Stoke City: End of line for Waddo changed my whole life

Alan Hudson and Tony Waddington were kindred spirits on and off the field, in life and in death. In the third and final adaptation by Martin Spinks of Hudson's new book The Waddington Years, the former Stoke midfield maestro laments Waddo's passing from the Victoria Ground ... and, later, from life itself.

WHEN I was working or drinking in Fleet Street, reporters told me that they would work their diary around matches at the Victoria Ground.

For when a London club played there, they would try to beat one another into the editor's office to be on that Potteries-bound train from London Euston.

They were treated so well, had all the comfort of the best available facilities – not only press room, but boardroom – and all the interviews they needed with Tony.

The man was very sociable and could hold court in any company. Reporters would get the last train out of the Potteries after being looked after by Tony after matches.

In the Potteries, you can hold your heads up and feel proud that you had one of the greatest managers in the history of the game. One who was in the midst of overtaking even the great feats of his good friend at Derby County and Nottingham Forest, Brian Clough.

I mention them in the same breath because they both managed unfashionable clubs from the backwaters of our game, lifting the local people of those cities higher above some of the biggest football clubs imaginable.

He lived for Stoke City, turning down lucrative offers from the mighty Manchester United and Leeds United when they were still heavyweights in our game, which speaks volumes for his loyalty to his one and only football club.

The Waddington years were marvellous years, and years I know he was so proud of, although his ultimate dream was ambushed by those high winds.

There are bush fires and tornadoes going on all around the world, but no matter how many there have been and will be, there will never be anything so devastating as what happened at the Victoria Ground that day in January 1976, when high winds blew the roof off the old Butler Street Stand.

Then the bombshell – the bank pulled the plug.

The only solution was to sell the players they would get any money for.

That was Jimmy Greenhoff and me, with Micky Pejic to follow, and then it was obvious they didn't need a goalkeeper if they were not going anywhere and sold Peter Shilton to Clough at Forest.

My last memory of Stoke City, and the Victoria Ground in particular, on leaving, was going into the boot room to pick up my footwear while my missus was confronted by Tony outside.

The night before, Tony would not sanction the move and would sign nothing.

He told secretary Bill Williams he wanted nothing to do with it all and that was the way it was left.

My wife Maureen said he cried outside the ground as he pleaded with her to talk me out of going to Arsenal, that the bank manager had changed his mind and the club had some money to pay my wages.

I never saw him. I don't know why. As I say, it was a blur, it was as if I had never been there before once picking up my boots.

I think half my battles with Terry Neil at Highbury were down to Tony because he was an impossible act to follow.

I had left behind the carnage that the roof had caused and things fell apart slowly.

Two months before being relegated – to a place he had fought so hard to get them out of – Tony had resigned in that March of 1977.

He had warned the directors to expect the worst if they sold their best players and his words rang true in horrific fashion.

His club was back from where he had rescued them 17 years prior. In fact, in an even worse position.

I would return to Stoke and play under different management a few years later, thanks to Tony's influence in getting me back.

Then came the chance to become manager, with Tony at my side.

We were together enjoying a function in London's plush Royal Lancaster Hotel when I was approached by the Stoke City chairman, a lovely man named Frank Edwards.

I was sat next to Tony, as I always did whenever we were out, at the moment this fine elderly gentleman asked if he could have a word in private.

We went into the corner of this huge room where he asked if my letter of interest in the vacant managerial position was serious.

I explained that with the guidance of the man I was sitting with and my love and passion within the Victoria Ground, not forgetting what the people of the Potteries expected and were treated to by him, I could put them back where they belonged.

I also had the knowledge, the experience of coaching and, more importantly, had played under the management of the good, the bad and the ugly in Tommy Docherty, Dave Sexton, Sir Alf Ramsey, Terry Neil, Don Revie, Jimmy Gabriel, Eddie McCreadie, Alan Hinton – the last three in the United States – and then, of course, Tony Waddington.

He was, I think, impressed with my honesty and, of course, saw my many matches playing for Tony. And with the firmest of handshakes, he asked me to phone him on my return to the Potteries on the following Monday morning to discuss this further, with the most reassuring of smiles.

The champagne popped and all I could think about was working with the man who I had been through so many great times with.

He would now educate me on the finer arts of management. To say I was on cloud nine might be missing a couple of digits.

On jumping off the train at midday, I made my way to the old telephone on the wall and nervously, but confidently, dialled the number that was going to change my life forever.

But I was told that all my hopes and dreams of this potentially powerful partnership coming to fruition had died along with him in the early hours of that morning.

Had Mr Edwards not died soon after meeting me about the managerial post, I am sure I would, with Mr Waddington's guidance, have put the club back where it belonged. Well, where he took it single-handedly.

Tony Waddington was born in Manchester on the November 9, 1924 and died on Saturday, January 29, 1994 in a Crewe hospital, where I left him for the very last time on that lunchtime before leaving him to have his final moments with his loving family.

I have always thought of Crewe as the end of the line and, on this day, there was living proof.

This was the day that changed so much in my life and proved to be a void that could not be filled, a person who could not be replaced. I had lost someone very special in my life.

I didn't think you could feel this way about someone outside of your own family, which tells me he had also become my second father.

If I lived again, my parents and Tony Waddington are the three people I would never hesitate about keeping.

I am still haunted, happily, by the man in question.

I love his ghost. He is always with me. I hope I am. If not, he is probably trying to find a better player than me.

Maybe he will, but he will never find a better friend. We have time to get together later, of that I am certain, and we have so much to catch up on.

I just hope the bar is open when I finally reach him and I am only grateful that he drinks gin and I drink vodka, otherwise there might be a chance there'll be none left when we meet up for the third and final time.

Only this time, it will be no record transfer deal or loan deal, it will be for good.

HUDSON will be signing copies of the book at the Newcastle Town beer festival tonight and tomorrow at 7pm.

Tickets for the official book launch at Trentham Gardens on Friday, August 2 can be purchased through Steve Hamilton, telephone (01782) 657341.

If you want to buy a copy of The Waddington Years, call Bryan Shenton on 07855871653.