CosmicHotspur
Better a wag than a WAG
- Aug 14, 2006
- 51,069
- 22,383
I've written at length elsewhere on SC about John White and I probably shall again. I hope you won't mind that I think some of it bears repeating today and I'd like to share it with you.
44 years ago, on this day, on the threshhold of adulthood, school was out for ever and I was an eager, excited 16 year old looking forward to starting my first job at Associated Newspapers in Fleet Street the next week.
As friends and I often did, we'd spent the morning at White Hart Lane, chatting to the players when they came out from training and I was generally making the most of that last summer week before my life changed for ever.
On that day, it changed more than I could ever have anticipated.
We'd laughed with Cliff Jones, who'd pinched John White's trousers while he stayed behind to do some extra training with Terry Medwin who was struggling to recover from a badly fractured leg, a battle that he would unfortunately lose. John eventually came out in his car and we asked him if he was missing anything.
"Can't find my trousers - been looking for them everwhere!" he told us, knowing we knew more than we were telling because we were laughing and teasing him, but he guessed what had happened because Cliff was his mate and the best (or worst) practical joker in the team.
He drove off in his shorts, grinning and shaking his head.
"See you tomorrow," I called and we all waved as he drove off waving, still grinning.
Only we didn't see him the next day.
My friend, Jill, and I sat on the library bench opposite the ground that afternoon chewing the cud with some of the youth team players. It was a hot, still, sultry day and we all felt the need to chill out a little.
The sudden lightning flash was followed by a thunderclap that shook the ground beneath our feet and made us jump out of our skins, causing a few expletives from the lads. We raced across Tottenham High Road to George's Cafe to take shelter from the lashing downpour that followed.
We all agreed later that it must have been that lightning strike that killed John White, as he foolishly took shelter under a tree with his umbrella on Crews Hill Golf Course, just a few miles away in Enfield.
He had gone home, collected his golf clubs to play his beloved golf and left his wife, Sandra, with their toddler daughter and baby son. Just a routine, normal day for both of them.
They were still mourning the death from cancer of Sandra's father, Harry Evans, who had been assistant manager at the Lane, just six months earlier.
We didn't know what had happened until the early evening news later that day and then there was total disbelief. I rushed out and got a bus (everyone on the bus was talking about the news) to Jill's house and we cried in each other's arms in shock.
We were at the Lane the next day, standing in silent tribute at the main gate. It was unusually silent, heads were hung and faces were drawn and pale, with hardly a word was spoken but there was a communal, almost telepathic, sorrow between us all that day. Cars slowed down in the High Road as they passed by, people we had never seen during the day at the Lane came to pay their silent respects.
I remember John on this day every year, although I do often think of him on other days.
He was only 27 with so much more to do, not least for Spurs and Scotland.
I still miss John, so aptly named "The Ghost of White Hart Lane" for his slightness and ability to find the open spaces, appearing as though from nowhere and making pinpoint passes, for his incredible talent, his unselfishness and good nature (not thinking twice about staying behind to help Terry Medwin on that fateful day, still sending some of his wages home to his mother in Scotland), his cheeky, infectious grin and wry humour and his absolute love of the game.
Wherever you are John (and I know you are still in N17 in spirit), you will never grow old and you will never be forgotten.
44 years ago, on this day, on the threshhold of adulthood, school was out for ever and I was an eager, excited 16 year old looking forward to starting my first job at Associated Newspapers in Fleet Street the next week.
As friends and I often did, we'd spent the morning at White Hart Lane, chatting to the players when they came out from training and I was generally making the most of that last summer week before my life changed for ever.
On that day, it changed more than I could ever have anticipated.
We'd laughed with Cliff Jones, who'd pinched John White's trousers while he stayed behind to do some extra training with Terry Medwin who was struggling to recover from a badly fractured leg, a battle that he would unfortunately lose. John eventually came out in his car and we asked him if he was missing anything.
"Can't find my trousers - been looking for them everwhere!" he told us, knowing we knew more than we were telling because we were laughing and teasing him, but he guessed what had happened because Cliff was his mate and the best (or worst) practical joker in the team.
He drove off in his shorts, grinning and shaking his head.
"See you tomorrow," I called and we all waved as he drove off waving, still grinning.
Only we didn't see him the next day.
My friend, Jill, and I sat on the library bench opposite the ground that afternoon chewing the cud with some of the youth team players. It was a hot, still, sultry day and we all felt the need to chill out a little.
The sudden lightning flash was followed by a thunderclap that shook the ground beneath our feet and made us jump out of our skins, causing a few expletives from the lads. We raced across Tottenham High Road to George's Cafe to take shelter from the lashing downpour that followed.
We all agreed later that it must have been that lightning strike that killed John White, as he foolishly took shelter under a tree with his umbrella on Crews Hill Golf Course, just a few miles away in Enfield.
He had gone home, collected his golf clubs to play his beloved golf and left his wife, Sandra, with their toddler daughter and baby son. Just a routine, normal day for both of them.
They were still mourning the death from cancer of Sandra's father, Harry Evans, who had been assistant manager at the Lane, just six months earlier.
We didn't know what had happened until the early evening news later that day and then there was total disbelief. I rushed out and got a bus (everyone on the bus was talking about the news) to Jill's house and we cried in each other's arms in shock.
We were at the Lane the next day, standing in silent tribute at the main gate. It was unusually silent, heads were hung and faces were drawn and pale, with hardly a word was spoken but there was a communal, almost telepathic, sorrow between us all that day. Cars slowed down in the High Road as they passed by, people we had never seen during the day at the Lane came to pay their silent respects.
I remember John on this day every year, although I do often think of him on other days.
He was only 27 with so much more to do, not least for Spurs and Scotland.
I still miss John, so aptly named "The Ghost of White Hart Lane" for his slightness and ability to find the open spaces, appearing as though from nowhere and making pinpoint passes, for his incredible talent, his unselfishness and good nature (not thinking twice about staying behind to help Terry Medwin on that fateful day, still sending some of his wages home to his mother in Scotland), his cheeky, infectious grin and wry humour and his absolute love of the game.
Wherever you are John (and I know you are still in N17 in spirit), you will never grow old and you will never be forgotten.
