If you found yourself within spitting distance of The Molineux on any given Saturday of the 1988/89 Third Division season, you'd have heard that headline roared to the heavens.
Five bellowed syllables followed by the same tune banged out on the grand old stadium's decaying wooden seats; the battle cry of an army saluting their leader and telling the world to watch out.
On and on it went—ten, fifteen, twenty minutes at a time—as this warrior, shorn of hair and with only arse, hip and elbow for protection, fought for territory while the twelve-studded gorgons who marshalled enemy lines hit him with a constant stream of two-footed filth. But he was more than mere frontline resistance. Much more. Sure, he'd drag himself up off the grassless field and go at them again, but just when they thought they had him beat, just when they imagined they'd blunted the Pride of the Black Country, he'd roll up his sleeves, replace cudgel with rapier and do what he did best.
Steve Bull scored fifty goals that season as Wolves were promoted from the old Third Division to follow the fifty-two he'd banged home the season before to help drag this club, still the tenth most successful in English history, from the doldrums of the old Fourth. 102 goals in two seasons is a ridiculous amount. It's no wonder the fans wanted to send him to take on the world with a wolf on his chest.
Even amongst the cluttered history of football, Steve Bull's story is pretty unique. He himself sees it as 'Roy of the Rovers stuff', and while the narrative might have a similar arc, it is there that the comparisons end. Melchester's finest was a pen and ink playboy, a cartoon for kids to dream about. Steve Bull's story is sketched in blood, sweat, and a few halves of Banks's Mild.