‘Excuse me, young ‘un,’ said Wednesbury’s decrepit Olden George to our inside right Arthur Lowden, as the players took the field, ‘Would you mind taking me arm? I’m not as steady on my legs as I used to be.’

‘Ar, no problem,’ said Arthur.

It was my first visit to Elwell’s, but I’d nurtured a soft spot for the Old ‘Uns since the late seventies, when they’d triumphed over Stafford Road in two Birmingham Cup finals. With Staffordshire and Wednesbury Charity Cups also to their name they represented a formidable obstacle in Wolves’ first ever F.A. Cup tournament, on paper at least. In the flesh, however, they were considerably less impressive. The flesh was dry, wrinkled, and cracking in prominent places.

‘It’s me war wound,’ Olden George went on, ‘Me leg gets very stiff in this weather.’

Olden (or “Holden” as the records have erroneously remembered him), was a veteran of Sevastopol, and wore a Balaclava to keep out the mild winter. Arthur guided him to the halfway line and took up his own position, while the rest of the Old ‘Uns made their own doddering ways to the field, usually with the help of a Wolves player. The goalkeeper, slouched over Ike Griffiths’ brawny shoulders like a caveman’s leathery cape, could hardly place one foot in front of the other. “Kent is spent!” said Amos Graves, always fond of a rhyme or a pun.

‘Ar,’ said I, ‘And there’s less of Morley than there should be.’

We watched Jack Brodie wheel a shrivelled, balding man into the centre-half position. ‘His name’s “Byrne,”’ said Amos, looking pleased with himself, ‘and he doe look far off cremation.’

We racked our brains for more puns…

We racked our brains for more puns, but none came. It was time to move the conversation along.

‘So this lot beat Mitchell St George’s five-nil in the last round? How old must they have been?’

Wednesbury had its own way of doing things – we’d already seen some evidence of that. The public bar of the Horse and Jockey had been filled with six-to-thirteen-year-olds with dogs on their laps talking about work, grumbling about politics and swearing loudly at their parents when they mithered them for crisps, while geriatrics pored over schoolbooks in the snug. I’d pushed past the cherubic foreman of a local steel works and a seven-year-old signalman at Bescot Yards to get served by a barmaid so young she had to stand on a stool to pull pints. The conversation had been shrill, and it was a relief to hit the fresh air, where a drunken nine-year-old sought satisfaction from a workmate over a spilt pint.

‘Scrap! Scrap! Scrap!’

It was nearly time for kick-off, and latecomers were flooding to the Oval, many of them in their cups. Another argument looked like it might come to blows, this one concerning a ten-bob wager between tipsy toddlers. A circle formed, with the children shouting ‘Scrap! Scrap! Scrap!’ until the referee’s whistle reminded them why they’d come to Elwell’s and they gathered around the pitch instead.

As expected, Wolves took the lead early on when Brodie rose above the hunched shoulders of Morley and Nicholls to nod home a cross from the industrious Jabez Griffiths. Brodie doubled his tally and Wolves’ lead ten minutes later, via a blistering shot that flew between the posts and well beyond the crowd; a six-year-old instructed a middle-aged man and his dog to retrieve it. The man complained but set off anyway. Some of the home fans had tears in their eyes at this point, one or two calling for their mummies. ‘Not fair!’ shouted one little ginger urchin from the Wood Green Road side, ‘You should rethpect your elderth! You’ll be old like Mr Morley one day.’

‘It’s a game!’ Tommy Blackham shouted back, arms akimbo.

‘It is getting a bit physical, son,’ said Olden George, availing himself of a puff on the ginger urchin’s pipe. ‘I could do with a little bit of help from you if it’s not too much to ask.’

On the other side of the pitch, Alf Davidson appeared to be receiving a similar petition from their outside left. By the centre circle, Jack Baynton was tying Wednesbury’s right-half, Hubert.

‘It’s just mannerth,’ said Ginger, his pink tongue lisping through a missing front tooth, ‘You rethpect your elderth.’

Tommy looked over at Jack Brodie. The captain shrugged his shoulders, then conferred with Jack Baynton. By the time the man with the dog threw the ball back on the pitch there was a full team meeting had been concluded.

‘Play up, Polite ‘Uns!’ shouted Amos Graves, his big beery breath steaming in the cold.

The referee blew his whistle for play to resume, and the Wolves players set about trying to help the Old ‘Uns wherever possible. A firm hand to the elbow so the winger didn’t lose his balance while sending over a cross, a boost for the centre forward when rising to meet it…; Wednesbury’s efforts were fully supported by the visiting team, always with a kind smile and a doff of the cap. ‘Play up, polite-uns!’ shouted Amos Graves, his big beery breath steaming in the cold. Wednesbury managed to scrape one back before half-time, keeper Ike Griffiths allowing Bayliss a second chance after his first shot failed to reach the goalline.

Things got worse for Wolves in the second half. First our full-back Tommy Cliff controlled a long ball some eight yards out and then stood back so that Bayliss could shoot unhindered, Griffiths clapping the ball across the line. Then Cliff and Mason combined to carry Tonks horizontally to meet a low cross from Roberts with his head, even helping him raise his arms in celebration afterwards. The coup de grâce came when the full-back, Nicholls, with a Wolves inside forward on each arm, began a surging run from his own half with ten minutes to go, reaching the Wolves half with five minutes to go and slotting past Griffiths with the last kick of the game. Final score: Wednesbury Old Athletic Club 4 Wolverhampton Wanderers 2.

Though disappointed to be knocked out of the cup, we had to agree that the older side had won, and when players and supporters convened at the Queen’s Head afterwards, there were no hard feelings from Wolves, and only a little disorientation and lack of confidence when walking among the home side. I asked two-goal hero Bayliss whether the Old ‘Uns wouldn’t be better off pursuing less physical interests.

‘Way did start off as Wednesbury Literary and Athletic,’ he replied, taking a sip of his half of mild and adjusting his dentures with his tongue, ‘But the young ‘uns were too busy to teach us how to read.’

‘Don’t you learn that at school?’ I asked.

‘Doe learn anything. The pupils car control the class.’

Though our dreams of visiting more exotic locations in later rounds had been dashed, it was nevertheless an enjoyable Saturday, all in all, and great to see the boys displaying such good manners. Unfortunately, increasing professionalism in the game meant that Wolves’ way of doing things was getting left behind. In the very next round, Aston Villa resorted to hiding some of the Old ‘Uns’ spectacles, creeping up behind defenders and shouting, and pointing and laughing when forwards couldn’t get up after being tackled. Though a player was cautioned by the referee for excessive use of the word ‘Grandad,’ these tactics were generally successful, and soon adopted by clubs throughout the South Staffs, North Warwickshire and beyond. And the times were changing for Wednesbury too: within just a couple of years, children would be forced to study before they were allowed near heavy machinery, and pub brawls were enjoyed only by the over-fourteens.