and towel, but be prepared to take your swill-down surrounded by a grinning and gesticulating crowd of admiring urchins. There is just about as much privacy as you get on Blackpool sands on August Bank Holiday. I know it sounds incredible, but that is the strict truth. If you are prepared to risk the peep show, you must also be prepared for an inadequate supply of water. I have known the water supply to go off completely at times. At some grounds, even these primitive arrangements are conspicuous by their absence. I have played when there has been no facility to have a wash after the match.
At Goodison Park, our dressing rooms were always kept in spick and span conditions. They were swept out daily. In Colombia, nobody worries about cleanliness. It was nothing unusual to go back for training on Tuesday and find the room exactly as we had left it on Sunday. After it had been overrun by scores of enthusiastic youngsters, you can imagine what a state it was in. Having some idea of the Latin temperament, I was prepared for games out there to be pretty tough. I expected occasional outbursts of temper and fisticuffs, but never in my wildest dreams did I visualize anything like what takes place. Often enough, I saw anything up to a dozen players come to blows on the field at one time. When once two opponents squared up, the others quickly dashed in, and before you can wink an eyelid, they are going at it hammer and tongs. For instance, in the game in which Franklin and Mountfield made their debut, there were three periods of something like five minutes each when the game was completely held up. During one of these, every single player except the two Englishmen was engaged in actual fights or conducting heated arguments with opponents. Even the two goalkeepers ran to the centre circle and had a go! They were not going to be left out. The referee, aided by the armed policemen along the touchlines, eventually managed to restore order and the game continued.
October 21st, 1950 - Liverpool Echo
Billy Higgins talks about why he moved to Colombia, the language barriers, and the Colombian crowd.
It first started after I played centre forward against Middlesbrough on December 11th. I had a good game that day, and shortly afterwards was approached by an agent from Bogota. He said he could probably get me fixed up with the University Club there if I would like to take the plunge. This man was formerly a Merseyside resident now in business in Bogota, who was in this country on holiday. He painted the prospects very glowingly. I was led to believe that Bogota was the football player’s Eldorado, that money could be picked up easily, and that the cost of living was not a great deal higher than this country. It all sounded tempting but as this agent was not in a position to make a concrete offer, I soon forgot all about it. Some weeks after I learned that he had gone back to Bogota. That’s that. I thought not expecting to hear anything further. A little later however, I had an air mail letter from him saying he was empowered to offer me terms on behalf of the Millionarios club. These included a signing-on fee of £2,000 and a monthly wage equivalent to £135, bonuses of £10 for a win and £2 for a draw, and other perks. I thought it over for a while, and wrote back, declining mainly because I did not want to be parted from my family. Then I received a further offer, stepping up the signing on fee to £8,000. Even then, I was undecided and was on the point of refusing again when something happened which made me change my mind. This was the attitude of the crowd at Goodison Park when I played centre forward in the match against West Bromwich Albion, which we lost 2-1. Nobody known better that I that I had a shocking game that day. Nothing I tried came off. The harder I struggled, the more the run of the ball was against me. I just couldn’t do a thing right and a section of the spectators were not slow to show their disapproval. I’m not blaming them for that, but was very discouraging, especially as I was genuinely trying my level best and was bursting to make good in a big way. I was very down in the dumps over the weekend and finally decided to ask Everton to put me on the transfer list. I felt I might do better with some other club. Mr. Cliff Britton was very considerable. He talked to me in a father way, told me not to worry. Everything would come out all right in the end, he said. Although he tried hard to cheer me up, I felt the best thing would be to get away.
I didn’t make that decision without careful thought. I had been at Everton since I was a youngster, joining when I was 15 as an amateur and had hitherto been very happy most of the time. The only previous occasion I had wanted to go on the transfer list was about three years previously. Before asking the club, however, I consulted the Echo Sports Editor ["Ranger"], who gave me some sound advice, and eventually talked me into a happier frame of mind. I wish I had also listened to him before going to Bogota. Again, "Ranger" did his best to dissuade me. He put all the conceivable snags before me – most of which later developed while I was out there – but I was so browned off and discouraged that I paid no heed. The spirit of adventure was calling. Eventually, I accepted the Millionarios club’s offer and should have travelled on the same plane as Franklin and Mountford, though at that time, I had no idea they were going out. The reason I delayed my departure for four days was that "Ranger" persuaded me not to leave until I had got a cabled guarantee that my passenger would be paid back home whenever I wanted it. I cabled asking for it, but got no replay. Despite this, I decided to take a chance and began packing. If I’d only known what I was heading for; I should have at once unpacked quicker than I packed. It’s a good job the future is hidden from us - it saves an awful lot of worry! The trip by air was quite an experience, even if I didn’t get long enough in New York to see anything bar a few skyscrapers. But when I arrived at Bogota, I got my first setback. It was raining like the dickens – and when it rains there, it does rain. Not like the fairly gentle stuff we get here. It seems literally to come down in bucketfuls with drops the size of a half-a-crown. The whole place seemed desolate and dreary.
"Never mind," I thought, "It will be all right when I get to the club headquarters." I don’t know quite what I had expected to find but certainly something pretty big and imposing like Goodison Park or Anfield, with a cheery atmosphere, cozy dressing rooms, handsome baths and appointments, and maybe even the red carpet down to welcome the stranger from a strange land. What a hope! The welcoming party of directors, not one of whom could speak a word of English, bundled me in a cab and away we went. We pulled up outside an ordinary house, somewhat similar to what you would expect to see in England, as the home of a working lads club and just about as dismal looking. I was ushered into a room in which several folk whom I learned afterwards were Millionarios players, were listening to the wireless commentary on the away match between Millionarios and Cali. At the airport, the interpreting had been done by the son of the man who had conducted the negotiations with me on behalf of the Millionarios club. Unfortunately, as soon as we arrived at the clubroom, he had to leave, so there I was, landed in the midst of a motley group of Argentinians and Colombians, players and directors without being able to exchange a single word with any of them. You can imagine that it wasn’t a particularly cheery introduction to a new life. I felt like a fish out of water as I hung about, vainly trying to get some idea of how the broadcast was going to watching the reactions of the listeners. At last, it was over, and by signs and gesticulations, it was conveyed to me that it was time I went along to my hotel. Did I say "hotel"? Actually, they call it a pension, but if you saw the same place in Blackpool, you would call it a boarding house – and only a second rate at that. It was certainly nothing like what I had anticipated.
Maybe I’ve been spoiled travelling about with Everton and staying in the best hotels. I had now come down to earth with a vengeance. The pension might not be up to what I had dreamed of, but the price was. I was told later it had cost the club £18 for the five days I was there, at the end of which time, I went for a while to stop with an Australian engineer. It was a treat to talk to someone who understood English. But to get back to my first day. After dumping my bags in my room, I was taken to the municipal compin (ground) which is shared by Santa Fe, Millionarios and the University club, to see the big game of the day. There I got another shock. It was the match in which Franklin and Mountford were making their initial appearance and there was an excited mob of folk seething round the entrance in complete and glorious disorder, pushing and shoving like a rugby scrum. The few police who were about didn’t seem to take any notice and we literally had to force our way through the crowd to get to the players entrance. Several times I thought my coat was going to be torn of my back. At last we made it, almost gasping for breath.
But the day’s disillusionment was far from being over. When we got on the stand, I saw there was a huge wire fence all the way round the ditch about 12 to 14 feet high. I didn’t need two guesses as to why it was there. The interpreter confirmed my worst fears. "Yes," he said, "that is to keep the spectators from invading the pitch or throwing missiles at the players." "Nice sort of sportsmen they must be," I thought – but didn’t say it out loud. I discovered later that even this fence does not keep the more determined spectators off the field. How they get over goodness only knows but they did. Sometimes a dozen or so hardy spirits scale the wire and dash on the field to take part in the free fights which so often arise in needle matches. Nobody seems to worry very much about it. It is all accepted as part and parcel of Colombian football. But you can easily imagine that it isn’t very much to the taste of English folk. Taking my eyes off the fence, I discovered that there was an armed policeman, complete with rifle and ammunition every few yards along the touchline right around the field. "This place gets more matey every minute," I thought – but again, I didn’t say it out loud.
I have never seen or heard of a policeman having fired his rifle. I don’t even know whether they are loaned during the match. I have, however, seen them using the butts to dig recalcitrant spectators in the small of the back when they refuse to leave the field. Sometimes they are used in a similar way to separate players who have got to blows and won’t listen to the referee. Prior to the big match, a boy’s game occupied the waiting time. After about 45 minutes of this, the players at last came onto the field. You never saw such a fuss in all your life. They dashed about one touchline to the other waving to the crowd and shouting remarks which, obviously, I couldn’t understand. The crowd also cheering frantically scene was indescribable. This went on for several minutes, what time fully a score of photographers were darting about taking snaps of all and sundry. During all this, Franklin and Mountford, who had certainly had a "rousing reception", stood bewitched and bewildered, looking as though they didn’t know whether they were on their heads or their heels. No wonder! At last, the hubbub died down and the game began. And what a start. I had never seen anything like it before, though I saw plenty later. Honestly, I don’t think the ball went out of the centre circle for fully two minutes. They passed and re-passed at lugged with it, and generally fiddled about in a way entirely foreign to us in this country."
I should explain here, by the way, that tackling or charging as we know it is not allowed in Colombian football and there is no law of obstruction. Consequently, any player can hang onto the ball and keep interposing his body between it and his opponents, thus retaining it in the possession far longer than he can under our rules. George Mountford never got a pass for 40 minutes. Then just before half-time, the ball came over and he flung himself at it to head a spectacular goal. The crowd cheered him to the echo, but several times I had heard a shout of "malo" where Franklin was concerned; I asked the interpreter what that meant, though the tune of it gave me a pretty good idea, it is the Colombian for "bad." Apparently, Franklin was not coming up to expectation, I was hardly surprised at that, for the defensive formation out there is vastly different to what it is in England and obviously Franklin was finding it a problem, apart, altogether, from the fact that was getting no cover from the men alongside him. He did as well as anybody possibly could under the circumstances, but spectators around him continued murmuring "malo" several times.
October 28th, 1950 - Liverpool Echo
Billy Higgins talks about isolation, maltreatment from his teammates, money woes, and Colombian tactics.
I have already told you some of the almost unbelievable aspects of Colombian football as compared with the English variety, but there are plenty more. Some of these strange things are doubtless due to the difference in temperaments between our two races and in particular, I think this is so in the Colombian attitude to training. Training as we know it here, just doesn’t exist out there. In this country, the majority of football league professionals train pretty hard at least three days of the week, and sometimes oftener. Their preparation is properly organized by experts, and either the manager or trainer, sometimes both, are always in the spot to see that it is carried out rigorously. You don’t get much chance to dodge the column, even if you want to which is not the case with the vast majority of English players. Colombian training is about the most happy-go-lucky and haphazard thing I’ve ever seen. My first day of it was a real eye-opener. Actually, I had been in Bogota three days before I got a chance to do any training, although I was bursting to get down to it as soon as possible. After being deposited in a boarding house and seeing Franklin and Mountford make their debut, as related last week, nobody from the club came near me until the third day. You can imagine how I felt. Then one morning, a director arrived at my digs. He could speak just as much English as I could Spanish, which was nil, but by signs, he indicated I was to go for some training. After calling at the club headquarters for gear, we went by car to the ground. To my amazement, I found I was the only player there. The director tossed me a ball and left me to it. Obviously, there wasn’t much I could do, but what I did seemed to please him for he smiled expansively and patted me on the back.
Next day, they called for me again. This time there were about 18 players at the ground, mostly Argentinians, but some Peruvians, Uruguayans, one Brazilian and one Colombian – a regular League of Nations gathering. This was supposed to be a training session. It was actually the most comical thing I’ve seen of its kind. It would have broken the heart of Harry Cooke, the Everton trainer. There was nobody in charge, and the players did just as they liked. Half of them were lying on the ground in the sun, and the rest were either chinwagging or shooting in, in the most aimless fashion imaginable. I soon sensed that I was up against it, in more ways than one. It was clear that I was going to get no co-operation from the other players, particularly the Argentinians who looked daggers at me. I didn’t know at the time, but I discovered later that the Argentine "cracks" as they call them were the first players imported into Bogota and had become accustomed to being lionised and fussed over. They did not relish the arrival of players from England, fearing that their own supremacy in Colombian football might be jeopardized. As nobody made any effort to indulge in ball practice with me, I saw that the only thing was to do what I could on my own. I started lapping the ground then do some sprinting and body exercise, and finally collared a ball and had a go with that.
While all this was going on, I was subjected to a succession of dirty looks and some laughter, I guess they thought I was crackers, but I carried on and tried to take no notice. On top of what I had experienced on the day of my arrival, however, it wasn’t very encouraging. Already I was beginning to wonder whether I had made a mistake in shaking the dust of Liverpool off my feet. I soon found further evidence to prove that I had. I went round the next day to see Franklin and Mountford, who were staying at the best hotel in Bogota. It is as good as any we have in this country. It ought to be for I was told that it was costing over £100 a week for the Stoke lads which their club [Santa Fe] was paying. When I informed them what I was up against, they suggested I should throw in my lot with Santa Fe, as so far I had not completed any contact with the Millionarios club. Santa Fe would be prepared to refund my passage money to Millionarios and probably give me better terms. This was tempting and I would have liked to be with the two Stoke players, but I feel that I had some sort of obligation to Millionarios and despite the cold attitude which the other players had adopted towards me, I later told the club that I was prepared to sign the contract if they would increase my remuneration to something nearer what I could get from Santa Fe. I should make it clear that up to now, I had not received any payment from Millionarios. I had gone out without getting any part of my signing-on fee. Eventually, the club agreed to increase their originally offer to $3,000 to $4,000 and the monthly pay from 600 to 700 pesos. That sounded fairly good to me. Perhaps it would have been if I had got it. Unfortunately, the increased terms were not incorporated in the contact which had already been drawn up, but were embodied in a letter been drawn up, but were embodied in a letter, although the terms of this were supposed to have been translated to me. I found out – too late – that the additional sums were subject to certain restrictions which left the option with the club whether they would pay them or not.
In view of all that happened afterwards, perhaps I could hardly expect them to pay the whole amount, even though it was no fault of mine that I was not able to give them the service they had hoped for. No centre forward can succeed if he is completely and literally starved by conspiracy of his colleagues, and that is what happened to me. I also had another disappointment over my contract. I was given to understand that it contained a promise to pay the fares out to Bogota, of my wife and two children. When they were over there, I was informed that only my wife expenses were covered, and that I had to pay for the children myself. This, however, did not take place until some two months later in the interim. I was getting a bit worried, as I had not received any portion of my signing-on fee, and I knew my family had not enough to keep them any length of time without my support. After seeing the directors several times, I managed to get a proportion of the money, actually, well under half, which I was able to send home.
In last week’s article, I told you how difficult Neil Franklin found it to settle down to the Colombian style of play in his opening game. Their defensive system is very different from the British pattern. The right half play in a position approximating to that of our right back, their right back is called a "centre back" and plays in the centre half position here, while the left back and left half remain as we place them. The centre half is expected to play an attacking game. He has a roving commission to go whenever he likes, and is not expected to mark anybody closely. He approximates fairly closely to our inside forward. It will be pretty obvious from this that Franklin found he was expected to play a type of game entirely foreign to his formal procedure which accounts for the fact that he did not immediately settle down in his first match. Colombian football is much slower than our voracity. The man in possession is the only one to count for the moment. Instead of running into a vacant spaces, in readiness for a pass, the rest of his colleagues stand about waiting to see what he will do. Sometimes one player will hand onto the ball for a couple of minutes, twisting this way and that without hardly moving a yard, but just interposing his body between the ball and his opponents. As tackling and chagrining are taboo, it is sometimes difficult to dispossess a man under such circumstances. As goalkeepers cannot be challenged at all even when in possession, it is quite a common thing to see them catch the ball and then stand with it for quite an appreciable time, looking round the field to see where best to place it. In England, the goalkeeper’s first duty is to clear his lines as quickly as possible and get the ball as far away from his charge as he can. Colombian goalkeepers often roll the ball to a full back standing on the six-yards line. Even then it may not be looted up-field. The back may take it into his head to do a spot of dribbling before he gets it away.
November 4th, 1950 - Liverpool Echo
Billy Higgins talks about Colombian referees, lack of support, and his stance on leaving Millionarios.
My early disclosure of the scenes which characterise needle games in Colombia appear to have given rise to the assumption that the game as played out there must be "dirty." This is not so. Although the players are extremely excitable and fights frequently occur, really vicious fouls are rare. There is a lot of pushing and elbowing, and obstruction galore, none of which is ever penalised by native referees, but I rarely saw any really dangerous play. Now and again, there may be a spot of sly ankle-tapping but that is about all. The most serious foul I saw was when Bobby Flavell was butted in the face. Bobby, normally a very even-tempered fellow, saw red when that happened and attempted to strike the offender. They went into a clinch, as usual over there, in half a minute, a dozen or more players had started a similar "demonstrations." Eventually, order was restored and Bobby and his opponents received marching orders. The pair of them were suspended for a fortnight. Most of the native Colombian referees seem afraid to send anybody off the field. There are two reasons for that. In the first place, they fear reprisals from the crowd and the offending players’ colleagues. Secondly, if they sent players off for fighting, very few matches would ever be completed. There wouldn’t be enough players left on the field.
A favourite dodge of the Argentinians when their side is winning and the end is near is for a player to "collapse" and absolutely refuse to get up. I have seen this done when there has not been another player within yards of the "injured" man, I have also seen the player on the ground, when asked by the referee to carry on, push him aside and say "vamos, vamos" [go away]. The five English referees who were out there during my stay did their best to encourage a higher standard of sportsmanship and tried to enforce the rules in the proper way. They had an uphill task. For a time, while the novelty of their control was fresh, they did effect a definite improvement but towards the end of my stay, the standard seemed to be falling back again. Presumably, the natives prefer their own methods and interpretations. At any rate, they all seem to relish the rows, and squabbles that go on. To them, it is part and parcel of the game. One English referee who decided he would stand no nonsense and would interpret the rules according to the English manner had the pluck to give a penalty in his first match. You never heard such an uproar in your life. The game was stopped for fully ten minutes. Spectators swarmed over the wire fence, players argued the toss in benches all over the field, and a big man, well over six feet, dashed into the middle and seized the referee by the scruff of the neck. The position looked decidedly ominous for a time, though eventually, order was restored without anybody being hurt. The irony of it all was that the penalty was missed. After the match was over, as the referee went back to the dressing room, the hefty man waved at him, grinned all over his face, and shouted, "Sorry, boss." But it was a very uncomfortable ten minutes for the man in the middle. The first match I played for Millionarios was against Cali at Cali on Sunday, May 21st. This town is situated at a much lover altitude than Bogota and the heat was terrific. It took us two hours by plane to get there. After playing 75 minutes, during which time I was consistently cold-shouldered and starved – I got only one pass the whole time and that a bad one – I was taken off by the Argentinian skipper and a substitute was brought on.
It was reported in papers in England at the time that I had collapsed from the heat after 15 minutes. This is not correct. Although I felt the heat very much, I could have carried on to the finish. Millionarios lost the match 6-1, which was a real shock. It led to all sorts of rumours that the game had been "sold". I am not in a position to express any opinion on that. My ignorance of Spanish meant that I could not follow the many and heated arguments which went on, but there certainly seemed to be a right novel to do about it all. As previously detailed, it had early been made obvious to me in the training sessions that I was up against it in a big way. That fact was further emphasised in this Cali game. An Englishman in business in Bogota, whose name I cannot give because he is still out there, told me that he had heard on good authority that the Argentinians had decided no matter how long I remained with Millionarios that they would refuse to co-operate with me. They feared my arrival might be the start of an invasion by English players which would eventually take their jobs away from them. Maybe one cannot blame them, but it certainly put me in a tough spot.
Anybody knows that if the rest of the side make a dead set at a colleague and particularly a centre forward, he is not going to have much chance of making a name for himself. The opposition was nothing like so pronounced at Sante Fe, where Franklin, Mountford and later Charlie Mitten were playing. It was not so bad even with the Millionarios players in the case of Bobby Flavell when he came out, though he had to master some opposition. It seemed that I was the unlucky one to be dropped on as a sort of scapegoat. Naturally, I did not intend to take this lying down. I meant to put up a fight, if possible. The language difficulty, however, was an almost insuperable barrier. There was no team manager to whom one could go and it was pretty nearly hopeless to try to get my point of view over to the directors of the club. Often enough when I endeavoured to see the board, there was no interpreter. On top of that, there was also a cleavage between the directors on the subject of importing English players. One or two of them were not sorry that I did not do well in my first game. Despite this, I resolved to keep pegging away and hope for the best. But it was a losing battle. I played in the next four games, and each time was called off the field by the Argentinian captain about 20 minutes from the end. In all these games, I never got an atom of support. It was a calculated campaign to discredit me in the eyes of the directors and the spectators, but there was nothing I could do except grin and bear it.
Frequently when I was standing unmarked in a good position and called for the ball, the man in possession would look up, glare and then deliberately pass it elsewhere, often to a man in an infinitely worse position than myself. I learned later that an additional reason for the hostility of the Argentinians was that I had been brought out to replace one of their countrymen. Though he had been off form, he was extremely popular with the rest of the players, and they wanted him back. After these five games, I was relegated to the bench, which means that I travelled as reserve to be called on, if required as a substitute. After being on the bench for five matches, I was not even put on for this duty. I was left to cool my heels for several weeks, fed up and unhappy until we played a friendly game with the champions team of Ecuador. To my surprise, I was chosen as centre forward for this match. Even to this day, I don’t know why. We won 3-1 and I had the good fortune to score all three goals. I was told by a couple of directors through the interpreter I had played very well and that I was sure to be in the team the next week. This bucked me up considerably, but another blue was yet to fall. At the directors' meeting a few days later, it was decided to appoint a technical director, equivalent to our team manager. They chose an Argentinian player who had previously shown quite clearly that he preferred my room to my company, on or off the field. I knew than that I had finally had it for good and that it was hopeless to go on struggling any further. I decided to ask for my contract to be terminated. This was in early part of August and for the next six weeks, I was involved in a series of wrangles which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
Times without number I tried to see the directors to get the whole wretched business thrashed out. When I managed to catch them all together, I was put off by the excuse that they had not been able to get an interpreter. When an interpreter was present, I was told the matter could not be discussed because the president was absent. Next time, it was shelved because of the absence of some other officials. This sort of thing went on until I was heartily sick of the whole business and if I had the money, I should have come home without fighting for the balance of my signing-on fee. As it was with not enough to get home on, I was bound to stick there until I got some satisfaction. Eventually, I had to take a much reduced sum, though I must add that the club also paid the fares home for my wife and family. When I contrast all this squabbling and wrangling with conditions on this country, I realise more than ever that English players, even though they don’t get as much as many feel they should, are in a paradise compared with Colombia. In the country, the players can see his club manager any time, without fuss or difficulty. He can talk things over, put his own point of view and, if necessary, see the board of directors should the matter be of vital importance. There may be odd exceptions but in the vast majority of cases, English players get a square deal from their clubs at all times. Naturally, now and again, a player feels browned off and thinks maybe he has not been treated as generously as he might have been. Folks in all walks of life feel that way at times. But you can take it from me that after my experience I have realised that English players, all things considered, have very little at which to grumble.
November 11th, 1950 - Liverpool Echo
Billy Higgins talks about Colombian preparation for matches, long journeys to games, and his advice to other footballers.
I think I have said enough in my previous articles to make it clear that South America is no paradise for English players. There are a few further comparisons, however, which I think will interest readers. As most readers are aware, English professionals, including those attached to Third Division clubs, travel in comfort and are housed in first class hotels when playing away. They travel comfortably enough in Colombia for all away trips are made by plane. The nearest is to Medellin, about an hour’s journey for the 200 miles, and the farthest are to Cali and Barranquilla, which takes about two and a half hours in the air. As the regular plane services did not always fit in with matches, it was frequently necessary to have at least one night in a hotel. If English players were offered the type of accommodation which I have experienced, there would soon be a real rumpus. On several occasions, I have slept on an iron camp bed with just a hard biscuit bed, four or six players to a room. Only once did I stay in a hotel where the accommodation can anywhere near the standard we get in this country.
English players usually lunch approximately three hours before the match and then only eat a very light meal, usually fish. In Colombia, the majority of players think nothing of polishing off a hefty four-course meal less than two hours the game is due to start. They just sit down and order what they fancy. It may be the indulgency which accounts for the fact that practically all the players are very slow starters. They rarely get properly into their stride until the second half. The most amusing incident which befell me happened when we played at Medellin, though it did not strike me as particularly funny at the time. We had flown to Medellin and then gone by bus from the hotel to the ground about an hour’s run over a very bad road. On a good road, you could probably have done it in less than half the time. The bus dropped us about a mile from the ground, and we had to walk there along with the crowd. That wasn’t bad, but when we went to the parking place after the match, still in our playing kit, the bus was not there. The driver had either just taken it into his head not to wait or else had not been given proper instructions, I never ascertained which. There we were about a dozen miles from our hotel and nothing to do but walk or beg a lift. After trudging about twenty minutes along the road, surrounded by a crowd of dirty urchins, a lorry came along and gave a lift to all the Argentinians and Colombians. If they had felt inclined, they could have made room for Flavell and myself, but this was too good a chance for them to miss. They just bundled on the lorry and set off without giving us a thought. Bobby and I decided to make the best of a bad job by foot-slogging it until we also got a lift. After about another mile, we managed to thumb a passing car. Fortunately, the driver could speak a little English, and we managed to explain our plight. He very kindly took us right back to the hotel.
Apart from the many things I have previously mentioned, there is another aspect of Bogota which makes it difficult for English folk. The city is about 8,000 feet above sea level, and the air is so rarefied that it zaps all your energy. You get partly used to it after a time, but never completely acclimatised. The first week, I was always short of breath after even the least bit of exertion, and going upstairs made me pant like a dog. It also takes away your appetite. Another problem for English folk, who do not speak Spanish, is the question of entertainment and social life. There is a British club where dances are held occasionally, but otherwise, there is nothing but the cinema.
I mentioned in a previous article the haphazard sort of way in which training is carried out. The transport arrangement to take the players to the ground for training were just as unsatisfactory. Instead of making their own way, as we do here, the club had a special coach to pick us up. The arrangements was that this should call for me about nine o’clock and then make a circular tour, picking up all the other players. This meant it was often eleven o’clock before we reached the ground, so that I had to spend two hours in the coach. Until Bobby Flavell joined the club, it meant during these two hours it was unable to exchange a word with anybody. The same thing happened in the reverse direction when training was over – two hours purgatory. That meant four hours wasted to the half an hour’s training. Sometimes the bus driver, who was a forgetful sort of chap, didn’t call for me at all. On other occasions, we got to the ground and found it locked up. I have explained before that the ground did not belong to the Millionarios club, but was rented from the municipality. Sometimes the club forgot to tell the groundsman that we were coming and sometimes the groundsman was told but he forgot. When we got there and found the place shut, we took the coach to the ground of an orphanage school not so far away, who showed us the top of their pitch. The only thing was that sometimes the boys themselves were playing a game and we had to wait until they had finished.
Apart from my wages and bonus, the only perks that came my way out there was when Mitten, Mountford, Franklin and myself were asked to advertise the products of a tailoring firm. They provided us with a fine suit each, took several photographs and paid us 200 pesos each, approximately £35. When Flavell and I had our photographs taken at the start of the match, we asked the photographer if we could have a couple of prints each. We got them, but he also sent us a bill for the equivalent of £1 for four postcards. Some players out there do add to their income by lending their name to boost the sales of cigarettes and other things, including even beer. But nothing of like that came my way. I have been asked if there were any repercussions, so far as I was concerned, after Neil Franklin came home so unexpectedly, it did not have any effect on me, or on any of the other English players in a direct way, though now and again, one sensed a certain antagonism in a small section of people. I understand that the commercial community was more upset about it. The cost of living out there as I have mentioned before, was terrifically high. The flat I had though a beautiful one, with large rooms and well furnished, cost me close on £70 a month. Really, it was much too big for my family and when Flavell and later his wife and child came out, they took half of it so that helped considerably.
What sort of a show would that past Colombian side make against an English team? Is a question I have been asked many times. The sides out there are about equal to the average Third Division club here. They would not stand a chance against our First Division team, which would run them off their feet if the match was placed in this country. If played out there, with the high attitude and so on, our lads would obviously be under a disadvantage, but I reason they would still manage to win comfortably, even going at half-speed.
This brings the tale of my unhappy trip in search of a quick football fortune to an end. If it kills any lingering doubts there might be in the minds of any players over here as to whether it is still worth "talking a chance" and going out to Bogota, then it will have served a useful purpose. My advice can be summed up by the same word which Mark Twain used when giving advice to the young man about to marry – Don’t.
