The Ned Wood Archive

He took it all too far,
but, boy, could he play

I went to see Hibbies. More than once. Walked over, usually. Round Calton Hill and down Easter Road. I had a soft spot for Hibs. Always did. Always looked out for their results. Always followed their progress. Still do. Two reasons. Peter Cormack and Joe Baker. Joe Baker was one of my first heroes. He was already a star when he joined us, but he became the king when he did. Scored a goal a game in his five seasons at Hibs before joining Torino. Joined Arsenal after a year and was top scorer there for most of the next four years. He had such pace and could go from nought to sixty before you realised he’d even started. He could score with his head or his feet. He joined Forest in 66 and was part of that wonderful 66/67 side. He was playing the first time I ever saw the Reds. All of them were heroes, but the guys that scored the goals, Joe Baker and Ian Storey-Moore were the pin ups. We’d have won everything that year if Joe hadn’t been taken out in the Cup quarter final and hadn’t missed the rest of the season as a result.

We signed Peter Cormack direct from Hibs in 1970, so I saw him a few times when I started going. He was a skinny lad, but tough as old boots. He got sent off a few times when he was with Hibs, but he was as good as gold with us. He was another one of those entertainers who ran the show. And he had this elegant way of running like one of those dressage horses from Spain. Then we got relegated and he left.

Hibs. Hibernian. Hibbies. Hibees. Whatever. Rick called then Hibbies. Fi called them Hibbies. Big Jim called them Hibbies. So I called them Hibbies. And I watched them in honour of Joe Baker and for Peter Cormack. And also because the shirt is pretty cool, too. The first game was a draw with Aberdeen. Steve Archibald, Ally McLeish, Gordon Strachan, Alex Ferguson, and all. Mostly memorable for the abuse wee fat Joe got when he came on as a substitute. Aberdeen won the league that year. Hibs were bottom all season.

While I was away at the beginning of 1980, Hibs re-signed Peter Cormack so that was all the more reason to go. I guess you play for Hibs twice in your career. Once on the way up and once on the way down. They signed another bloke on his way down that year, but I never saw him play. He was too busy having fun. There’s a story that, when Hibs played Ayr in the fourth round of the cup one Sunday in February, the club sent round to the North British where he was staying to pick him up a couple of hours before kick off. He was in bed, allegedly with the singer from a popular rocknroll band after having spent the night partying with a crowd of rugby players. Well, I wasn’t there, but I do know that it’s not necessarily all true. France lost at Murrayfield the day before the cup game, right enough, but Blondie played Edinburgh Odeon at New Year’s that year, not the middle of February. Whatever the truth is, George Best didn’t manage a game for Hibs at all that month.

We went to the quarter final replay just after I got back in March. They scraped a one-nil over Berwick after a goalless draw in the first game. Twelvestring Rick dragged me and a couple of his mates along and had us stand on the East Terrace. I think it was a joke of his because the only thing the fans in that stand did all night was shout obscenities about the English. Away back home, you Sassenach bastards and so on and so forth. I thought that was all for my benefit until Rick pointed out that Berwick Rangers were English and that the Scottish FA out of the goodness of their hearts had allowed them to compete in the Scottish Cup; the English FA not wanting them for some obscure reason. Beating Berwick didn’t do Hibs any good. Got hammered by Celtic in the semi.

Let me tell you the story about Joe Baker when he was with Hibs, the first time, if you don’t already know it. Joe was born in Liverpool. A place called Woolton, which is also famous for being the place where Paul McCartney met John Lennon at a church fete in 1957, bonded over 50s rock classics, and formed a fab beat combo known as the Beatles. Joe’s Dad was from Woolton, but his Ma was Scottish. Right after Joe was born in 1940, his Dad signed up for the navy and his Mom left the blitz in Liverpool to stay with her Ma in North Lanarkshire. Not far from Ravenscraig. A place called Wishaw, which is also famous for being the place where Robbie Collins met Jim Doak at high school, bonded over 60s mod classics, and formed a fab beat combo known as the Jolt.

When Joe was banging the goals in for Hibs, way back at the start of the 59/60 season, he was called up to play centre forward for England. The previous number nine, a chap called Brian Clough who also had a goal per game record, obviously hadn’t done enough in the two games he was given. Now, Joe had been born in England and had lived in England for a grand total of 6 weeks, but he was Scottish. He was brought up in Scotland, he spoke with a Scottish accent, he played in Scotland, and he felt Scottish. Nevertheless, in those days, at full international you could only play for the country you were born in.

So Joe flies down to Heathrow in November 1959 for his first game. He’s in the middle of a hot streak. 20 goals in 10 first division games for Hibs. England are playing Northern Ireland at Wembley mid week in the Home Championship. Joe’s got to meet up with the squad at a north London hotel, so he gets a taxi from the airport and gives the hotel name to the cabbie.

“I know that place,” says the cabbie. “That’s where the England team are staying.”

“Och, I know,” says Joe in his finest North Lanarkshire. “I’m playing for them on Wednesday night.”

The cabbie looks up at his mirror and eyes up Joe. He’s thinking “We’ve got a right one here.” He gets on the blower in his cab and a couple of minutes later, the polis pull the taxi over. They grill Joe, tell him to stop taking the mickey, and are no doubt going to lock him up for the night when Joe pulls out the Daily Express and shows them a somewhat disparaging article about a Scotsman playing for England.

The cop looks at his partner and says: “Are we that bad, Fred?”

Joe scores on his debut and is selected for England’s next game. It’s the following April. At Hampden. Against Scotland. He’s playing against his own country. He stands to attention while God Save the Queen is played and the crowd of 130,000 shouts away back home, you Sassenach bastards and so on and so forth. Joe Baker has a goal disallowed and the game finishes 1-1.

I wonder how he felt. Could I do that? I mean, could I play for Scotland against England? Well, no, obviously. I’m nowhere near good enough. But if I was? I’m English. I feel English. Not strongly. Not as strongly as Gav feels his Scottishness or how strongly Fi feels hers. Probably not as strongly as Joe Baker felt his Scottishness. Not as strongly as Pete pretends to feel his Englishness. However, I do feel English. Could I play for Scotland? Against England? It’s one of those hypothetical questions where it’s easy to take the moral high ground because you’ll never have to make the real decision. Like would you accept an MBE or an OBE? The honours system is corrupt and full of political cronies, but would you accept one and say “this isn’t for me, it’s for me Mam/me Dad/ the charity I work for/whatever? There’s no way I’ll ever be asked to play anything for Scotland. Of course, being selected for any representative team anywhere would be an honour. But could you do it, even if all you had was a distant relative who spent six weeks there as a child?

What does it matter where you’re born? Why not pick sides like we do at five-a-sides each week? How is place of birth any more important than the colour shirt you happen to be wearing on the day or which school you went to or which club your grandad took you to see when you were a kid or which of the two folk picking the sides chooses you first?

Where does it come from, this feeling of nationality? I don’t feel a great deal of affinity to the county of my birth. I’m a Staffie, but I could quite happily play for, say, Derbyshire against Staffordshire. On the other hand, I could never play for Derby against Forest. I wasn’t born a Forest fan, so that means the way I feel must have developed as I grew up. Is nationality the same? Did I teach it to myself to be English or was I brainwashed? Dunno.

Anyway, Joe’s still the King.