You had to be a decent sprinter in the 1970s and ‘80s if you wanted to go to away games.
Getting chased through underpasses, parks and back streets by rival fans wielding Stanley knives knocked a few seconds off your 100 metre time. Inside grounds you had to have the peripheral vision of an eagle to dodge bricks, batteries and during one game I remember fondly, golf balls bearing eight-inch nails.
It wasn’t easy for players, either, with regular pitch invasions and, if you were black, being told by an entire bank of fans to get back on your jam jar.
