Hughie Gallacher is considered by many to be the greatest centre-forward of all time. Although a mere 5' 5", he was a handful for any defence possessing awesome strike power. Hughie could shoot with either foot, dribble with the ball, head, tackle, forage and also frequently lose his control on the field. A record of netting a formidable total of 463 goals in 624 senior matches speaks for itself, while Gallacher is United's most potent attacker of all time with a strike-rate of over 82% in his 174 outings.

Hughie Gallacher, greatest centre-forward ever to come over the Border, who hunched himself over the ball in a way that made it almost impossible to dispossess him unless he was to be knocked over, a bobby-dazzler dribbler with a flashing shot delicately angled to beat even the most agile goalkeeper, his only drawback a fiery temper, which far too many players took advantage of - I always thought he was more shinned against than shinning - the centre-forward of whom Herbie Roberts once told me, " Hughie is perhaps the most elusive antagonist who bluffed me into going the wrong way." His smallness and lightness of foot made him difficult to 'get at.' Always trying new tricks was the little fellow who learned his football in the streets of Bellshill with Alex James.

Hughie Gallacher, that wee Scot who came to England to write his name on the centre forward Roll of Honour. He had the heart of a lion hidden in that small frame, and not only was he a ball player but he could also hit them.

Apart from that, Hughie was a sportsman. I remember my first meeting with him. It was after I had had a bad game for Burnley Reserves against Derby County Reserves. I was walking off the pitch with my heart in my boots when Hughie, who was the Derby centre forward, came up to me and said, "Look, son, you must learn to cover the ball with your body. If you are being tackled on your right, keep the ball on your left foot, so your opponent will have to come across you to get at it, and it's the same the other way round. If you do that they won't take it from you." I shall never forget the great Hughie Gallacher for that.

I believe I have influenced people in my long life in football. I do not suggest that any player or manager has consciously copied me. Experience means not only lessons learned from mistakes. It also means a collection of worthwhile information quite subconsciously pigeonholed in the brainbox, from talking to or watching others with something to say or to show. So although I have not copied any man my football thinking has been influenced by close contact with great men from my boyhood.

I was as football daft as any of the boys in the village of Bellshill, and dafter than most, and we had our idols already. There were two young fellows called Alex James and Hughie Gallacher, for instance. They would be about eighteen or nineteen, I suppose, I about nine or ten. They were little whippets as footballers go, but they were famous. Why, everybody in Bellshill, knew what players they were! They played at the time for two juvenile teams in the area, juvenile meaning teams in lower status than the Scottish League but brimful of the best young players in the villages who had not, or not yet, reached the big game.

I was still at school, of course, but I was hamper boy to James's team, humping kit, and generally helping and fussing about. I do not know why, but something went wrong with Alex James's boots, or they were missing, and the great man borrowed my football boots. I was a big boy and he was a little man. Soon the village knew about it. I proclaimed it to all my friends or whoever was in earshot. "Alex James played in my boots!" It will have been noticed that I proclaim it still, and that is because, as young as I was and as small and insignificant though little Bellshill might seem in the big world of football, I saw magic in those early days, the magic of two of the greatest footballers in the game's history in one small village.

Magic because even then James used to mesmerize his opponents with a feint that said: "Now I'm here, now I'm not", and Gallacher used to paralyse them with a dribbling run and power of shot and a line of pertinent or impertinent patter to go with it...

I played against James and Gallacher in their later but still great days, after Gallacher had left Newcastle United for Chelsea. I was a nobody, but they remembered the boy who had looked after the hamper and always had words of encouragement for me, their opponent now, with a welcome `Well done, son,' or "Well played, Matt." Not that this in any way deterred them from leaving me sitting on my bottom with the rest.

Only 5 ft 5 in. tall, soccer immortal Hughie Gallacher, elusive yet brilliant at shielding the ball, was considered by many as the greatest centre-forward ever to grace a football pitch, certainly between the two world wars (even better than Dixie Dean). He had the knack of scoring "impossible" goals and during a marvellous career notched 463 in 624 senior games including 387 in 543 League encounters.

Years later I was fortunate enough to wear Hughie's shirt and virtually every Saturday he'd be waiting for me outside the main entrance, always at the same time in the same place, ten yards from the door. "Hi, Jackie, you're doing fine," he'd say, "but l've got a little tip for you..." Then he would mention something he had spotted in my play the previous game.

"You're standing with your back to the centre-half and your team-mates don't know how to play the ball up to you. Why don't you half turn to give them a clue which side you want it and then run. They'll never catch you."

Throughout my playing days I always listened intently to any advice the big names had to give. To me their words were worth a million from any coach. I only once played with the great Hughie and that was

in a charity match when he was 52 years of age. He took a cross from the wing, jammed it against the goal post with his head, and dropped it over the line - who else could do a thing like that? I literally wept the day I learned he had walked onto the railway crossing just outside Newcastle and put his neck across the line to finish it all. How a man so loved and so idolised could feel so alone I'll never know.