When following the mighty Wolves away from home it was always a good idea to keep your options open, and never more so than during the years of post-war austerity. Sometimes an invitation would prove to have unexpected drawbacks, and at such times it paid to be flexible.

I’d originally been offered a hayride to the Sheffield United game by Bob Beesley, a sheep farmer from Cross Green who lent the Coven Coven a spot of land on occasion for their rituals (the invitation came when I ran across him while the hags performed some complicated and ultimately useless rite in order to divine the weekend’s results and make us money on the pools). It sounded a little less idyllic when I realized that what little hay I would be riding with would be for two dozen head of sheep, so I threw in my lot with the Speleologist Squadron. They would be negotiating the Peak District via a complex network of potholes, coming out eventually at the Nunnery Colliery pit head.

In addition to being more practical, a trip through the caves presented an excellent opportunity for Cerberus to get some stale air. Though he had been a loyal and contented friend ever since I’d captured him from Hades [see Aston Villa, 1932 – Ed.], that commands fire and welcomes all to his empire, by Summit Bridge, West Bromwich, there were times when I felt he missed his old environment. On a sunny day, when Helios’ golden locks blazed above our heads and sparrows chirped in the bushes of West Park, The pooch often seemed to go into a gloom, his middle head lowering in self-pity. We were deep into autumn now, which was better for him, but a long wander in some damp, lightless tunnel with barely enough height for a human to crawl and the possibility of death accompanying our every cramped step would be just the thing to lift his spirits.

Cerberus bounded ahead, wagging his tail.

Through the damp and narrow caverns, Cerberus bounded ahead, wagging his tail. When we sang the Song of the Speleologist Squadron (‘Wanderers Underground’) [see Manchester City, 1953 for lyrics – Ed.] he began to howl, harmonizing a frightening diminished triad which some of the Caving Boys found unsettling, so we switched after an hour or so to an older caving song, a darker, stranger piece composed in the Phrygian mode, whose title had long been forgotten:

I would never see light again
I would have this cavern be my tomb
Let this hollow air give me my last breath
Wrap me in this shawl of gloom

Spelunca aeternum, hic sum
Take me to the end of days
Spelunca aeternum, hic sum
And the Wolves go marching on…

This was more Cerberus’ speed, and the pup trotted along quietly and happily as we crawled on our bellies and walked bent through the damp caverns. I was less comfortbale, for my work boots were at the cobbler’s on North Street and I’d borrowed a pair of Jack Dudley’s, which were pinching my ankles rather. Cerberus proved to have instinctive direction and excellent night vision, which I attributed to the tripe and bulls’ eyes I’d been feeding him of late. Billy Braddock was more of the opinion that his abilities were down to his once being the immortal pet of Hades, Lord of the Underworld and He to Whom All Are Called Eventually. Billy could be stubborn at times, and I ceded the point lest it turn into an unpleasant subterranean row.

‘Tripe is good for ‘em, though…’

‘Tripe is good for ‘em, though,’ I said, finally.

‘Oh, I ay sayin’ it ay.’

Eventually we arrived at the pit shaft at Nunnery. I was ready for a stand up. The Subterraneans, those part-time, happy-go-lucky kindred spirits of the Speleologist Squadron, were just arriving on the paddy mail.

‘Brilliant, that was!’ beamed Harry Pine, as their guide, a local miner originally from Cannock blew loudly on a whistle. A lift descended and began to take men up a dozen at a time. I sat and took off my boots, rubbing my sore ankles. Without warning, Cerberus took one in his mouth and, looking back at me with cheekily with another of his heads, bounded down a narrow passageway off the route of the paddy train. Billy suggested I leave him and watch the match barefoot, entirely underestimating both the bond between man and dog and how cold it could get in Sheffield in October. I hunched and ran after the dog as quick as I could, hopping whenever my bare foot hit a nasty stone.

It was a good mile before I caught up with him, and such was the geography of the place and the dizzying dance Cerberus had led me that I started to fear I wouldn’t find my way back.

The dog had left me again. I heard scratching above my head. Shining a light upwards, I saw him, swift and sure-footed, digging upwards and leaping from one side of his tunnel to another. With one of his heads he looked back at me, beckoning me to follow. This I did, and within moments we had broken all the way through the rock and Cerberus was digging through mud while wagging his tail. Finally, there was bright light, and my dog and I climbed out of into a light of day I had thought I might never see again.

We were inside Bramall Lane, just next to the cricket square (I looked around nervously, half-expecting to be berated by the groundsman), towards the Pavilion End. The football pitch was some thirty yards in front of us, and the hum of expectation could be heard rising from the three stands above the more immediate sound of bleating sheep. A figure emerged from the Kop and ran towards me, shouting unintelligbly. It was Bob Beesley.

Chaos amongst the flock…

Evidently spooked by our emergence, Bob’s flock were running this way and that, invading the pitch and drawing unwanted attention to the fact that I had entered the ground without paying my ninepence. My first thought was to run to stands and merge with the crowds as quickly as possible, but the chaos amongst the flock threatened to ruin the spectacle entirely.

‘Do you have permission to graze on the outfield?’ I asked Bob as he ran over to me, ruddy-faced.

‘I had to put them somewhere,’ he said, ‘But nobody seemed troubled by it until you showed up. What the hell were you doing down there?’

‘Get awf moi land!’ shouted the referee in the distance. The players had given up trying to warm up and were now standing around in varying states of repose.

And then we noticed that the white tide was receding from the filled stands and slowly making its way en masse towards us. Behind them, Cerberus bounded one way and another, in turns energetically and then slowly and calmly, moving the great woolly pack away from the public, away from the goals and finally away from the wicket.

‘Good boy,’ I said, stroking some of his ears. A grateful Bob Beesley headed to the stands to get us beer and scratchings and we became perhaps the first people other than ball boys and linesmen to watch a match at Bramall Lane from the south side of the pitch. After an exciting 2-2 draw we took the sheep to market and headed back on the hayrick to Coven.

All in all, a fine day out with the dog, and a decent point in our fight for that elusive first league championship.