HARRY HODGSON, whose death we briefly recorded two weeks ago, was one of a wonderful triumvirate who together served Tow Law Town FC for 120 years.

Harry was chairman for 35 years, retired for seven, was persuaded to come back “just for a season” and found himself thrown into the deep end more greatly than ever he could have imagined.

It was in September 2004 that mining subsidence caused a huge crater – 30ft deep and £250,000 steep – to open up in the bottom penalty area. “They found coal 28ft down,” said Harry. “They might as well have just opencasted it.”

Though the community rallied round, the parish church ladies raising £443 at a single coffee morning, the Coal Authority eventually agreed to meet the cost of restoring the famous old Ironworks Road ground, though not even 850 tons of liquid concrete could (of course) make it flat. The chairman was again able to take a back seat.

Harry was born in Tow Law 85 years ago, attended Wolsingham Grammar School, became manager of Blair’s Foundry, Tow Law’s biggest employer.

The football club secretary was Bernard Fairbairn, who held office for 46 years and whose father and grandfather were long serving secretaries before him. The treasurer for 37 years was the late Harry Dixon, the local postmaster.

“We punched above our weight because we were straight up and down people and players appreciated that,” says Bernard, now 80 and long in Darlington. “Harry Hodgson called a spade a spade but was never nasty to anyone. I couldn’t speak too highly of him.”

Famously, chairman and secretary signed England amateur international George Brown in a betting shop in Bishop Auckland. “I only did it because they didn’t interrupt the 2.30 at Newbury,” George once recalled.

Under the triumvirate tenure, the Lawyers famously beat Mansfield Town 5-1 in the 1967-68 FA Cup, won the Northern League in 1995 and three years later – though Harry Hodgson thought he’d retired – reached the FA Vase final at Wembley.

Frequently asked, he always insisted that the league title was the greatest achievement. “We didn’t win the Cup, we didn’t win the Vase. We won the Northern League.”

His funeral was at Tow Law parish church on Tuesday. I was honoured to be asked to deliver a ten minute tribute.

ALLAN BARKAS, whose death we also lament, was a grassroots football enthusiast who with his wife Ann – a constant companion – appeared blessed with a lucky streak.

It was Ann’s Tanfield Lea-based company Skilltraining which in 2008 won the Northern League’s naming rights draw, a £250-a-ticket exercise which raised £31,000. The company subsequently extended the sponsorship deal.

Committed followers, they won a trophy for being the first to watch games at all 42 Northern League grounds in 2009-10, completing the set by December 18, but developed a particular affection for Whitley Bay.

Coinciding with the club’s three successive FA Vase wins, they watched 58 games without seeing the team lose.

“If we ever heard they’re not coming we offer to pay their fares,” club chairman Paul McIlduff once said.

Allan was a Bishop Auckland man, a former Army sergeant, owned a general dealer’s shop in St Helen’s Auckland and in 2000 helped form Bishop Auckland supporters’ club.

Two years later, he and Ann spotted a Northern Echo paragraph desperately appealing for helpers at Easington Colliery. He became chairman, she a committee member. Together they’d make the 60-mile round trip in a little red sports car, its boot overflowing with the post-match spread.

After Easington temporarily left the Northern League he became a committee member at West Auckland before he and Ann moved, where else, to Whitley Bay.

Though he long battled illness, Allan became supporters’ club vice-chairman and a familiar figure helping around the ground. His funeral is at Whitley Bay crematorium at 12.45pm tomorrow.

I DIDN’T really know Tommy Riley, whose death was announced in last Friday’s classifieds, though we occasionally bumped into one another in the Bay Horse at Heighington, his home village.

The first time, maybe 25 years ago, was when the feckless Falchion B – as then our 5s and 3s team was – usually included Darren, Tommy’s lad.

On the evening in question, Darren wasn’t there, the dastardly decision taken to play a ringer. “We’ll put you down as Darren Riley,” someone told him.

Overhearing, the chap on the next table leaned over. “I wouldn’t if I were you. He’s my son.”