(1) Tom Finney, My Autobiography (2003)

Although football dominated my early life - that should probably read my entire life come to think of it - opportunities for watching the game were restricted. Apart from anything else, I was always too busy playing. But as a proud Prestonian, I was acutely aware of Preston North End Football Club and, in common with the other lads who kicked a rubber ball around the back fields of Holme Slack, my dream was to be the next Alex James.

James was the top star of the day, a genius. There wasn't much about him physically, but he had sublime skills and the knack of letting the ball do the work. He wore the baggiest of baggy shorts and his heavily gelled hair was parted down the centre. On the odd occasion when I was able to watch a game at Deepdale, sometimes sneaking under the turnstiles when the chap on duty was distracted, I was in awe of James. Preston were in the Second Division and the general standard of football was not the best, but here was a magic and a mystery about James that mesmerised me.

The man behind Preston's capture of James was chairman Jim Taylor, who later signed me and went on to play a major part in my early career.

The son of a railwayman and a native of North Lanarkshire, Alex James was a steelworker when his football talents were first spotted by Raith Rovers in the year of my birth. He earned good money north of the border - £6 in the winter and £4 in the summer - and his form brought the scouts flocking in. Preston were always well served with 'spies' in Scotland and while his short stature and dubious temperament caused a few potential buyers to dither, Jim Taylor was more bullish. In the June of 1925, the chairman went in with a £2,500 bid - an offer later raised to £3,500 to ward off a late inquiry from Leicester City. Taylor had his man and the signing of James proved a masterstroke. The supporters loved him, a fact reflected in the attendances, which rose by around £300 per game. He was box office, the draw card, a player who grabbed your attention and refused to let go.

James was a character off the field, too. He liked clubs - of the night-time variety - owned a car and, by all accounts, enjoyed playing practical jokes on his colleagues. But he was also a perfectionist, a footballer acutely aware of both his ability and his responsibility. The experts scratched their heads about why his talent was being allowed to languish outside the top flight and it wasn't long before Arsenal came in to present him with a bigger stage. He was my first football hero and my role model and when he was transferred to the Gunners I thought I would never get over it.

The kickabouts we had in the fields and on the streets were daily events, sometimes involving dozens and dozens of kids. There were so many bodies around you had to be flippin' good to get a kick. Once you got hold of the ball, you didn't let it go too easily. That's where I first learned about close control and dribbling.
It was a world of make-believe - were children more imaginative in those days? - and although we only had tin cans and school caps for goalposts, it mattered not a jot. In my mind, this basic field was Deepdale and I was the inside-left, Alex James. I tried to look like him, run like him, juggle the ball and body swerve like him. By being James, I became more confident in my own game. He never knew it, but Alex James played a major part in my development.

When I look back over my football life and try to recall the players who have left abiding impressions upon me I feel compelled to ask myself one question: "Has the game ever had another Alex James?" Frankly, I have never seen another.

Commenting upon the players of my time, that is over a period of more than 60 years, as an amateur, as a referee, and as an administrative official, I have either watched or been in touch with many of the most renowned footballers.

There are men still alive and still interested in the sport whose names are more or less familiar to this generation because of their footwork, their quick wits on the field, and their physical courage.
It is possible to choose from them an ideal England eleven, each man a master and the whole likely to blend.

This would, of course, be a purely imaginative combination based on the assumption that every one of these eleven was now at his physical best and playing at the height of his power as a footballer.
And yet, when I look at the names, the question arises: Is there an Alex James among them all? Not to my mind.

I am much concerned about the few really great footballers there are in these days. They are so battered about and played on that sympathy is aroused for them.

This is not a covert suggestion that football is played in a foul manner. Considering how valuable League points are to the club, and remembering the almost overpowering desire to win ties in the Association Cup tournament, the games are cleanly and fairly contested. There is plenty of vigour and robustness, but these are everyday experiences. There are few games in which force supersedes skill.

Nevertheless, an effective player, whose anticipation, ready power of observation and quick, decisive action, make him the driving wheel of the machine, becomes a marked man. How often has it been said that "we must stop" James, or David Jack, Buchan, "Billy" Walker, Clem Stephenson, Billy Gillespie?
In every good team there is a commanding personality, an extra good player, who is a leader. To the ordinary spectator the team may seem to excel because of its collective strength-but the players know the man whose influence is felt, whose tactics and shrewd touches mean so much to the eleven. He is always a marked man.

But Alex James never suppresses himself. He may conceal his intention, he may lead a man away on the wrong trail, he may hold the ball and invite a tackle, he may fool an opponent who becomes ruffled, and he may do the most unexpected thing in a flash, but he does not seem to care what may happen to himself.
Do not be deluded by any praise bestowed upon the most celebrated men of former days, or by the prejudiced criticism of this day.

Alex James is the greatest of all the outstanding players of his period, and, in my judgment, he would have been just as masterful, whimsical, and self-possessed in any period when football has been an organized, collective and disciplined game.

I live more in the present than in the past. I am confident I have never seen another James, and it would be almost foolish to be sanguine of any club ever discovering his like.

It is customary for club managers and writers for newspapers to speak of A, B, or C as "another James"; as the material likely to develop into "another James."

Without being either cynical or sceptical, I shall only believe there is "another James" when he presents himself in action.

Apart from his trickery, juggling and ball control in little space, his ability to scheme, open up the game and set the forwards galloping, there is the mental equipment of the man. He is a Scotsman.
James is a man of extraordinary self-possession. He never loses himself-and rarely the ball. You may take the ball from him-if you can-but he never gives it.

This equanimity of mind is a tremendous asset. Excitement does not appear to be part of his make-up. However he may be played on, rolled on the ground, battered and bruised, hampered and hustled, he never betrays the least trace of resentment. If he has such a feeling it never can be inferred from his actions. However he may be nudged or buffeted, he picks himself up and goes on with the business he has to do.

The reader may say that a little fellow of 5 ft. 6 in., and under ll stone, could not afford to be hasty in temper and resentful. That may be or may not be, but he is keen on what he believes to be his rights, and he can be stubborn. Yet on the field he is a model, and if there were 22 like him in a match the referee could be dispensed with.

His control of himself is as great a gift to him as his control of the ball. Nature's bounty and his own industry have made him the footballer he is. Such a combination is rare, and that is why I despair of ever again looking upon his like.

(3) Matt Busby, Soccer at the Top - My Life in Football (1973)

Alex James was the great creator from the middle. From an Arsenal rearguard action the ball would, seemingly inevitably, reach Alex. He would feint and leave two or three opponents sprawling or plodding in his wake before he released the ball, unerringly, to either the flying Joe Hulme, who would not even have to pause in his flight, or the absolutely devastating Cliff Bastin, who would take a couple of strides and whip the ball into the net. The number of goals created from rearguard beginnings by Alex James were the most significant factor in Arsenal's greatness.

(4) Richard Whitehead, The Times (23rd October, 2004)

James also arrived in North London in headline-making circumstances, but only after a prolonged Nicolas Anelka-like sulk had ensured his departure from Preston North End. James was keen to earn more than the £8-a-week maximum wage, but the only way for Arsenal to circumvent the Football League’s strict regulations was for their signing to take up additional employment as a “sports demonstrator” at Selfridge’s on the impressive salary of £250.

He was not an instant success — one sarcastic fan sent him a pair of battered child’s football boots with an accompanying note suggesting “it doesn’t matter much what you wear anyhow” — but James quickly became the brains behind a team that dominated domestic football in a fashion that had not previously been seen.

Lying deeper than conventional inside forwards, he would spring Arsenal’s rapid breakaways from defence — a tactic that earned them the tag “lucky Arsenal” from disgruntled opposing fans who had frequently seen their team dominate territorially for no tangible reward.

That tactic demonstrated the quality the little man with the commodious shorts shared most with his modern-day counterpart — the ability to hit passes so stunningly beautiful that they could adorn the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.