Picture the scene. A teenage kid had been on trial for a week at Dundee United.
A bashful midfielder, decent player and a boy who had come into training every day wearing a shirt, tie and burgundy suit. Friday lunchtime, a dressing-room full of men in the scud and he began to put on his clothes. It was, unusually, packed with players. Each garment he attempted to pull on fell in bits to the floor, his socks, underpants and three-piece had been shredded to bits. Sabotage in the name of banter – and the tears started to well up. The smart move would have been to abandon his attempts to get dressed but on he went as a shirt sleeve dropped off to the laughter of all and sundry watching with glee. Not me. He’d told me his parents had bought him a suit to try to make a good impression and it was a torturous episode that remains fresh in the memory.
Just who had grabbed the scissors from the physio room will remain nameless – but this was a joke too far. Even his shoelaces had been sliced apart. Paul Sturrock arrived on the scene but even he stifled a smile as he attempted to find the culprit. The kid was never to be seen again. What damage though to his psyche?
