The Lambert Family Part 5. A sporting love story.

July 1952. The newly married couple, Betty and Clifford Lambert, South Cliff, Bridlington, East Yorkshire.

A photographer, Yorkshire Post, asked permission to take this photo. Clifford, second youngest player, Alan Tennant, the baby, on the field, had just taken part in the world’s first, live, televised game of Rugby League; the Cup Final,  Featherstone Rover V Workington Town at Wembley. The highlights were transmitted world wide on Pathe News, and now on YouTube. A link is at the end.

Clifford, just turned 22, is flush with a newfound fame, seemingly impossible for a lad in a tiny mining town. He was just one of many, Lad’s from Featherstone, who would become the name of Rugby League throughout the world. Ask any rugby player, an code, union or league, if they have heard of Featherstone Rovers and they nod. They are truly a sporting phenomenon, not just rugby, all sports. If these Lads were racehorses, their sperm would be worth millions.

Newly married Betty and Clifford lived in a bed-sit, 15 Robbins Terrace, three doors up from Cliff’s mum Mary and Wallace his dad. Cliff was the oldest of three, Doreen and Mary his younger sisters. Robbins Terrace would have been built circa 1900 to accommodate the demand for workers down the mines. Wallace, my grandad (mine and my sons middle names), was an electrician at the pit. Home, a rented, two up, two down, brick built terraced house, under a slate pitched roof.  A single cold-water supply to a Belfast sink. A  gas cooker.  At the back of the house was a small yard with patch of muddy coal dust and two brick sheds also with a slate roof. One shed housed coal, for the fires in each room, and one shed a toilet. Across Featherstone lane, a two minute walk, a small allotment with chickens and rabbits, for eggs and meat..

My mum and dad had a bedsit, one room with an outside loo and a tin bath on the wall. The happy couple above, didn't care, life was heaven on earth. Nine months later, 29th April 1953, out I popped at 3pm exactly, kick off time indeed. 

The 1950’s were halcyon days for Featherstone Rovers, packed stadiums, my dad captain and looking for his next Wembley visit. Alas it never came but the excitement surrounding the Rovers was everywhere. I played rugby day and night, I hung outside the changing rooms after games, collecting programmes, autographs. I even played tiddlywinks with imaginary teams, Rovers always won.

My dad brough home a discarded ball from rovers, kids today would throw it in a bin, but it was gold dust for me. From aged seven, I would walk to Purston Park, Cressy’s corner, down past of row of gleaming garages (the ones I threw stones at aged five)  across the railway line, past the cricket club, along the Bullock stand and…. The double gates had a chain and padlock, a skinny lad could squeeze through and, providing no-one was looking, I was in Post Office Road for free, long before half time when the gates were opened. I loved the bottom corner, next to the scoreboard, it was where the natural slope of the pitch ended so lots of action. I also worked out that during the half time break, folk wondered in-and-out of the Freddy Miller memorial gate. If I joined in a group returning, smiled at the attendant, I could watch the second half from the main stand. I was smitten, hook, line, and sinker. I loved the smell of liniment, the noise, the excitement…. I was in heaven.

Back home with my ball, I did take it home once, I played with the big lads, got roughed up and the rest but from that moment I only had one goal in life, to pull on that famous shirt.

Speaking of shirts, I wore my dad’s Wembley shirt till it fell off my back. If truth be told it never felt that special… It was white and not our beloved hoops. Bloody BBC had insisted, as good for black and white TV. Same way Sky insisted Toronto beat Rover is 2019. Hey ho, some battles even our lads can’t win.

Age 14 and Normanton Grammar School. Under 15 age group for sport. No 8, my rugby union position, loose forward at rugby league. Bloody hell, I am in the Yorkshire team and then… 

A hematoma, also spelled haematoma, is a localized bleeding outside of blood vessels, due to either disease or trauma including injury or surgery and may involve blood continuing to seep from broken capillaries... [Wikipedia]

I had one, a ‘dead leg’ is easier to say, and a North of England trial three weeks later. My world is imploding as I arrive home to tell my dad. He inspects my knee. ‘Umm… There is a magician I know; he has a bucket full of magic water and works wonders with his magic sponge’. Two days later, I meet the magician. 

Jimmy Williams was born in 1920, the same year his dad, Billy helped Rovers win the Yorkshire junior cup and propel them into the Northern Union a year later. Billy was player, coach, and Physiotherapist. His son Jimmy wanted to follow his dad into physiotherapy but … He moved to 'digs' in London, aged 18, to train at Guys Hospital and see a different life. It got very different. In 1940, exams all but completed, he found himself in Southampton, boarding a ship, Medical Core officer, on route to Malta, Suez Canal, India, Singapore and Burma to name a few. At each port they would follow the troops to the front line, build a big tent, cover it in twigs, leaves etc and erect their sign, M.A.S.H. Jimmy finished his war years, six of them, supporting our troops home through, Iraq, Egypt and Italy, all the way to Pontefract General Infirmary where he became the resident Physiotherapist. He worked with his dad at the Rovers for five years before taking over, just in time for the 1952 cup final. He worked tirelessly through three decades and there are not many, rugby league legends, who have ‘played’ in five cup finals, with three winners medals.

"Faradism is the use of rapidly alternating electric currents to stimulate nerve and muscle activity". In Yorkshire speak, it's electric shock treatment.

‘No pain, no gain’, is a common rugby term. My sessions with Billy involved; tinfoil, which he cut into strips, folded over, inserted a bare wire -like in a plug- and created a three inch square, which he then strapped to my thigh. He made another square and strapped the second one closer to my knee. The other ends of the two wires were already attached to a machine. ‘Can you feel that Colin’ he asks. ‘No…. yes, yes turn it down’, I screamed. He then proceeded to electrocute me for ten minutes. I sat in part agony, part amazement watching my muscle expand and contract of its own accord. For three weeks, twice a week, he would squeeze me in.  As luck would have it, I often shared the space with a first team player, same position as me, loose forward, Tommy Smales. We chatted, he took an interest in me and then ….

Three weeks later Jimmy not only had me on the pitch for the final trial, but Tommy opened my eyes to another side of the main stand, the inside. A timber and steel structure (typical of many stadiums of the time - they caught fire easily) with covered space to the rear and a row of single storey buildings plus a coal fired boiler room. The stand was separated from the terraces by a high brick walls, entrance by turnstiles. The main entrance gate had an arched stone surround, with engraved plaque, 'The Freddie Miller Memorial Gate'. An unmistakable feature. Standing inside, with my back to the gate and looking right. Home dressing room, square, tiled walls, stone floor with a large bath and loos to the rear; left a bit, visitors dressing room, smaller than home one and not as warm. Jimmy’s treatment room, after match reception room, canteen and store room. Running along the front of that lot a cinder track, say 50 meters long. Immediately in front of me, to my right, before the track, a long Nissen hut, the clubhouse, 6m x 15m, steel frame with a circular, corrugated metal roof. Inside, a bar at one end, tables and chairs. Between the clubhouse and the track, further changing rooms, ones which I would soon inhabit with the junior sides.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, this fourteen year-old lad, trained with the rovers first team squad, floodlit (two lights of one pole) training with Les Tonks, Jimmy Thompson, Gary Jorden, Carl Dooler, Mal Dixon and … 

Some ten months earlier, I'm thirteen years old, dad takes me to see the Rovers (twentieth in league) beat, Wakefield (third) , Castleford (eighth) and Leeds (champions) on their way to their second Rugby League Cup Final, against all odds, in May 1967. We beat Barrow in the final, I was sat at the tunnel end, level with the dead ball line, royal box side, with dad, as Mal Dixon was handed the trophy, by the Queen. I loved it.

They taught me; dummies, double dummies, feinting and grubber-kicks to fill my new rugby vocabulary. Repetition sprints on the cinder track, hot baths and lamb stew became my new homework. On one occasion Tommy Smales took me to one side and said, ‘you’re the last man in the scrum, the backs are in position and you are about to put your head down, what else do you do?’ ‘dun know', I said, 'get my studs in the ground’. ‘No young Slam (my dad is Slam senior), you have a look around and see what's going on, that way, you’re one step ahead’. 'That makes sense’, I said to myself.

February 1968, I am selected for the England under 15’s schoolboy trials, arrive Friday and leave Sunday, at the Chepstow Army Apprentices College.  Enclosed with the selection letter was a return train ticket. I think it was probably the first time I had travelled alone, so I was quite excited as I boarded the train at Baghill Pontefract.  I remember peering out of the window and feeling a sense of freedom and excitement.  I still love sitting on a long train journey taking in the life outside.  Little did I know 40 years later I would be looking out of the window of the Orient Express on its inaugural trip to Eastern Europe.  That’s for later.

The next day I found myself playing on a pitch directly underneath the M4 motorway. We played a series of 30-minute games, I played well. The following day I was selected for the last game, Probable’s v Possible’s, tight game, scrum 15m out, just to right of posts, scrum goes down, I pause and look around; all our backs, bar winger, behind me, to my left, all their backs, in front of me to the left, full back wide left. The ball is at my feet, it’s in my hand as I head into oceans of space, to the right, and over the line. Om Tommy Smales.

 Later that evening, we all gathered. I was nervously waiting to hear those magic words: “No 8 to play against Wales at Twickenham: Colin Lambert.”

Two weeks before the game another ‘dead leg’, this time Jimmy managed to get me seen at Pontefract hospital, in addition to Tuesdays and Thursdays and the big day arrived. 

We lost 11-0, I do not remember anything about the day, getting there, the game, was just a blur. I must have been ok, the newspapers thought so; The Times, "Wales hand out lesson… The only English lad quite in their class was the youngest boy in the match, 14-year-old Yorkshire No 8, Colin Lambert, son of former Featherstone Roves Rugby League forward, Cliff Lambert". The Telegraph said, ‘…C Lambert, at No.8, proved the outstanding forward. He looked extraordinarily mature for a boy of 14.

Little did they know; It was me, my dad, Tommy Smales, Jimmy Williams, and the whole of Featherstone running out to face Wales that day.

Another Rovers legend was about to enter my life, Kenny Everson. Kenny coached the Rovers U15’s and could do with some extra players for the last few games. ‘Yes please’ what my first response. It wasn’t easy, lads who had played together all season, see this new England rugby star taking someone’s place. ‘Fucking puff from Grammar School’, I heard once. Kenny was amazing, he looked after me and slowly the lads saw me as one of them.

I had something of a double life for the next four years, Normanton, Yorkshire and England on Saturdays, but every season, Kenny would welcome me back as Rovers played on a Sunday. Keith Bell entered my life, he became a role model, team captain and an inspiration. We had some great times together; Pont & Cass (Pontefract & Castleford Express) said, ‘Fryston U17 failed to add the district cup to the Leeds championship, the league and the Castleford cup when they lost 12-8 to Featherstone’. I played loose forward.  A scrum 15m out, just to right of posts, losing 8-6. The scrum goes down, I pause and look around, again remembering Tommy’s words.  Pont & Cas said, ‘Featherstone had a matchwinner in Lambert, his try and three goals, coupled with a try by Evans won the cup’.  The truth was, I had some great teachers. 

I loved playing for Kenny with Keith and the lads. Now seventeen and a job over Christmas. Barman, Travellers rest, Jimmy Smales, a different one, scrum half, another legend, my new boss and mentor. I am invited to a lock-in, with a difference. Pint glasses line the bar, 13 of them. The bar wasn’t wide enough, so Tommy clears away the tables and we are now practising moves. He shows me how a good centre will always run at his man (opposite player) before running away from him. He says, ‘the defender has to stop – as your running straight at him- even if for one second, you then have the advantage’. All explained with a bunch of chairs. He then whispered to himself, ‘Eric Batten (my dads all time mentor) taught me that one’. He also explained how a ‘short-arm’  (tacklers arm goes under ball carriers arm, in an upward motion, fist clenched and firmly planted in the face of the ball carrier) tackle could be used to one’s advantage, if ready. He shows me.

Probably my finest moment, with the lads, was Rovers v Castleford U20, again in the district cup final at Half Acres. Cas had won everything that season. I played in the centre, Keith captain and Kenny ever present. I have ball in hand, running wide and hand it to my winger, as he cuts inside. ‘Smack’, as the short arm fist, crunched into my face.  All ‘off ball’ so ref saw nothing. Second half similar situation, inside our own 25-yard line, and not long to go. My winger comes across me, their centre is lining up to whack me again. This time, I dummy, left forearm ready, bounce off his arm and clear, only the full back to beat. I cut in running straight towards him, he stops, at that moment I am away again, hugging the touchline and seventy-five yards later I place the ball under the posts to help win the cup. Om, Tommy Smales. That was the last time I pulled on the famous shirt.

My only moment of glory on the hallowed turf of post office road came by chance. 1975, I had left school and Loughborough bound. The national amateur 7's were being played at Post Office Road. Lock Lane the amateur champions, expected to win. The Railway pub decides to enter a team, I called in for a pint and agree to play. They had also roped in a lad from Ponty (Pontefract) rugby union, Charlie Stone, not yet a rovers legend, plus (??) five Featherstone lads. We beat Lock lane in the final, it was an amazing day.  That was the last time I played on the pitch of my childhood dreams.

Instead, I would swop Rovers for the team with the biggest selling replica rugby shirt, in the world. Colours; light blue, chocolate, magenta, French grey, brown and green. I would become their record try scorer and the country’s leading try scorer for two seasons. I still hold the record for the most tries scored, eight, in a first-class game.  I would be a full England squad member, no subs in those days, three championships winners’ medals, headlines, sports car and classy girlfriend. England U23 tour to Canada, we flew to Vancouver, with a stop in Edmonton. I moved seats, two empty ones by the window. The sun was just starting to fall, I was  listening to Al Stewart, 'Year of the Cat', club class, jumbo jet, looking down at the rocky mountains, gushing rivers, with thousands of logs, huge logs, floating like matchsticks in a stream. It was a very special moment, can feel it now.

And then...  

That's for later…

Notes: 

James (Jimmy) Williams wrote six books, all published, with copies in Featherstone library. His most well known, A None Combatant's War, is a lad from Featherstone's very own diary of the second world war.  He became Superintendent Physio for all the local hospitals and his work spread far and wide.  I would also like to thank his son Michael for sharing his memories with me and not being too agitated when my dyslexia kept swapping Billy with Jimmy.

Freddie Miller was the star of Rovers amazing cup run in 1952. After a long career with Hull, he joined Rovers aged 35. his fist ever cup final aged 37. He could kick goals, score tries and be a ferocious tackler Sadly he died age 45, hence the memorial. Click here to watch  the Pathe News broadcast.

Mark Kirby, Rovers historian, provides a fuller tribute to Freddie, in his blog. Click here to read.

If you note any inaccuracies please let me know. If you can remember any the missing names  from my rovers teams, please share them. Thank you again to Mark Kirby for his meticulous records and knowledge of rovers history. And, to everyone who has helped me create this bog, a name here, a date there etc, thank you.