I had spoken to him a few times when he was drinking in the early days, but even then I wondered if there was really much I could say which might have any effect. Later, when we met at functions, I asked him about his health, and on several occasions I told him how many people wanted him to come out all right. ‘George,’ I said, ‘You wouldn’t believe how many people out there want you to get better.’ But even as I said it, I suspected that he really wasn’t on the same wavelength. In the end it didn’t matter how many good wishes he received, how many prayers were said on his behalf, there was only one person who could make him better. I’m sure there were times when he did try – when he got the hard warnings, and when at one point he had pellets inserted into his stomach that would make him nauseous when he had a drink – but maybe there was something inside him that in the end made it impossible.
In the hospital I saw the pain on the faces of George’s family, but I also saw how proud they were of the son and brother whose life was ebbing away. After he died and a memorial was held at Old Trafford before a game (poignantly it was against West Bromwich Albion, his first opponents), I was asked to say something. It was not a time for a long speech; you couldn’t trust your emotions beyond a few words, and what I said in the stadium filled with admirers, many of whom had only seen a film version of his brilliance, reflected the essence of my feelings. It was that through all the pain and, to be perfectly honest, a certain sense of waste, we were left with one simple statement of our feelings. It was to offer thanks that we had known him and been spellbound by the brilliance of his football. That was his great legacy, a picture of genius that would surely never die.
When I heard that the club had commissioned a bronze statue of George, Denis and me, to stand outside the ground on Sir Matt Busby Way, I told George’s father Dickie that nothing could fill me – and I was sure the same was true of Denis – with more pride. For just a little while, there in the hospital room in London, the three of us had been united for one last time. When Denis and I walked away down the corridor we didn’t need to say that, along with George, we had left behind the greatest of our football times.
17
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
EVEN AS A teenager, George Best’s status was unquestioned. He was the light of Manchester United’s future, one which would shine most luminously on a March night in Lisbon in 1966. That was when his celebrity, and maybe the shape of the rest of his life, was made in the 5–1 defeat of Benfica. But while recalling the excitement of the night and all those that would follow, it would be negligent to ignore, amid all the dawning glory, the wonderful contribution of another winger. It came from John Connelly, a vital force in the championship-winning season of 1964–65 which carried us back into the European Cup.
John scored the third goal in that thrilling performance at the Estadio da Luz, but it wasn’t some random goal from a member of the supporting cast. John may have spent just two full seasons at Old Trafford after signing from Burnley in the spring of ’64, but that had nothing to do with the consistently high level of his play. Like Nobby Stiles and Bill Foulkes at the back, he was one of those ingredients a winning team cannot do without; he mixed the cement, he made the bricks – and sometimes he would throw one straight at the heart of the opposition.
Like John Giles before him, John Connelly had a strong belief in his value as a player – and, also like Giles, he felt it deserved a better reward in his wage packet. This brought him into conflict with the Old Man. It was not something I was drawn into, and no details came my way, but I had a sense of this professional’s nature – and knew the way things had always been done at Old Trafford – and I thought trouble was inevitable.
Nobby provided one insight when he told the story of the time he, Alan Ball and John got into a little trouble with Sir Alf Ramsey during the build-up to the World Cup. They had slipped away for a pint at the local pub after a day of work at the Lilleshall training centre in Shropshire. Alf was furious and Nobby and Alan were very contrite. John, though, much to the anguish of the other two when the three of them were hauled before the England manager, was much less repentant. He said that no great crime had been committed, no curfew had been smashed.
While such players as Nobby and I, so immersed in the club from boyhood, were happy, or at least resigned, to take what was offered when United felt it necessary to recognise our progress, both for United and as World Cup winners for England, Connelly again was more defiant. He argued his case for better money, as Giles had after the 1963 cup victory. His position was that, apart from being involved in England’s World Cup squad, he had made a major contribution to the growth of the team. He pointed out that he had scored twenty goals in all games in the season of our first run to the title in eight years, and then another thirteen in the following season that saw us in fourth place but surprisingly beaten in the European Cup semi-finals by Partizan Belgrade.
We were a top team again, unquestionably, and Connelly was a vital factor. Another point that he latched on to – without too much difficulty, it has to be said, because it was common knowledge in international circles – was that United were notoriously low payers when compared to some of the other top clubs.
When you look back, you see it was reasonable to think that the climate was right for better rewards, for him and for the rest of us. There was no doubt that the team had moved up several levels as serious contenders for the major prizes. United now had a perfectly balanced attack. Best and Connelly could play on either flank. Best could bring a glow to the sky at any moment. Connelly was more predictable, but this was not a matter for relief in any of the defenders who had the job of marking him. They always knew what they were getting when they faced Connelly, and inevitably it was hard and unrewarding work. In those days there was a small group of talented wingers who had learned that in an increasingly physical game they could not afford just to take knocks, brush themselves down and return to the action. They had to make their presence felt as ruthlessly as they could and Connelly elected himself to this tough group of survivors which included Terry Paine of Southampton and Johnny Morrissey of Everton. In my view, though, Connelly was the best in this category. He wasn’t afraid of leaving his foot in and this was never a secret; it produced instant respect in any marker.
Connelly was perfectly equipped for this survival game. He was strong and quick, and I rarely saw a winger who was happier to take on the challenge of unnerving a full back. He could beat a man well enough, but he was never inclined to stay around to admire his handiwork. If he had a chance to move on goal he was not reluctant to do so, as his scoring showed eloquently enough. His greatest contribution, however, given the finishing potential of his forward colleagues, was to get to the bye-line and cross accurately. He was so willing to do this for the full ninety minutes that I was surprised when he suddenly disappeared, signing for Blackburn, where he had some good years.
His departure shouldn’t have been a mystery, not even to me. John undoubtedly had a spiky quality and, like Giles, he was to learn that at Old Trafford the voice and the judgement of Matt Busby were not wisely questioned if you wanted to make the United experience a long one.
No doubt another contribution to the situation was John Connelly’s origins. A native of the rugby league stronghold of St Helens, as a footballer he grew up in Burnley, winning a league title for the town which was so clannish I sometimes thought it might declare a republic at any time. The Burnley lads always stuck together. I remember when Old England used to play against Young England before the FA Cup final, the Turf Moor contingent would always form their own table: John Connelly, Gordon Harris, Ray Pointer and John Angus. They peered out at the rest of the world quite suspiciously, as though they felt that if they kept together, they could hold off all comers, and for a few years they did so quite brilliantly. In those days no team in the land went to Turf Moor, set in a bowl of the moors, with easy hearts.
Whenever I’m in East Lancashire I try to visit John. Until recently that usually meant calli
ng into the fish shop he ran in Brierfield. It was called Connelly’s Plaice, and he never apologised for that. As a magistrate, he was not afraid of administrating tough justice, and he would tell me how some of his regulars would come in and complain if they had been up in court and John and his colleagues had found them guilty and given them a stiff fine. But it never seemed to affect his popularity in the area. He was known for what he was at Old Trafford: a tough professional who always came to work with the most serious intent.
It was the same with David Herd, another who, while being a bit of a loner and never drawing too much attention to himself, was a key reason why United emerged so strongly in the mid-sixties. His father Alex was a star of Manchester City in the thirties, a family story that had an extraordinary chapter when they both played for Stockport County, one on his way out of football as the other was coming in. When he came to us from Arsenal he immediately joined up with Nobby, Shay and me in the group he christened the Big Four.
Mostly we played cards in a non-serious way, usually Kings or cribbage. We were never mistaken for high rollers on our way to Las Vegas. Nobby and David were most handicapped. It was during one of our sessions that Harry Gregg observed that Nobby’s eyesight was so bad he could scarcely see the cards. It was only when Harry reported this to Matt Busby that Nobby went to a specialist and was given contact lenses – maybe one of the most significant moments in a career which would turn out so brilliantly after some years of struggling to establish himself in a regular position.
David’s problem was that, despite all his enthusiasm, he couldn’t play cards. He was perhaps the worst cards player I had ever seen. What he could do so much better, however, was lead an attack with speed and power and a withering shot.
Law and Herd complemented each other superbly, a fact which is illustrated perfectly by the latter’s productivity in the four seasons that followed his two-goal contribution to the cup victory in 1963. In those seasons we won two titles and finished runners-up once, and Herd’s efforts were utterly vital. In the first campaign, when Law was at times unplayable and scored a stunning total of 46 goals in all competitions, Herd, while playing nineteen games fewer, found the net 27 times. In 1964–65, Denis scored 39, David 28. The following season saw Herd overtake Denis, who, while playing three games fewer, had 24 goals against Herd’s 32. In the second title year, Law was back in front with 25 goals against 18, but he played in seven games more. In other circumstances, in less glamorous company, David Herd would surely have become something of a folk hero, a component of a famous partnership.
David’s fate, though, was not to be one of the fabled heroes of football. He did his job brilliantly, but he was almost destined to operate in someone else’s shadow. He often bore the brunt of criticism from the terraces when things didn’t go so well, a result, maybe, of all the praise that lapped around three of his team-mates, but it never seemed to take any edge off his determination. He was always the same: as eager to play cards as badly as he was to score goals so regularly and so well.
The power of his shot was the most amazing aspect of his talent. He was particularly ferocious during the warm-up. His shots would threaten the health of the goalkeeper, and sometimes injured hapless fans cowering behind the little wooden fence behind the goal. Once, he was so keen to play that, in his enthusiasm, he injured himself before a game. Mostly, though, he was strong and selfless and, like John Connelly, one of those players destined to impress no one so much as his fellow professionals, who could see during a match what the fans on the terraces might miss: the level of effort and the technical scoring ability. There’s a thin line between a performance which looks exceptional but which is actually down to a kindly run of the ball and one which demonstrates true technique. Sometimes you need to share the pitch to appreciate that.
Our success in the cup and then the league brought back the component that I had missed so acutely in the battle to recover from Munich: a return to the European theatre. We had built ourselves back into the upper echelons of English football, but the great lure was still those foreign fields where it was as important as ever for us to make our mark.
When Bill Shankly opened the gates to Europe for Liverpool for the first time with the title win of 1963–64 – when they beat us by the four points which went to them after a 1–0 win at Old Trafford and a 3–0 triumph at Anfield – I felt like a hungry urchin with his nose pressed against the window of some glitzy restaurant. It was a reminder of that feeling I had in the army camp in Shropshire when a plane flew overhead, and I imagined it carrying other, more fortunate, players to Europe. Football’s greatest adventure was again going on without me.
I would call Liverpool for tickets for their European games, and they would always oblige. Shankly would know terrible disappointment in Europe, most devastatingly when he and his team claimed that Internazionale Milan had been cruelly favoured by a Spanish referee in their semi-final tie at the San Siro in 1965, but he laid down the standards, and the tradition, which would bring so much success in the tournament that I ached to be part of once more. However, that longing did not prevent me from enjoying their European nights at Anfield. It is a long time now since anyone with Manchester United close to their heart has been able say that a night in that ground was fun, but in those days no one with any feeling for the game, or working-class humour, could say otherwise. The Liverpool fans appreciated a new level of football and responded with great wit. Nowadays, five European Cup victories later, the Liverpool fans may not be so funny, at least not when United are visiting, but the memory of those distant nights is something that still fills me with warmth. Then, it would never have occurred to someone like me that attending a big game of one of your fiercest rivals might not be the wisest thing to do. There was never a hint of hostility.
One night at Anfield, that came much later, stands out vividly. It was the one when I was able to study, at greater distance than usual, the talent of my great rival Franz Beckenbauer. Liverpool beat Bayern Munich 3–0, but it was still fascinating to study the style of the emperor of German football. The quality that struck you most was his confidence, the aura he threw up around himself. Everything he did seemed to suggest that all he needed to do was move into another gear to leave everyone for dead. It wasn’t true. Beckenbauer didn’t slip through the gears like some high-powered Mercedes-Benz. He couldn’t do that – but what he could do was exploit a fantastic football brain, an innate awareness of where to be at any given moment. On this particular night, however, Liverpool were too good even for a player well on the way to proving himself one of the most influential in the history of the game. They were wonderfully quick and drilled, a team who seemed born for such nights of football drama.
When I looked at Liverpool in that first European season of theirs, I realised we still had work to do at Old Trafford. In Shankly they had more than a manager. He was a messiah whipping up both a team and a great city, and whenever you saw him, or heard about his latest outrageous statement, you knew that he, and Don Revie at Leeds United – and then a little later, Joe Mercer and Malcolm Allison at Manchester City and Brian Clough at Derby – were going to provide the most formidable opposition to our attempt to remake the Old Trafford empire.
The eccentric passion of Shankly was underlined for me by my England team-mate Roger Hunt’s version of the classic tale of the Liverpool manager’s pre-game talk before playing Manchester United. The story has probably been told a thousand times in and out of football, and each time you hear it there are different details, but when Roger told it the occasion was still fresh in his mind and I’ve always believed it to be the definitive account. It was later on the same day, as Roger and I travelled together to report for England duty, after we had played our bruising match at Anfield. Ian St John had scored the winner, then squared up to Denis Law, with Nobby finally sealing the mood of the afternoon by giving the Kop the ‘V’ sign. After settling down in our railway carriage, Roger said, ‘You may have lost today, but you would have be
en pleased with yourself before the game. Shanks mentioned you in the team talk. When he says anything positive about the opposition, normally he never singles out players.’ According to Roger, Shankly burst into the dressing room in his usual aggressive style and said, ‘We’re playing Manchester United this afternoon, and really it’s an insult that we have to let them on to our field because we are superior to them in every department, but they are in the league so I suppose we have to play them. In goal Dunne is hopeless – he never knows where he is going. At right back Brennan is a straw – any wind will blow him over. Foulkes the centre half kicks the ball anywhere. On the left Tony Dunne is fast but he only has one foot. Crerand couldn’t beat a tortoise. It’s true David Herd has got a fantastic shot, but if Ronnie Yeats can point him in the right direction he’s likely to score for us. So there you are, Manchester United, useless …’
Apparently it was at this point the Liverpool winger Ian Callaghan, who was never known to whisper a single word on such occasions, asked, ‘What about Best, Law and Charlton, boss?’
Shankly paused, narrowed his eyes, and said, ‘What are you saying to me, Callaghan? I hope you’re not saying we cannot play three men.’
The beauty of the story for us, soon enough, was that Shankly was protesting too much. While no side is ever complete – Pat Dunne in goal had some fantastic games in the first champion ship year, but his consistency did not inspire total confidence – the fact was that we were unquestionably nearer to producing eleven strong pieces of the jigsaw than at any point since Munich. Despite the strength of the First Division, and our unfulfilled desire to taste the European game, we were getting back some of the old swagger in that 1963–64 season. Indeed, there were times when you had to believe we had a whole team’s allocation of it packed into Denis Law.
My Manchester United Years: The Autobiography Page 21
