Features 
As a little lad in South Shields in the early fifties, my football imagination was fired by the tales of my Dad, who returned from St James's on Saturday evenings with an expression which told my Mam the result instantly, as he rounded the corner of our street,without words; by the match reports in the Green edition of the Shields Gazette on those same dark tea-times; by the exploits of Roy of the Rovers, whose victories were classically 3-1, the defining score of my nostalgia; by the stirring radio signature tune of Sports Report, still unchanged, thank the non-existent autonomous deity; and of course by my own attendance at the match, replete with the cliches of hysterically-happy urchins chucking over ourselves the anti-frost straw in which we sat near to the touchline, and the obligatory being-passed-down-to-the-front routine , feet first, over the heads of the impenetrable packed crowds on the popular side ("excuse, me, mister,....ooops, sorry, mister,...thanks mister"....).
Five names, among many others from your other contributors, stand out iconically for me from those days, and have been a mantra ever since, to be mouthed silently or intoned for support when seething at Ashley's latest farce:
Hughes, Eastham, White (crosses self, genuflects, faces due North, I'm an exiled Geordie in Newark-on-Trent, devout atheist, the crossing etc was just for the craic)), Allchurch, Mitchell. Sigh.
All tremendous in their own ways, but some were more equal than others. Again like Melchester Rovers, we had the classic combination of a right-winger who was stocky and fast (cue the open gates at one end legend!)- Gordon Hughes - and a left-winger who was a tall more languid dribbler - Bobby "Dazzler" Mitchell - of whom I my Dad gleefully if very unsportingly gloated "He broke Meadows (1955 Man City full-back)'s leg!
Even the inside-forwards were balanced and complementary: George Eastham, a delicate wraith, a Tony Green-like midfield magician but without Green's pace - I was utterly cast down when he moved to Arsenal, even more than when Keegan sold Cole to Man U - and the taller, broader and majestic Welsh wizard, Ivor Allchurch, who perfected the sway and step-over decades before sulky poncey R*****o.
And, to complete the quintet of greats, at centre-forward: again, short and stocky,(he actually looked a bit like my Dad, now I recall) but gifted with both power and neat close control, the inimitable Len White, whom I am sure many of your other readers will remember with affection and admiration. He was a reliable 20-25 goals a season number 9, thanks in part to the wingers' crosses, also to the visionary slide-rule passes of his inside forwards, but very often to his own ability to jink (Jimmy Smith-style) past two or three hapless defenders before firing a rising rocket into the roof of the net below the Gallowgate scoreboard. Roy of the Rovers never scored a better one.
Time and too much ale over decades have clouded my memory, but I am sure I saw him score a goal like the one I've described above, in an early season match, a mid-week autumn evening, against, I think, Fulham. My black-and-white tinted glasses tell me it was in a 5-1 victory, but I freely confess to vagueness, and would be really pleased if someone could correct me!
So, my cult hero is Len White. Mind, Eastham, then Allchurch, run him a very close second and third. Hope I've stirred a few memories of all three!
LEN IN BLACK AND WHITE
(in memory of Len White, 23/3/1930-17/6/1994)
Len White
was a hammer.
He rammed in goals
like rivets into a ship.
Len in black and white,
belter of a heavy ball,
whacker of leather bullets
with crafty head and clever feet.
Me and my old schoolmate Peter
saw you lash the Wolves,
sending a screamer
through the posts
to ignite Gallowgate
and set the Magpies chanting.
Uncapped hat-trick scorer,
153 goals merchant,
you deserve
a statue
of your own,
dedicated
to the Skellow lad
who became a Geordie
and will always be.
by Keith Armstrong
