As far as I can remember I have always been interested in soccer. As a youngster in Bolton I played whenever I could, sometimes with a tennis ball, sometimes with a rag ball, and, on special occasions, with a real live football.

The first person to spot that I had any talent out of the ordinary was my grandfather, James Hugh Riley. Little did I know then that he was to have a tremendous influence on my future career, acting in the dual capacity of personal manager and personal coach. But grandfather always believed that I had it in me, and he found a more-than-useful ally in Mr. "Bunny" Lee, the sports master at Tonge Moor Council School, Bolton.

Mr. Lee was a meticulous sports master. Only the best would do for him, and he soon spotted that as a boy of eight I had quite a shot with my right foot but used my left foot purely for standing on. So he kept me behind after school, took me on to the field, and made me practise left-foot shooting. He would pass the ball to me and I had to shoot every time with my left foot. And to make sure I didn't cheat, I was allowed to wear only a gym shoe on my right foot!

It was tough going, but my, was it worth it!

I left Tonge Moor Council when I was nine and transferred to Castle Hill, a new school which had just been opened. Fortunately for me, the headmaster, Mr. Milner, was very keen on football, and he helped me just as Bunny Lee did.

But soon I was on the list again! This time I was transferred to Folds Road Central School, and once again I found the headmaster, a Mr. F. P. Lever, whom I was later to know as "Pop", was a keen football fan.

Then most Lancashire folk are. Soccer is a religion with the people in the industrial North, and it is due to people like Mr. Lee, Mr. Milner and Mr. Lever not only that I developed into England's centre forward, but also that Nat Lofthouse, a townie of mine and educated at the same schools, followed me in the job.

Bolton also produced Bill Holden, that brilliant centre forward who followed in my footsteps to Burnley.

One of the first questions Mr. Lever asked me when I went to Folds Road was whether I played football. When I said I did he gave me a trial for the school team, and before long I was not only leading the school attack but the Bolton representative side's attack as well.

Mr. Lever was so keen on football that he used to watch us playing in the school-yard during the break. If he saw a lad do something wrong he would call him to his study window, give the lad some advice and settle down to watch some more.

At Folds Road we used to chalk a set of goal posts on the wall and practise shooting - in or heading-in. We used only tennis balls at that time, and looking back I feel that such practice helped me considerably to become such a deadly "shot" with my head when I graduated to first class football.

Mind you, seeing goals chalked on walls was a common sight in Bolton (and I am sure in other places) when I was a lad. A game of shooting-in was always one of the highlights of the day, and whenever I could I would pitch in with the other lads.

It grieves me to walk through our towns today and notice the complete absence of chalked goals on walls. Surely the modern youngster has not turned his back on the greatest of all training grounds, the training system that produced all the great players I have known as well as the modern continental heroes such as Ferenc Puskas and Josef Bozsik. People tell me that the modern boy would not lower himself to such common games, that he is more interested in going to the pictures or watching television.

For the sake of football I hope those people are wrong.

So lads, stop reading now. Go out with a couple of pals, chalk a goal on the nearest gable end and start some shooting or heading practice with a tennis ball. If the householder comes out and chases you ... well, you've got to be quick off the mark to be good at soccer, so it is all good training."

Lawton, 16-years-old but strong and plucky, had few decent passes and was practically blotted out by Vose, who was at his best for this important game.

At this stage up stepped Master Lawton to crack a shot so hot and fast, so rushing, that goalkeeper Hall saw nothing of it. It was a crackerjack shot and taken with Lawton's well-known first-time fury of pace.

I found it rather embarrassing to read about myself in the gossip columns on the sports pages of the newspapers. This and that club was mentioned as being interested in me, but as far as I was concerned I was a Burnley player and very happy to be one. I also knew that there was a lot more for me to learn, and at Burnley I was learning it. We were a happy club and I found excellent teachers at Turf Moor.

My first intimation as to what was afoot came when I was in the club office by myself one day. Mr. George Allison, then the manager of Arsenal, telephoned and asked for Mr. Alf Boland, the Burnley secretary.

"Mr. Boland is not here at the moment," I replied, "but this is the assistant secretary speaking. Can I help you?"

Imagine my surprise when Mr. Allison replied that he wanted to make an offer for Tommy Lawton and would be telephoning again.

I was in a daze! And the daze got worse as more telephone calls came in. Manchester City, Everton, Newcastle United, Wolves. All were interested in Tommy Lawton-in me!

Arsenal at that time - in fact Arsenal today - were the glamour club of football. Almost every player wanted to play for them, and the thought that they were interested in me made me feel very proud. Little did I know that their bid was to fail and that it was to be many years later before I was to sign on the dotted line for the famous "Gunners".

Actually, I learned later that eight clubs had tried to sign me, but eventually, on 31 December 1936, I was called into the Burnley boardroom and there saw Mr. Will Cuff and Mr. Tom Percy, two Everton directors, with Mr. Theo Kelly, the manager. Mr. Tom Clegg asked me whether I would agree to sign for Everton, and after a conference with grandfather I said I would.

So the deal was completed, and it was agreed that grandfather should accompany me to Everton and have a job on the ground staff.

Some of the greatest names in football have filled the centre-forward position and the best of them, in my time, was Tommy Lawton. Tommy, in his prime, had everything required of a centre-forward. A terrific shot with either foot, strength and accuracy with his head, the perfect physique, wonderful positional sense and a quickness off the mark that was unexpected in one of his build.

Tommy Lawton possessed a rocket of a shot and, like all great players, could hit the ball equally well with either foot. He was lethal in the air and, most surprisingly for a centre-forward of the time, had all the ball skill and creative prowess of the most mercurial of inside-forwards. Tommy was a goal-getter, a towering athlete with a seemingly elasticated neck that enabled him to rise that inch or so above defenders, which he did often to devastating effect. With his shirt unbuttoned so that it appeared to be sliding off his shoulders, a sharp flint-like face, hair greased back to form a black V off his forehead and long stringy legs protruding from his baggy shorts, he cut an unmistakable figure on the pitch. Tommy was a star but without all the designer trappings of today's footballers. He'd dress in a long, belted overcoat with slightly spivvy shoulders, double-breasted pinstriped suit and immaculately polished shoes. The only indication that he was different from the fans who worshipped him from the terraces was his trademark gaudy ties, which gave him the air of a Hollywood gangster.

Tommy was a handful for defences; he put himself about, as they say. He knew a centre-forward was expected to run through a brick outerhouse if need be and he never shirked from his responsibilities. His dominance in the air was unsurpassed and he would often hurl himself at the opposing goalkeeper and centre-half when the odds were against him winning the ball. If he didn't win the ball, neither did the goalkeeper. What resulted was a scramble in the goalmouth between him and the defenders that reminded me of the scrummage to get on the last tram of the night.

When England play Scotland at Hampden, England come out first and have to stand on the field while the famous Roar greets the Scots. And that roar is really something. It seems to start behind one goal and then sweep right round the vast bowl that is Hampden. It makes your heart thump and your knees go weak. You can almost see and feel the roar, but the amazing thing is that as soon as the game started the noise didn't worry me at all. Mind you, I did think the fans would shatter the heavens when Dougal put Scotland ahead, but twenty minutes from time, Pat Beasley, playing his first international equalized, and I had the feeling we were getting on top.

The ball was coming through from our wing half backs-what great ones they were that day!-and then, with hardly any time left-it was actually seventy seconds!-Len Goulden sent Stan Matthews away. He skated past McNab, and as we all pressed into the attack, Stan evaded Cummings and sent across a perfect centre. As soon as I saw it leave his boot I knew it was mine, and sure enough it was. I hit it perfectly with my head and the ball simply fizzed into the net. It was a great moment. We had beaten Scotland and the Hampden Roar.

Then came the war and, with it, the end of my career or so I felt. Surely there couldn't be room for a professional footballer in a world gone crazy? I, of course, being a young, fit man of approaching twenty would go into the services. Meanwhile, in the leisure time I had left I wound up my personal affairs, cursed Hitler and all his rats and occasionally sat down to think of what had been and what might have been...

I was one of the fortunates who, by reason of my retention in this country on Army service, was able to get in my weekly game throughout the period of hostilities. And incidentally there was periodical hostility from people who thought it wrong that fit, able-bodied young fellows like myself should be playing football in England while their husbands, sons and sweethearts were fighting in the sun-baked deserts of Libya and the Middle East, were flying out over Europe or were dying in the dangerous seas. I am not going to defend myself, I have done nothing to defend myself against. The War Moguls ordered that I stayed in England to do my war job. Football was incidental, but in its way it too played a part. I appeared in hundreds of charity matches for England, the Army, combined services and unit sides. Let me make it clear. I didn't ask to stay in England.

I cannot recall any centre half who could keep him (Tommy Lawton) in check in his international days-I have seen little of him since and, for all I know, he may be as difficult to control as ever.

Tall, powerful, agile and crafty, Tommy was the complete centre forward. He made goals; he scored them with monotonous regularity. With his head or with his feet, they came all the same to Lawton. If one man can do it, so can others. But they must put in the necessary work at practice and I am certain that Lawton was never a shirker in that respect else he would never have obtained the fame he did.

Tommy Lawton at his very best was only a fraction behind Ted Drake in my estimation. With his tremendous shooting power and wonderful knack of heading the ball from a high centre, he too, is marvellously equipped for the job of leading a forward line. At an age when many players were still striving to win recognition, Tommy had won almost every honour in the game; and with a view to cashing in on his fame, and to securing his future, he left First Division football and went to the Third Division. Most of the clubs in that section must have blessed his name as they saw the crowds rolling up.

There are many angles from which a move such as Lawton made can be viewed, but we've got to say this for it - the move has popularised the game in some of the " backwoods" brought out the customers.

Tommy, with his goal-scoring feats, his ability, and his appearances for England, will never be forgotten, and must always be mentioned when these other great centre-forwards are under discussion. Yet I cannot help thinking - and this is another angle of his move to Notts County - that it was a pity he left the highest class of League football when he was still under thirty years of age - still in his prime, you might say.

For one thing, he virtually gave up his hope of ever winning his way to the Cup Final at Wembley, which is every player's ambition, or at any rate high up among his aims. Certainly I would not deny the right of Third Division clubs to attract first-class footballers. Don't think I wish to push every Third Division club more firmly in its place. Good luck to them in their aspirations. But can any one doubt that, indirectly, it also cost Tommy his place in the English team, where he seemed such a fixture? The lower standard, in the general sense, of the football to which he took himself must affect any player.

The way to keep up to scratch, the way to improve, is to play with and against fellows as good as you are-or a bit better ; although of course that wouldn't be easy for a Tom Lawton at his best.

Tommy made the move to Notts County with his eyes open. He had a business offer which would make him a kind of Babe Ruth of soccer, and it was a personal problem which only he could solve. And I do not blame him; I merely regret that so far as I personally was concerned, it meant a break in the occasions when I should line up against him in First Division football...

When Tommy was a youth on the Burnley ground staff, he spent hours trying to improve his shooting. Propped against the concrete wall of the terracing were the figures used to show the half-time scores on Saturday afternoons. And in mid-week Tommy used to take a ball out and shoot at these figures, picking out different numbers. He worked away at this for hour after hour, day after day, week after week, until he could shoot accurately and low, picking off the numbers as he thought of them.

I have heard people say that Tommy was lucky, and that success came easily to him. They forget those hours of practice; the heart-breaking days when the shots wouldn't connect; the hard labour of striving to make his left foot do the job which nature thought should be done with the right; the tough time he must have had when he played in Second Division League football as a mere boy of sixteen.

The Brentford chairman said that Arsenal had permission to talk to me, and he asked me to ring Mr. Tom Whittaker, the Arsenal manager. I couldn't grab the telephone quick enough, and Mr. Whittaker asked me if I would go to see him at Highbury. Believe me, Stirling Moss wouldn't have caught me that Thursday afternoon as I dashed across London.

At Highbury, Mr. Whittaker asked me whether I would sign for Arsenal, and all I could reply was, "What a question! Who wouldn't!" The next day, sworn to secrecy, I signed on the dotted line, and played my first game in the red and white shirts the following day against Manchester City.

To join Arsenal at thirty-four, towards the end of my career, was beyond my wildest dreams, and I still couldn't believe it was true when I pulled the red and white shirt bearing the No. 9 over my head. My mind kept going back to that day when I was the office boy at Burnley and George Allison rang up to say that he wanted to sign "your centre forward, Lawton".

Looking back, I can honestly say that the greatest mistake I ever made in my footballing career was in not joining Arsenal when they tried to sign me from Burnley, but then when you near the age of thirty-five you see things in a different light to when you were young!

I can understand why every footballer wants to join Arsenal. To my mind they are the greatest club in the world for two reasons. First, every player is treated as a man and not as a baby, and second, the strict code of honour every Arsenal player must uphold.

It says in the Arsenal book of rules, "Remember you are an Arsenal player". Those six words show the tremendous love for the club everyone connected with it has, and the tremendous faith that is put in every employee.

Employee is probably the wrong word to use, because at Highbury everyone, from chairman down to the lowest-paid ground staff worker, is regarded as a partner in a great firm, a partner whose job it is to see that the great name of Arsenal is kept unsullied.

Take the training, for instance. At most football clubs there is a well-defined routine of training spread over the whole of the week. But at Highbury it is different. There they know a player will get and keep himself fit. Otherwise, of course, he would not be on the Arsenal staff.

So you do whatever training you need, and no one will interfere with you. Arsenal don't believe a professional footballer should be watched over like a criminal or like a school child doing his sums. They know he will train.

You just don't break a confidence like that. It never occurs to you to take advantage of the system. If a player did, and was not fit for a full ninety-five minutes (Arsenal always play ninety-five minutes, not ninety), then the club knows what to do!

I can see some people smiling when they read that. I can just hear the chuckles and the remarks of, 'Blimey, and look at 'em now'.

Yes, I know Arsenal is the most glamorous club in the world. I know it is the most famous, and I know it is the most hated.

But that hatred is the natural result of the glamour and the fame that is Arsenal's. And I say "is Arsenal's" because despite the fact that you don't, at the moment, find Arsenal at the top of the First Division, wherever you go in the world the talk will be of Arsenal....

People said that Arsenal played unattractive football and concentrated on defence, but clubs throughout Britain, throughout the world, adopted the Arsenal system of defence in depth.

People said that Arsenal never played attractive attacking football, but just look at the number of goals Arsenal scored. And just look at the players Arsenal had - Alex James, David Jack, Cliff Bastin, Joe Hulme, Ted Drake, Bryn Jones ... oh, why go on?

People also said that Arsenal bought their success. They had so much money that they roamed all over the country buying all the class players. Arsenal, they said, never made any players, they just bought players other clubs had made.

But what about George Swindin, George Male, Eddie Hapgood, "Policeman" Roberts, Bernard Joy, Cliff Bastin, Walley Barnes, the Comptons? They are just a few of the products of Highbury.