The Unforgiven: The Story of Don Revie's Leeds United

by Rob Bagchi

  For all his ructions with Charlton and the initial scepticism of the other ‘seen it all’ seasoned pros, it was obvious that he was doing something right. Fanatical and often abrasive, there was a touch of zealotry in his soul. Indeed, in Brian Clough’s characteristically brusque judgement he was an ‘aggressive, nasty little bugger’. ‘Pots’ and ‘kettles’ spring to mind, but it was just these qualities that made Cocker so valuable to Revie. His loyalty was unreserved and he brought structure, obstinacy and a certain impassive relentlessness to his task, which was to become the cornerstone of Leeds’ physical authority.

  Cocker was rather more than the stereotypical ‘sergeant-major’ coach, but there is little doubt that, more often than not, he played that role to perfection. However, it was the more cerebral Owen who actually conducted the technical sessions. A full England international, from 1941–46, he had served in the RAF with distinction, on active service in Egypt, Austria and Italy. Along with Cocker, he had joined Leeds from Luton Town in the summer of 1960 to help Taylor’s beleaguered team achieve promotion in their first season back in the Second Division.

  Unlike Cocker, he had a distinguished pedigree both as a player and a coach, and had actually, briefly, been a manager himself. Having been sacked by Luton Town after less than a year in charge, he was impatient in his desire to prove that the progressive methods he had discovered at Lilleshall could be a success as much on the field as on the blackboard. He, too, had problems imposing his more modern philosophy on the conspicuously cynical Charlton, but eventually, after one episode when Jack ‘offered to take my coat off to him’, Charlton realized that he was rapidly beginning to unleash his dormant potential under Owen’s shrewd instruction.

  It was, perhaps, inevitable that their war service so markedly shaped their personalities, and many of those cliches concerning ‘regimentation’ and ‘military precision’ administered later to depict Leeds as little more than a troop of bellicose automatons can be traced back to their influence. Similarly, Les and Syd bolstered Revie’s more non-conformist tendencies and were happy to play up their team’s truculent outsider status. But what made them so integral to Revie’s crusade was their fervent enthusiasm and simple flair for teaching young players. As Billy Bremner recalled to Bernard Bale in his posthumously published official biography:

  They spent hours in analysing a youngster’s abilities, finding out how to improve his strong points, and even how to eradicate or at least remedy his weaknesses … I still shudder when I think of all the hours of hard graft that I spent under those two taskmasters. They made me lose buckets of sweat, but everything that they told me was for my own good, and any improvement that I ever made was thanks to their constant attention to detail.

  The majority of managers take years to assemble the right blend of character in their backroom staff. Those fabled partnerships of Matt Busby and Jimmy Murphy or Bill Shankly and his boot room boys – Bob Paisley, Joe Fagin and Reuben Bennett – were not ad hoc creations. From day one Revie had his team in place. Additionally, his assistant Maurice Lindley had also worked for Jack Taylor and was to flourish as Revie’s chief scout and, more notoriously, as the principal compiler of those infamous dossiers.

  Therefore, despite his own lack of experience, and however dire the immediate situation appeared to the Leeds public – a less than auspicious league position, the £40,000 hole in the overdraft and dwindling attendances – the small crumb of comfort available to him on his appointment was that he had some foundations to build on. At his first press conference he had already mastered the art of manager-speak: ‘I fully understand that I have a difficult job,’ he said soberly, ‘but it can be done if we all pull together. My aim is to be firm but fair.’

  Now it was on to the traditional ‘Call me “Boss”’ rendezvous with the first team squad. For a new player-manager the hardest task is that first meeting with the players, tinged as it is with embarrassment and the necessity of underlining one’s new status. Kenny Dalglish, for one, found it difficult to adjust, as former team-mates like Phil Neal were blatantly unwilling to acknowledge his advancement. All the banter, gossip and day-to-day gripes of dressing-room life now have to be exchanged for a detached gravitas. At least Revie could out-trump the ‘show us your medals’ brigade with his England caps and FA Cup Winners medal from 1956. But it would be anachronistic to expect much prima-donnaish posturing from the squad that hung on Revie’s introductory words. National service graduates all, players then were closer in style to Harry Enfield’s splendid caricature of Charles ‘Charlie’ Charles (though obviously of rougher stock) than to today’s temperamental Premiership poppets. They listened as he delivered his up-beat common-sense monologue, welcomed him with no explicit reservations and, pulling on their heavy cable-knit sweaters, trudged across the West Stand concourse to Fullerton Park for his first training session.

  The best player in Revie’s first squad, Grenville Hair, the popular left-back, was different. Good enough to have been selected to represent the Football League, if not quite of sufficient quality to merit an England cap, he was a solid, efficient footballer with nearly ten years’ experience as a first team regular. His rugged consistency and composed demeanour was the one element of stability in Leeds’ continuing defensive crisis. His record of one goal in 443 games, however, makes the famously shot-shy David Batty’s record look like Gabriel Batistuta’s in comparison. Although he was only twenty-nine when Revie took over, his best years were behind him. In the short-term, he remained Leeds’ best player, and there can be little doubt that Revie came to rely on his steady professionalism as he tackled the brittle-ness of his defence.

  Of the rest, there’s no telling how they may have fared in a better team. Until very recently, if one was to ask a Leeds fan to compile the club’s best ever XI, the only addition to Revie’s vintage 1970s side would have been John Charles, possibly selected ahead of Mick Jones at centre-forward. No other players from Leeds prehistory would even come close. Few were to make any mark on the club or its subsequent salvation. All had shown some promise at one time or another and most had at least turned out at a higher level. But the blend was all wrong.

  For example, the goalkeeper, Alan Humphreys, was far too inexperienced for the task assigned to him. On occasion he proved himself to be a strong and nimble shot-stopper, but he singularly failed to dominate his chaotic defence. All too often as his team-mates retreated in front of him, he was left exposed, and by the time of Revie’s appointment had conceded 57 goals in just twenty-six appearances. As an anxious young keeper who had lost the respect of his equally culpable colleagues, it is hard not to feel some sympathy for him. He went on to rebuild his career, albeit at a less demanding level, with Mansfield and Chesterfield, but by 1961 he was already, in the game’s callous terminology, ‘shot’.

  His suffering had not been eased by the lack of organization among his colleagues. Unusually for this period when vast squads were considered exorbitant luxuries, especially in Yorkshire, Taylor had already selected twenty-four different players as he endeavoured to achieve some harmony. This constant chopping and changing is the hallmark of the perpetually struggling side and was to be a feature at Leeds United until late 1962. This was not squad rotation as we know it today: it was evidence of a manager who did not have a clue as to his best permutation.

  Of the regulars, few had much future under Revie, though he was to persist with some of them until they were finally jettisoned two years later in favour of the precocious teenagers in the youth team. Most have since vanished into obscurity, but they do not necessarily deserve to be denigrated. They were not veterans, happy to prolong unfulfilled careers. Most were under twenty-five. The club failed them just as much as they failed the club, as their promising talents were ruined, ruling out forever all ambition of following John Charles to success and auspicious transfers. Not one of their careers was to recover from the nerve-shredding experiences at Elland Road. It was downhill all the way afterwards, into the Third Divi
sion, at best, for all of them. Their misfortune is often forgotten. They weren’t lazy or overpaid or individually inept, however poorly they performed collectively. They were simply the wrong players, too young for the Second Division maelstrom, badly coached and led by men bereft of any tactical ingenuity.

  Among those stationed in front of the novice goalkeeper, Freddie Goodwin, the Brian Epstein lookalike, had joined Leeds to reignite a stalled career over the Pennines at Manchester United. A former ‘Busby Babe’, he had shone intermittently at Old Trafford after graduating into the first team in the aftermath of the Munich disaster but could never quite convince Matt Busby that he had sufficient class to prosper at the highest level. Originally a midfielder, he was converted to centre-half in the hope of capitalizing on his perceived versatility.

  Chronically one-paced and over-reliant on his brute strength, he nevertheless had much to offer a struggling side. Good in the air and blessed with natural authority, he succeeded Revie as captain at the nadir of the 1960/61 season. Unfortunately, in contradiction to all his other admirable leadership qualities, he lacked composure. His method was redolent of the ‘get some blood on your boots’ approach loved by fans, but it failed to mask his technical flaws.

  Managers love forceful characters and are willing to excuse many defects if effort is always shown – but it can have its downsides. Goodwin managed to persuade Taylor (and Revie too, initially) that Leeds should adopt a man-to-man marking system. It enabled Goodwin to exploit his powerful tackling style, but other players were run ragged tracking attackers all over the park. Charlton hated it but reluctantly deferred to his senior colleague. Revie evidently felt that Goodwin’s value to the team outweighed his limitations and persevered with their skipper’s illogical system for another year simply because it was felt it suited him best.

  Goodwin battled on as captain until the following season, when Bobby Collins, a man who exhibited grit to an almost psychopathic degree, won the arm-band through sheer force of personality.

  The only other defenders at Revie’s disposal were John Kilford, a future clergyman, who had oscillated between the first XI and the reserves for the past three seasons, and Willie Bell, who was ultimately to thrive at full-back but was then regarded primarily as a midfielder. Jack Charlton would have been the obvious choice to cement some cohesion, but he had yet to be accepted as responsible enough, so prone was he to outbreaks of petulant indiscipline. In any case, Revie had another role for him.

  So much for Leeds’ inconsiderable defensive resources; the mid-field was in even worse shape. Here, the purist would probably insist that only ‘wing-halves’ should be referred to as midfielders according to the accepted wisdom of the age, but strict adherence to the 2-3-5 (WM) formation had long been abandoned even in the unenlightened environs of Elland Road.

  In stark contrast to the cumbersome rearguard, Leeds’ midfield was largely populated by deft, languid players with attacking inclinations but without the guile to unlock defences. Revie’s options were, as they say, limited. His predecessor had left a comically lightweight roster of diminutive inside-forwards, tackle-shy wing-halves and, in one case, a singing winger now more famous for his variety act than for the prowess that had led him to score twice for England v Brazil on his debut some years previously.

  Bobby Cameron, Peter McConnell and Colin Grainger (the crooner) were all comfortable with the ball at their feet but far less proficient at winning it back from the opposition. All were ‘form’ players who enjoyed intermittent ‘hot streaks’ but were rather more noticeable for their infuriating timidity. The one orthodox wing-half, Eric Smith, was more typical of the kind of hard Scottish professional that had dominated the English game for much of the century. He was a bright, bubbly individual, always ready to get stuck in and who refused to get too depressed over the gulf in class and facilities between his former club, Celtic, and Leeds United. Often injured and slow, even by Leeds’ standards, Smith was nevertheless always capable of digging in when necessary.

  A couple of extraordinary signings from South Africa completed the squad of British players. In his meticulous survey ‘Colouring Over the White Line’, Phil Vasili rights the common misconception that the emergence of black footballers in England was a 1970s phenomenon, rehabilitating scores of forgotten pioneers such as Arthur Wharton, Walter Tull and Roy Brown, and movingly recreating their quiet heroism in the face of the country’s prevailing xenophobia. Ever since the 1920s, casual racism had consigned generations of black players to the peripheries of the game. There had been some significant breakthroughs, but after 1945 the pre-war trickle of black talent into football had almost died out. In a society under the pressure of persistent discrimination, which still generally regarded black people as, at best, intriguing curiosities, the widescale acceptance of black footballers was still some way off. The boom in Commonwealth immigration had certainly not made much impact in Leeds by the time Gerry Francis arrived from Johannesburg in 1957.

  As Leeds United’s first-ever black player, Francis’s place in the social and cultural history of the club is assured, but his fitful displays on the right wing are far less likely to be remembered. There is no evidence that his career was hampered by prejudice. In common with most other Leeds players, his spell at Elland Road was one long depressing cycle of dazzling display followed by stagnation, dropping down into the reserves, improvement and recall, before the sequence started all over again. His appearances became more regular in the 1960/61 season, his last with the club, but he only managed forty-six league games in his four years there before Revie offloaded him to York City in the summer.

  In comparison, Francis’s compatriot, Albert Johanneson, was to become an integral part of the revolution. Like all people who die in horrific circumstances, Johanneson tends to be defined by the manner of his death. An all-pervasive sense of waste and tragedy tinged with guilt overshadows his friends’ recollections. Few recall the levity or the joy or the skill. They are displaced by the images of the lonely dislocated alcoholic, forever scrounging cash, and the miserable last years in a council tower block where his body ultimately lay undiscovered for days. To understand this sense of grief, it is important to remember why the ‘Black Flash’ shone so brightly in Revie’s first successful Leeds team.

  He made his debut four games into Revie’s reign and for the next six years was to provide the only element of glamour in a drab Leeds side, wrapped up in a brand of energetic pressing football designed to restrict the opposition’s time on the ball and force errors. It must have seemed like a godsend to Revie when he first received the report from a South African schoolteacher recommending the twenty-year-old. Johanneson’s fare from Johannesburg was chicken-feed compared to a transfer fee, and after only a couple of training sessions, Revie felt that he was ready for a contract and for first team football.

  In the future he would succumb to big match nerves and bouts of self-doubt, and he would continue to torment his team-mates with outbreaks of the winger’s disease – conceding possession and momentum at crucial moments. But for the majority of the time he was a quick, strong runner and a clinical finisher. He ended up with a strike rate of more than one goal in three appearances, a ratio most out and out centre-forwards would consider as satisfactory. For a winger it was sensational. For all the flaws in his game, which became more explicit as the quality of the players around him gradually improved, and the feelings of inadequacy that sabotaged his personal happiness, Albert Johanneson was taken to the Leeds fans’ hearts because he lit up Elland Road in its age of austerity and his displays offered a tantalizing glimpse of what lay ahead once all the tedious hard work had been done.

  Finally, alongside all these players that only older Leeds fans have ever heard of, were the two stars – Jack Charlton and Billy Bremner. Not that prone to petulance and unfocused aggression, as both were, their future renown would have been easily discernible amongst all the other dross on show.

  Charlton, as we have seen, was mouthy, often
unprofessional and felt under-appreciated. Was it because his younger brother had so comprehensively overshadowed him, or was it his anger at squandering his career at Leeds? Whatever, in 1961, at twenty-five, he was a complete pain in the arse. He objected to everything, from the ‘stupid’ rulebook to the idiocy of the coaching staff. If chastised in the dressing-room after a game, he wasn’t averse to throwing the odd teacup, and his astounding surliness had alienated just about everyone at the club, Revie included. In his autobiography, published in 1996, Charlton recalls a typical argument with Revie from the 1960/61 season when they were both still players: ‘I’d gone charging up the field with the ball and Don said to me afterwards, “If I was the manager, I wouldn’t play you. You’re always messing about.”

  “‘Well you’re not the manager,” I said, “So what the hell?”’

  As Jack’s colleague, Revie was already fed up with him. As his manager, no one expected this tempestuous relationship to last very long. What seems certain is that he never lost his intolerance of criticism or his know-it-all subversive tendencies, only that he eventually came to listen to two people, Revie and Sir Alf Ramsey, when they had patiently won his respect.

  Bremner, on the other hand, had good reason to trust Revie right from the start. From the moment he’d been called up to the first team in January 1960, Revie had taken it upon himself to be the youngster’s mentor. Before his debut at Chelsea, the two men had roomed together. There was a fifteen-year age gap between the senior pro and his seventeen-year-old protégé, but Revie helped to settle his nerves, coaxed him through his first games and constantly made himself available for advice and reassurance.