On the pitch, Dave Mackay was so ferociously combative that he made his team-mates feel anything was possible. When my dad, John White, moved from Scotland to London in 1959 to play for Spurs, Dave, a fellow Scot, made him believe he was good enough to play for a big-time club in an unfriendly and bewildering city.
In 1964, when I was six months old, Dad was killed by a lightning strike while playing golf. Growing up fatherless was tough enough – growing up without the father who was a footballing icon made it that much harder. Around the time I was nine, Dave, by then manager of Derby County, started inviting me along to matches. Travelling with the team, sitting in the dressing room and in the dug-out, it was like being the winner of a Shoot! magazine competition every week.
His timing was immaculate – it was a crucial moment in a young lad’s development. I was never made to believe he was going out of his way, and never did I get the sense that he was being maudlin about my dad. I feel incredibly grateful and privileged that he thought to give me that access to my dad’s football world. If you wanted anyone to stand beside you in life, it was Dave.
Chris Kaufman writes: I saw Dave Mackay’s first match at White Hart Lane in 1958. He gave away a throw-in near the kids at the front of the crowd, and was so annoyed with himself you’d think he had scored an own goal. I realised then that he was something special. Years later I met him and was astonished at his soft-spoken manner. He played with the bagpipes in his ears and a cockerel on his barrel chest.
