THIS week I’m writing about a former son of Barnsley who, for a brief period, was one of the most famous sportsmen in the country, and possibly one of the richest.

I first came across him when he was 10, playing football in the yellow and white colours of Holy Rood Junior School. Steve was a year older than me and they were playing St Edwin’s Juniors.

On the final whistle something extraordinary happened. The teachers in charge of each team started behaving out of character and got involved in an embarrassing slanging match. It made for good entertainment so, in order not to miss anything, I moved closer to the fray.

“What the hell are you talking about? shouted the eccentric Mr Clarke from Holy Rood, as he hitched up his pebble-bottomed specs onto the bridge of his nose. “Your winger’s not in the same street as Stephen Daley! Stephen’s going right to the top!”

“Rubbish!” bawled Mr Clapham, drawing on the slimmest roll-up I’d ever seen. “Your lad can’t lace Stephen Goodyear’s boots. Best winger I’ve ever had.”

Two years later I was playing for Longcar Central School under 13s, against Steve Daley’s St Michael’s. Altogether I played against him six times in three years and he was a truly special player. When we played them for the final time in 1968, Steve was also a member of the prestigious Barnsley Boys’ team alongside Brian Greenoff and Geoff English. Steve ran rings round our defenders that day.

Our captain, Phil Smith, complained, “Daley’s so quick on the turn it’s like trying to catch pigeons. Good job young Steelie scored four for us or we’d have been thrashed.”

“Yes, well done, Ronnie Steele, but don’t let it go to your head,” warned our sports teacher, Barry Hines. But it’s hard to look modest when your head suddenly grows too big for your shoulders. Then I spotted Steve Daley cockily blowing chewing gum bubbles and scraping sticky residue from around his mouth, and I thought that’s cool.

But the word on the street wasn’t good. Steve was a proper lad – always getting up to no-good – but nothing serious. I watched every Barnsley Boys’ home match that season because playing for them was my ambition, but for most games, Steve was only a spectator with a mouthful of bubble gum.

“Why is Daley only a reserve?” I asked a mate who was always in-the-know.

“He’s had disciplinary problems” replied Alan Milne. “At the last away match he was late for the coach because he’d been necking with this lass.

Everyone was late home that evening all because of him and all the teachers were reight mad.”

Despite his minor lapses in behaviour, I was still shocked when Barnsley FC didn’t sign him straight from school. However, The Tyke’s loss was Wath Wanderers’ gain. Wath, the nursery team for Wolverhampton Wanderers FC, snapped him up.

In a matter of weeks, Steve was sent down to Molineux for a trial and soon signed apprentice forms for the Black Country club.

Later he was given a full-time contract and before you knew it he was scoring in the first team and representing England B.

His finest hour came at the age of 26 when Manchester City signed him for what was then an English record fee of £1,437,500. But things didn’t work out and he gained an undeserved reputation as City’s big-money flop.

After retiring from football he did well in the pub trade, had two metal knees and a metal hip (footballers’ disease), and recovered from prostate cancer.

He also spent a number of years as an accomplished after-dinner speaker.

Why am I telling you all this? Steve Daley is back in town on Friday, May 30 at Cortonwood Miners’ Welfare at 2 pm.

He’ll be joining other big footballing names of the past to celebrate the unveiling of a blue plaque for Mark Crook. Mark was the legendary super-scout for Wath Wanderers who discovered scores of top professional footballers – some of whom were once household names.

When I meet Steve I doubt he’ll be chewing bubble gum when I say, “Hi, Steve. I’m Ronnie Steele – that little goal-scoring nuisance from a bygone era”.

And knowing what a mischief-maker he is, he’ll probably answer: “Really? What, THE Ronnie Steele? From tarn? Never heard of you.”

And I’ll reply: “Behave your sen, pal, or I’ll not let you join me on a selfie.”