Author: chris.cox

Prominent DDCWWFCSC member Rod Ireland takes a look into his soul to give us this piece of how he feels about Wolves life and everything……

What Wolves Mean To Me

By Rod Ireland

Like others who have shared their love for our great club here, I have many years of happy memories and favourite times watching the Old Gold and Black.  Seeing Peter Knowles dump Bobby Charlton on his backside, treasured goals like John Richards scoring against QPR in front of the North Bank, Bully’s flick, turn and and shot against Millwall, and Willie Carr’s exquisite curled chip away at Upton Park.

But what Wolves really means to me is summed up by one special match at a very special time in my life.  Early in 1988 I was told I had cancer – a very unusual kind, with three big growths on my heart.  I discovered only later that my friends at work had been told not to expect me back.

Most of us know someone who’s suffered from cancer – well most of you know me, so it must be true!  It may surprise you if I say that I now see it as one of the positive events in my life.  I learned so much about myself, about what’s really precious in life, and about how important it is to maintain self belief and never stop fighting to keep hold of what you want – in my case, my life.

So there I am, at the end of May, with Coxy and other good friends, being literally dragged up the steps of old Wembley Stadium.  I’d had intrusive surgery, followed by my first batches of chemotherapy.  Bald as a coot (what’s changed?), I was as weak as a kitten, and collapsed worn out into my seat.

The significance of what I saw that day has stayed with me ever since.  A sea of gold and black, dominating with colour and noise, where not so many months ago poor Molineux had echoed to the sporadic chants of the faithful few; when the life of the entire club hung in the balance.  There was only going to be one winner that day – Wolves were back, and the future was so full of promise.  How I identified with that feeling, how to capture it in words?  Rebirth, renaissance, renewal – sheer euphoria at what might lie ahead.

The rest you know.  Wolves have climbed back towards the top; sure, just as in life, there have been stumbles.  But more than twenty years on there are so many great memories, those same treasured friends, and so much more ahead.   Just one little side story about Coxy, who recruited me into the DDC way back in ’76.  I’m lying in my Oxford hospital bed, feeling rotten.  Enter Mr Cox.  No grapes or flowers.  “Coming out for a pint?”  Having sweet-talked the nurses into agreement, I get dressed and he takes me down the Victoria Arms on the banks of the Cherwell for several pints of 6X.  Best tonic I could get.  Pure Coxy.  Thanks, mate.

WHAT WOLVES MEANS TO ME

By David Instone (Creator of www.wolvesheroes.com and author of Billy & Bully)

Charles Ross once wrote, during my 16 years of following Wolves home and away for the Express & Star, that some fans thought I had the best job in the world. He reckoned I had the worst.

In reviewing one of my books (that’s another pint I still owe him!), he made the point that his own emotions and passions would never allow him to produce considered copy during a game or soon after the end of one and he’d hate having to try.

My own view is that I had one of the best jobs in Wolverhampton at least, if not one of the best-paid.

I didn’t grow up a Wolves fan, though I always had a bit of a draw towards them in the early 1970s, when my banter-filled loathing was reserved for the likes of Villa, Man United and Stoke – the teams my closest school mates supported.

Maybe it was those shirts or that goal-filled run to the UEFA Cup final that carried some appeal, or perhaps it was being lucky enough to be at Molineux for THAT game against Leeds in 1972 and at Wembley for the 1974 League Cup final. But I never had a problem with seeing Wolves do well. On the quiet, I actually quite liked them.

Even so, my heart was hardly pumping when I stumbled into the role of following them all over the country, and beyond, from the Easter of 1986.

At the time, I was quite happy covering an entertaining Walsall side on their Third Division travels – certainly a lot happier than Alan Buckley seemed at having me on board – and it didn’t appear such a step-up to be given the Wolves ‘gig’, at least not in terms of job security.

More front-page stories were written about the club than back-page ones in those days and I recall turning up for a pre-season friendly at Southport in 1986 – I’d been covering golf down the road at Birkdale all day – not knowing whether a winding-up order had been issued in the High Court that afternoon and the team coach turned back at Knutsford as a consequence.

Watching a patched-up side in a decaying Molineux was a shock to the system after cosy Fellows Park and I question the ‘We were always too big to go under’ stance some supporters now take because that’s not my memory of the mood of the time.

Anyway, some bloke called Bull arrived and, even during the months prior to the two successive promotions, reporting Wolves’ games and fortunes quickly became fun.

As quickly as fans had deserted the club, they flooded back, high-spirited and hopeful just like Graham Turner’s team, and I felt lucky to be the man in place to describe the rebirth; the giant stirs!

Thank goodness we had no idea how difficult subsequent promotions would be but, with regained respectability, came Sir Jack Hayward, a rebuilt stadium and a club to be proud of once more.

Reporters do ‘root’ for the sides they follow, honest! It might not always appear so but why wouldn’t it be more rewarding, more entertaining and downright easier to be describing and discussing victories than a trail of defeats?

It was about the autumn of 1987, this side of those nightmare crowd disorder stories, that I’d say the first serious traces of gold and black dripped into my bloodstream.

I was present at the inaugural meeting of the club’s Former Players Association and to meet Billy and Bert, Johnny Hancocks, Peter Broadbent and Ron Flowers was to learn that this place was actually a bit special.

Did that game against Honved mean THAT much? Could Stan Cullis really be as dedicated as that to the Wolves cause? And what did it feel like to be looking down on Manchester United in the 1950s?

Okay, I’ve derived a decent living in post-E&S years from various Molineux nostalgia projects but I’ve thrown myself into them because the story needs telling for the sake of current and future generations; in some cases for the reading of the grandkids of Wright, Flowers, Williams, Slater et al.

I’m proud of those League titles, FA Cup triumphs and floodlit spectaculars, even though I didn’t see a ball kicked in any of them. All that tradition, pride, appeal and fame is a heady mix!

Wolverhampton Wanderers now means much more than just pounds, shillings and pence to me.  

Editor of a Load of Bull Charles Ross has penned us a piece following on in this theme, his piece as the others in this series are, is a very unique piece from his perspective, going in unexpected directions…..

The Beautiful Game?

Charles Ross

I have always loved my cricket.

Loved playing it, loved watching it, loved everything about it. Right since I was a kid. And when I think now about my cricketing allegiances, I realise that the primary one is, and always was, to the game itself.

As a kid, it was outings to Old Trafford that were special. They were full of household names in the 1970’s. No, not that Old Trafford (what were you thinking?!), but the one down the road, the home of Lancashire CCC. I learned early in life that a red rose is something special. As a Shropshire lad, I would also occasional get to go to Edgbaston, although this would primarily be to watch Test cricket. Watching Lillee and Thompson in their pomp terrorise the English batting line up on a wet pitch there was one of those moments that just stays with you forever.

In later years, as an adult, it was to Birmingham I moved and I have remained a county member since. I don’t get to see that much of Warwickshire most years, but I regard my membership sub as a tax worth paying for a game I love. And, of course, it ensures I can get tickets for the Edgbaston Test. Now, this has produced some really special moments. And I count myself privileged to have seen, at close quarters, some of the game’s greats. Watching the first ball of a Test, a bouncer from Ambrose to Atherton, rear off the pitch and go first bounce into the ropes; I saw the reaction of the two players. The game ended before lunch on the third day.

I count myself privileged to have seen the great Sachin Tendulkar make a flawless century; a fabulous innings from the greatest batsmen of the modern era. He went to his century with a shot which simply defied belief. I was, I would like to think, one of the first out of my seat to applaud the “little Master”. As I did the likes of Mark Taylor and Steve Waugh. Even – especially – Shane Warne. I passed him at the Test there last summer and just stopped, quite genuinely, to thank him for all he had done for the game and for the memories he had given me.

Of course, I always turn up wanting England to win, and have revelled in some heroic performances from our own. That 2005 game with England winning by 2 runs and a monumental performance from Mr Flintoff; all those rainy days, all those draws, all those defeats were in their way part of what made this such a special Test to be at.

Why on earth am I writing about cricket? Perhaps because it is the depth of winter and the smell of fresh grass in April and the start of a new season seems an eternity away.  But it’s more because, with cricket, it is the game I love. Its values, its history, everything about it which makes it a thread in my life I cherish. I can recognise, appreciate and applaud greatness when I see it.

And, when it comes to cricket, my allegiance lies more with England than with any one county side. It is the national team which matters most. But above and beyond even that, it is cricket itself I love. That is why, much though I may prefer England to win, I can stand and applaud an Australian.

As a kid, I loved football. I would get taken to the occasional game at different grounds. But it was a visit to a snowy Molineux on Boxing Day 1970 that the love affair with Wolves began. A 2-0 win over Everton courtesy some lanky guy wearing the number 10 shirt. There could never be another team for me.

I’m not that bothered about England. I was lucky enough to be taken to Wembley as a kid, but it never hooked me the same way that seeing the world’s great cricketers did. I got taken once to the other Old Trafford and saw Best, Charlton and co. I knew I was seeing some of the legends of the game and, as a one-off trip, it was great. But I only went in the first place because we were staying down the road in April for the cricket.

When it comes to football, the club versus country debate never exists. It’s Wolves. End of. And as for the game, I hate so much about professional football these days and what it has become. I often feel I could – would like to, even – simply walk away from the game. But the old gold shirt still stirs something inside me. Like many love affairs, it has had its lows, and not all of them results related. Call me unsporting, but I can never bring myself to applaud an opposition goal. It’s totally different to cricket. Every goal conceded, every defeat does something to me. It’s personal. 

I sometimes wonder how I would feel about Wolves and football if I hadn’t wasted so much time over so many years producing a fanzine. I can’t even understand why I have done it. Perhaps that tells you all you need to know about what Wolves means to me.