BRITISH COMICS
THE TEAM’S GONE BROKE!
First
episode taken from Adventure No. 1245 -
The finest
Baldy Hogan story ever written!
DISASTER FOR THE UNITED
The most famous bald head in English football gleamed in the August
sunshine as, on a Tuesday afternoon, Baldy Hogan walked on to Burhill United’s
pitch. The players were all out training. On the following Saturday the 1948-49
Second Division campaign would open with a home fixture against Cressmouth. The
Reserves, playing in the North Central League, were meeting the Cressmouth
Reserves.
Jock
M’Vay, the skipper and centre-half, walked over to speak to the manager.
“Aren’t you going to put a strip on?” he grinned. Baldy frowned. “I wish I
could,” he said, “but I’m due to have a session with Mr Cashmore in the office.
Thank goodness the season tickets are all distributed—if we’d had twice the
number we could have sold them.” “Aye, we’ll draw big gates this season,”
remarked Jock. “Well, you know my aim,” chuckled Baldy. “We won the Cup last
season. Now for promotion—” “Don’t forget the Cup, Baldy!” broke in Kid
M’Ginty, the tousle-headed little centre-forward. “We’ll have a crack at that
again, too,” grinned Baldy. The ball came along and Kid nipped away to
inter-change passes with Ray Hutton, the inside-right. On the far side of the
field Sailor Smith, the brawny inside-left, and Whitey Phillips, his wing
partner and a West Indian, were testing the thickness of their skulls with some
terrific headers. The idea was for one to kick the ball with all his force
head-high at the other, then see what happened. Baldy looked around, and what
he saw pleased him. The groundsman, Albert Pritchard, had done a grand job in
the close season and the turf was thick and carpet-like in its smoothness.
Permits had been obtained for repainting the main stand and the smaller
opposite stand looked first-class. “How are the youngsters shaping, Jock?”
Baldy asked. “Not bad at all,” replied the skipper. “You’ve some real promising
lads. Mind you, there’s only three or four you could put straight into the
first team. You know all about Cliff Rollins, and young Trevor. Rafe Rogers,
the outside-right you signed in
Cashmore
gave a startled shout as Baldy’s big presentation inkpot slid across the table
and tipped on to the floor. An iron umbrella stand in the corner fell over with
a clang. A tremor shook the building. The pictures shivered. “What the deuce
was that?” gasped Cashmore. The door opened. Old Henry Parker, for thirty years
clerk and cashier, was entering the room when there was another shake which
caused him to stagger. “It must be an earthquake,” declared Baldy. There was
another quiver as they made their way down the tunnel to the pitch, where the
players were gazing round questioningly. “Did you feel the tremor out here?”
Baldy called out. “Aye,” M’Vay said. “The ground shook under our feet.” “It was
one of dem quakers, suh!” exclaimed Whitey. “I’ve had experience of dem
previous.” The air filled with the blare of the old air-raid siren which was
now used in the daytime to call in fire service reserves. Instead of cutting
off after the usual minute, the wailing of the siren was continuous. Baldy ran
back to the office and phoned his old friend, Superintendent Harry Hacking, at
the police station. “What’s happened, Harry? Can we be of any use?” he
demanded. “There’s been a big underground explosion at the Realdon Main pit,”
replied Hacking hoarsely. “Haven’t any details yet—but I dare say your husky
lot of lads would be useful in helping to keep the crowds back and that sort of
thing.” “I’ll get the team over at once,” Baldy said and rang off. In a few
minutes a procession of cars packed with players started away from the ground.
Baldy led the way in his old, open car. Fred Cashmore followed in his saloon,
and Syd Soper and Billy Brent, the left-half, came along with players even
standing on the running boards. The colliery was only two miles away and the
slag-heaps and pithead gear soon came into view. Crowds were swarming towards
the pit from all directions. Inspector Lacey, who had just arrived on the scene
with a small number of constables, welcomed the footballers and asked them to
keep people away from the yard. Baldy saw a rescue squad, in helmets and
respirators, running towards the cage. “There’s no report from the scene of the
explosion yet,” Lacey had time to tell him. “It was a long way from the pit
bottom.” The police officer hurried away and the footballers got down to their
task of keeping the yard clear. Syd Soper, who had been a War Reserve
policeman, was placed in command by Baldy. Ambulances rushed from far and near,
kept arriving in steady succession. Doctor after doctor drove up in his car.
Superintendent Hacking gave an appreciative nod at what the footballers were
doing when he made his appearance with police reinforcements. The huge wheel
above them spun round as winding went on. The day shift men who had been
working near the pit bottom emerged into the open air from the cages, but
instead of going to the baths, hung about for news of their comrades. Rumours
flew about—that fifty, a hundred, a hundred and fifty men had been imprisoned,
that a fire was raging, and that gas was invading all the workings. Over an
hour had passed when Superintendent Hacking came running out of the office.
“Thank goodness it isn’t as bad as we feared, Baldy!” he shouted. “The
explosion was right away in the old workings. They’d been sealed off and first
reports are that not a life’s been lost.” The news spread fast. Cheering was
taken up by the people on the fringe of the crowd and rapidly spread till even
those on top of the slag-heaps were waving and shouting. After that the crowd
began to melt away. Because of the thronged streets it was a slow drive back to
the ground, but the players wanted to call there to get their clothes as they
had rushed off in training kit. Baldy again led the procession of cars, and as
he turned the last corner Kid M’Ginty, who was sitting beside him, looked up
and gave a hoarse cry. “Baldy!” he shouted. “What’s happened to our ground?”
Baldy slammed on the brakes. He, too, stared at the big bank at the town end of
the ground which was called Spion Kop.
The
bank had been split open from top to bottom. As they watched a fissure opened
and hundreds of tons of ashes slid to the bottom with a roar. Baldy flung open
the door. As he began to run he saw that the roof of the grandstand was tilting
over at an unusual angle. With Kid running beside him, he rushed through a
gateway and what he saw made him let out a groan of dismay. The green turf of
the pitch had been replaced with a desolate waste like a battlefield. The
centre of the field could not be seen at all as it had vanished in a gaping
crater. Great cracks ran in all directions. As the other players arrived there
was a tearing, rending crack. To the noise of snapping stanchions and crumpling
timbers, the middle of the grandstand caved in and collapsed in a twisted pile of
debris. “It’s that explosion, Baldy,” shouted Fred Cashmore. “I know the old
pit workings run this way! That underground explosion has caused these
subsidence’s and wrecked our ground!
WANTED—A FOOTBALL PITCH!
On the following afternoon, Wednesday, Baldy drove his car towards the
middle of Burhill. The town itself had about a hundred thousand inhabitants
since a boundary extension. It was the natural centre for a wider area which
included several small country towns to the west and a coalfield and allied industries
to the east.
As Baldy drove towards the park he
noticed that the railings were lined by an interested crowd. A football soared
up and vanished again from view. The Parks Superintendent had given permission
for the United to train there. Baldy did not call in. He could leave training
in the hands of Len Harper. He drove on till he turned up
“F. Cashmore and Co., Wholesale
Grocers.”
Tacked on the door was a piece of
cardboard bearing the words:
“Burhill United F.C. Temporary
Office.”
Baldy left his car and walked up
the ramp to the small glass-panelled office inside the warehouse. Cashmore
pushed back his chair. He picked up a telegram and handed it to Baldy. “From
the League,” he said grimly. Baldy took the wire and read:
“Every sympathy with you in your
misfortune, but you must inform us by Thursday at the latest if it is possible
for you to continue membership of League. Must remind you of your financial
obligations to visiting teams.”
“Well, you can’t criticize the
League for taking a firm line,” said Baldy. “If we had to pack up they’d have
the Second Division to re-arrange and only three days to do it in.” “You
noticed that bit about financial obligations,” grunted Cashmore. “Yes, visiting
teams could hardly be expected to come here at a loss,” Baldy muttered. “Last
season our visitors took away an average of four hundred pounds as their share
of our gates.” “What does it cost to run the club, Baldy?” asked Cashmore.
“Players’ wages alone come to two
hundred and fifty pounds a week,” stated Baldy. “The eight thousand quid in the
bank will help us along a bit,” declared Cashmore. “Oh, but what’s the use? We
haven’t a ground to play on.” “I’ve visited seven grounds in the Works League,”
said Baldy. “Not one had room for more than a thousand spectators. Now I’m
going on my last hope. I’m told Vakis Motors have a fine ground and I’m on my
way to see it. Coming?” “I might as well,” replied Cashmore. Once again Baldy
drove through the streets in his car. They travelled about two miles through
the built-up area till they reached the Vakis factory. The sports secretary met
them and said his directors would be willing to let the United use their ground
for the sake of the town, but the moment Baldy set eyes on it, he knew it was
no use. The pitch was fine and there was a good pavilion and some banking, but
three thousand spectators would be a crowd, and four thousand a squash. In
silence they drove away. “You’ve taken the wrong turning!” Cashmore suddenly
exclaimed. “This is
The brick wall was broken by a high
iron gateway, locked and also fastened by barbed-wire. Inside was a lodge with
shuttered windows. A drive led away to a big house in the near distance. It was
a board: “The Grange Estate. For
A HARD BARGAIN!
Samuel Armstrong, his hair iron-grey, his eyebrows and moustache
bristling, wearing a dark coat which stretched tight across his wide shoulders,
sat at his office desk. He was a dour, formidable-looking man with a massive
chin.
He reached out and picked up a
wooden penholder with a penny steel nib and dipped it into an inkpot. He opened
his cheques book and wrote—“Pay the Burhill and
A clerk opened the door. “Mr
Cashmore,” he announced. “Mr Baldy—er—Mr Hogan.” Armstrong peered at his
visitors. “You aren’t going to waste my time, are you?” was his greeting.
“You’re ready to get down to brass tacks?” “You’ve heard about the ruin of our
ground?” Baldy asked. “I’ve read about it in t’ paper,” said Armstrong. “I know
nothing about football myself. Had to work hard all my life. Never had time to
play.” “Are you thinking of trying to buy the Grange Estate for a football
ground?” asked Howley. “There’s nowhere else,” Cashmore said. “I’ll be candid.
If we can’t get hold of a ground we have to send of a telegram resigning from
the League, and thousands of Burhill people are going to be robbed of their
recreation.” Armstrong’s expression did not change. “If you want to play
football, all right, but you’ll have to pay for it,” he said gruffly. “These
are my terms. Take ‘em or leave ‘em for there’ll be no arguments.” He glared
unblinkingly across the desk. “The price is £25,000 with a down payment of £7,
500,” he went on. “The remainder must be paid in weekly instalments of two
hundred and fifty pounds.” He tapped the desk with his fist. “These payments
will be made to me punctually by
BURHILL’S FIRST WIN
On Saturday, his eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep, Baldy drove to the
ground. In the back of his car was the hamper. The kit had been salvaged with
difficulty from the wrecked stand and he had just fetched jerseys, shorts and
stockings from the laundry.
On turning into
The teams were:-
Burhill United: Ted
Collins; Bert Shell and Syd Soper; Joe Amble, Jock M’Vay, Billy Brent; Gil
Mason, Ray Hutton, Kid M’Ginty, Sailor Smith and Whitney Phillips.
Cressmouth: Hughes;
Rapper and Dunn; Skiff, Macdonald, Parkstone; Small, Lasher, Dumbarton, Goss
and King.
Baldy sat on the trainers’ bench
down at the bottom of the arena. “You look fagged out, Baldy,” said Len Harper.
“A good game of football will be a tonic,” replied Baldy. “I never thought this
game would be played,” the trainer remarked. “Len, we’re taking a terrific
gamble, but it’s got to come off,” said Baldy. “Armstrong’s terms are harsh,
but if we hadn’t accepted them on the spot the United would be finished. After
paying the deposit and the first expenses of moving, we’re cleaned out of
cash.” A roar from the crowd announced that Jock had won the toss. The teams
lined up. In Goss and King the visitors had a new left-wing, but the powerful
Dumbarton was still centre-forward, and Lasher was a dangerous shot at
inside-right. Dumbarton was soon in the picture with a long pass wingwards.
King, a flyer, picked the ball up in his stride and swerved past Bert Shell.
From near the corner flag the winger slashed the ball across. Dumbarton and
M’Vay were going for the ball together when the United’s skipper put his
shoulder into the centre-forward and spun him aside. The whistle blew shrilly.
“What’s the matter with that?” gasped Len Harper. “It was a fair charge.” “It’s
the new rule,” Baldy snapped. “A player can’t be charged unless he’s playing
the ball.” “He’d have been playing it in a couple of strides!” exclaimed the
trainer. “It isn’t a penalty,” Baldy said. “Ref’s given an indirect free kick
in the penalty area.” From the rampart of United players the ball bounced away.
Ray Hutton nipped on to it and flashed a pass to Kid M’Ginty. With his chin
right over the ball, M’Ginty shuffled along, diddled his way past Skiff by
wagging a foot over the leather; and brought Whitey into the game with a long
pass. The crowd roared at the spectacle of Whitey haring down his wing at top
speed. Suddenly, there was a surge on the grassy bank. Down the slope, borne by
the pressure behind, spectators were rushed on to the unprotected pitch—and
Whitey vanished in the middle of them.
There was a delay while the
spectators were cleared off the field. The referee bounced the ball and
Cressmouth cleared. The visitors were full of pep, and their long passes suited
the conditions, for the rough grass tended to throw short passes astray. Ted
Collins was cheered for diving at full length to turn a shot from Lasher round
the post. M’Vay breasted the ball down from the corner kick and burst away. He
put the ball at Joe Amble’s toes and the right-half held it for thirty strides
before passing to Gil Mason. The right winger cut inside and slipped the ball
towards Ray Hutton. The inside-right tricked the defence by jumping over the
ball when it came in. A terrific roar greeted the sight of the ball in the back
of the net, thumped there by M’Ginty, who was now doing a war dance. “First
goal towards promotion,” chuckled Len. “It’s good football, too,” said baldy.
“It’ll fetch in the crowds if they play stuff like that.” A shadow fell across
Baldy and he turned to find Superintendent Hacking at his elbow. The police
officer surveyed the crowded banks. “I ordered the gates to be closed half an
hour ago, and there are more people outside than in,” he declared. “There are
too many on these banks now for safety! We shall have to cut these numbers down
next time! Till you get these banks properly terraced it won’t be safe to let
in more than ten or twelve thousand spectators!” The only thing which cheered
Baldy during the rest of the game was the form shown by the team. Inspired by Kid’s
goal, they played great football. In the second half Ray waltzed through to
score, and Sailor made it three with a header from near the edge of the penalty
area.
The figures showed that only 15,000
spectators had been allowed inside. Baldy’s hurried calculations led him to the
dismal conclusion that the team had gone broke! If Armstrong were to receive
his next payment of £250, there would not be enough money left from the gate to
pay the players their next week’s wages, let alone their winning bonus!
THE TEAM’S GONE BROKE! 21
Episodes Adventure issues
1245 – 1265 (1948 – 1949)
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2007
