As young professionals our time-table followed much the same lines as that of the senior players on the staff, but of course we did not train so intensively. Our programme went something like this:

Monday: Very little done unless attention needed for an injury. Or unless one was on the carpet in the office.

Tuesday: Ball practice.

Wednesday: Practice match.

Thursday : Fairly hard training-lapping, sprinting, tuition in correct running.

Friday : Half a dozen spurts and a good rub down.

It will be seen that Tuesday and Wednesday were the important days. We were under the watchful eye of Bill Tremelling, the former Blackpool centre-forward and centre-half, who towards the end of his playing career captained Preston North End and led them to the Cup Final at Wembley, where they were beaten by Sunderland.

Words cannot tell what a debt I owe to Bill Tremelling. He was the ideal man for the job. He knew football inside out, and had unlimited patience, yet at the same time he could be pretty downright in his criticisms. He did not hesitate to give us the verbal lash when he thought it would do good.

I vividly recall to this day one such occasion when I was the target for his criticism. On Wednesdays we usually played a practice match, which might be eight or nine aside, or we might even make up two full elevens. Bill would referee, and he would stop the game from time to time to impress on us any point which occurred to him.

In one of these games I received the ball deep in my own half, and set off at top pace with it. I beat four men. In fact, you might say without much exaggeration that I ran the length of the field. In due course I found myself in front of goal, let fly with my shot, and only just missed scoring the sort of goal-on my own-which would have tickled me. I turned to trot back to the middle of the field feeling well pleased with myself, even if a trifle out of breath, when Bill Tremelling started to tell me quite a thing or two.

"Let the ball do the work," was his great motto (as indeed it must be of every good player); and how he rammed this home to me now, in front of all the other players! He pointed out, with some crispness, that I should have parted with the ball after beating one man, that I could have run into position after releasing it, and that I could still have had my shot at goal if the move had gone nicely. What is more, so he said, I should have had more breath in my body, and more strength in my legs, for making the final shot!

On Tuesdays Bill would take us individually and in groups to teach us how to play football. Yes, this was the school for footballers, and I soon realised I was being put through a very thorough apprenticeship. Correct kicking with the instep, taking corners, working out a little plan to make the most of a throw-in, trapping the ball, shooting, and so on-everything was gone through so that we should be ready, when the time came, to take our places in a higher class of football.

When the average fan sees a League match, he probably imagines that the men play from instinct, so swift in the action, so instant are some of the decisions. Behind that rapid and complex series of movements is much training, and in some cases weary hours of coaching and practice.

On Fridays there was a solemn rite to be carried out before we put on our clothes and went off, fighting fit, for the match on the following day. After a few spurts to loosen our limbs, we had a shower and rub down, and then we had to take a bottle of olive oil and rub ourselves down. This was designed to give our legs strength yet suppleness.