Denis Law

by Alex Gordon

  Then our travels would come to a halt outside Scotland’s football fortress. We had arrived at our destination and we would soon be watching the Great Man in action. Exciting times, indeed. Even pre-match, Denis Law looked special. He was style personified. The way he caressed the ball, the manner in which he kicked it, the stabbed pass to a colleague. Then it was time for the 7.30 p.m. kick-off, the floodlights now on full-beam and lighting up the pitch, illuminating the frosty, glistening playing surface. We had our own little spot in the middle of the terracing about halfway up the West Stand, known commonly as the Rangers End. We didn’t even think of such things back then. As far as religious matters were concerned, we were a motley crew from Castlemilk; Catholics, Protestants, believers, non-believers, don’t-knows and don’t-cares. We were football fans.

  Once again, on the evening in question, our idol didn’t disappoint. In fact, he sent a bunch of kids all the way back home with beaming smiles, the rain now drifting into our exposed faces. No-one complained as we had just witnessed one of those extraordinary one-man displays that Denis Law seemed to be able to produce with wondrous regularity. He thumped in four goals during a runaway 6-1 triumph, with Spurs’ Dave Mackay helping himself to the other two. Drenched, we would get to our homes about an hour later; smiles still intact. Happy days.

  Years later, on Friday 23 May 1975, to be exact, Denis Law impressed me once again. I was 23 years old at the time and working on the sports desk of the Daily Record as a sub-editor. The location had switched from Glasgow to London and the Scottish support had arrived mob-handed, as usual, for the bi-annual encounter with the Auld Enemy, England, at Wembley. Half of Scotland seemed to have poured itself into the two bars in the White House Hotel on Euston Road near Regent’s Park. The bevvy was flowing, the hours were ticking down and it was clear to see that the alcohol was taking hold of a few who had probably saved up for two years for this event.

  There was a great wee pub in York Street along Glasgow’s Broomielaw called Dick’s Bar. A lot of the Daily Record and Sunday Mail journalists used it as a favourite watering hole and there was a real eclectic mix in this establishment, which, alas, is no longer there. John Dick was the genial host, but he ruled with a rod of iron. There was such a thing as ‘The Wembley Fund’ and the book opened probably minutes after the final whistle at Wembley for another two years of collecting cash before the fixture came round again. If someone felt flush, had a win on the horses, fiddled their expenses or found a pound they would put some money behind the bar, saving for the trip across the border. Now, take it from me, they never saw a penny of that cash until they were ready to travel to Wembley two years later. It didn’t matter that they might be about to be evicted or their kids hadn’t eaten for days. They knew the score. John Dick put the cash away for them and told them it was under lock and key for the next 24 months. Then, and only then, would they get their money in full. Punters from that pub used to arrive at Wembley Stadium in stretch limos, they had so much disposable dosh.

  Anyway, more than a few of the revellers in the White House Hotel the evening before the match must have had similar arrangements with their local pub owners. As so often happens, some of them had seen their senses washed away in a sea of booze. A few of them appeared to have parked their brains at the border. I detected friction among some of the supporters. It didn’t matter they were all wearing kilts and looking like extras from Braveheart, they were more than ready for a little bout of handbags at dawn. It wasn’t quite The McDonalds v The Campbells, but there was more than a hint of trouble in the air. It was about to turn a tad nasty when a bloke wearing a crisp white open-neck shirt, dark blue jacket, smart grey trousers and black slip-on shoes came in the front door. ‘Now, boys’, was all he said. They seemed to snap to attention, almost saluting in the process. Peace had broken out. Only Denis Law could have achieved that. Pity he couldn’t turn out the following day; we were walloped 5-1.

  It would be another 14 years before I was finally introduced to Denis Law, at Hampden of all places. The setting was another Scotland v. England confrontation and, by this time, I was sports editor of the Sunday Mail. I went along to the game with the newspaper’s two top sportswriters, Don Morrison and Dixon Blackstock. It was a glorious May day as we mulled about the packed pressbox. Don and Dixon, as you might expect as field journalists, had met Denis on numerous occasions but, having worked mainly as a production journalist, I had never had the pleasure.

  I was reading the match programme when I received a tap on the shoulder. Don said, ‘Alex, I would like you to meet someone.’ I turned and smack in front of me was my all-time football hero. Denis Law was standing there, balancing a pile of sandwiches, sausage rolls and pies. Juggling with the eateries, he managed to shake my hand. ‘Great to meet you,’ I gushed, or it could have been, ‘Meet to great you’ I was so taken by surprise. ‘Same here,’ returned Denis with that cheeky grin of his. He told me he was covering the game for radio – the BBC’s World Service – and I said, ‘I see you are looking after your colleagues,’ pointing to the mountain of grub he had selected. ‘No chance. These are for me – the English can look after themselves,’ he laughed. And with that he was off.

  If Neil Armstrong will never forget landing on the moon, then it’s an identical feeling for me meeting Denis Law. Sounds way over the top, I accept, but it’s true. I would interview him several times after that and you will not be surprised to discover he was always a complete gentleman, helpful and courteous. A genuine rarity in that he would take the time to telephone you back, too, if you left a message. Denis Law telephoning Alex Gordon? Wonder of wonders.

  The long and winding journeys for a primary school kid to Hampden on bitingly-cold winter evenings in the early sixties to witness first-hand a master craftsman going about his profession seem an eternity ago. Unforgettable, though.

  Chapter One

  THE MAN, THE MYTH AND THE MAGIC

  George Best was often fond of telling the following tale about his great mate Denis Law. The Northern Irishman’s eyes would twinkle with mischief as the story unfolded. He would reminisce about a happier time when he and his wife, Alex, went on holiday to Portugal and met up with Denis and Diana and the Law family.

  Denis insisted on taking the Bests to a little restaurant he had discovered in the Algarve. ‘When we arrived at this place, we thought it was some kind of joke played on us by Denis,’ Best recalled. ‘The place was called The Chicken Shack and it was just that – a shack that sold chicken. But Denis was deadly serious and played the good host by telling us about the food and introducing us to the manager. I had chicken and chips, Alex had chicken and chips, Di had chicken and chips and, would you believe, Denis went for chicken and chips. When the bill came, Denis waved it in front of my nose triumphantly and said, “Look at that, where else on the Algarve can four people eat for that price?” He continued smiling and added, “And it includes wine, you know.”’

  Denis Law? The stereotypical tight-fisted Aberdonian? Yes, they are canny with a penny in that part of the world. Denis does not fall into the category of a miser, though. Far from it. I can think of a few instances when he has gone out of his way to do a favour without any hint of recompense.

  A few years ago a good friend of mine, a proud Yorkshireman by the name of Alec Harper, was about to celebrate his 60th birthday. His lovely wife Judith had adopted MI5 and KGB tactics in keeping the big night quiet. It was a genuine surprise to my old mate when the evening of the party at a local hotel came round. Alec, for his sins, is a massive Huddersfield Town fan. There is only a seven-year gap between Denis and Alec, but my pal idolised that man. He could get misty-eyed of an evening and say, ‘You know, lad, it was all downhill after Denis left.’ He meant it, too. I have tried to remind him that Denis, in fact, hadn’t been anywhere near the old ground at Leeds Road since the spring of 1960. Alec, however, would insist, ‘We could have been a real force in Europe, lad, if he had stuck around.’

  I contacted Denis and asked
him if he wouldn’t mind signing a replica 1950s Huddersfield Town top and a birthday card for my mate. There wasn’t the merest hint of hesitation. ‘Sure,’ he said, ‘I’ll be happy to oblige.’ Sure enough, a couple of days before my wife Gerda and I were due to fly to Manchester, the shirt and card arrived. On the big night, I handed the gifts to Alec. I swear he almost fainted. ‘Is this really Denis Law’s signature?’ he asked. ‘Is this a wind-up?’ I assured him they were the genuine articles. He spent the rest of the evening mingling among the guests with his treasured presents, proudly showing them off. He may have turned 60 that day, but a gesture from Denis Law appeared to have swept the clock back about 55 years. When it came to making his speech in front of around 400 guests, all Alec could talk about was his shirt and card. Judith, who had worked tirelessly under cover to put the event together, didn’t even get a mention! She forgave him; she was well aware of what Denis Law meant to her husband.

  I have also got to point out that I have interviewed Denis several times for newspaper and magazine features over the years and not once has he asked for a penny. He has given his time freely. I can tell you there are other individuals, who shouldn’t be talked about in the same breath as Denis Law, whose first words when you get in touch with them are, ‘How much?’ These guys are hardly on the breadline. Yes, if it’s an exclusive story, done in a first person manner, then, of course, I believe there should be a payment. But if it’s only for a couple of quotes about something relatively mundane? Every newspaper in the land would be bankrupt in double-quick time.

  Pat Crerand knows Law better than most and insists his good friend has knocked back fairly hefty fees in the past for commercial enterprises. ‘Denis made few public appearances and preferred his privacy to the fees he could have picked up,’ Crerand said. ‘When he was in a Manchester hospital recovering from a knee injury that would rule him out of the 1968 European Cup Final against Benfica, the BBC thought it would be a good idea to put cameras into Denis’s hospital room. The game was being beamed live on television, of course, and they wanted to show his reaction and perhaps get his comments at the end. Matt Busby raised no objections to this idea and the hospital authorities were quite willing to allow a camera crew to set up at his bedside. The only person who didn’t like the idea was Denis. He said, “No” and that was that.’

  Crerand also revealed his mate could be a bit reclusive when he felt like it. ‘He avoided public places where he would be quickly recognised and in many ways he was a lone wolf. He even had his own gimmick for not getting involved. If, after training, some of the boys asked him what he was doing in the afternoon, he would always answer “gardening” with a straight face. He wouldn’t know one end of a weed from the other, but it gave him an excuse to go off on his own and earned him the nickname, The Gardener.

  ‘Denis chose his company very carefully. He would rather have a beer in a quiet pub with ordinary blokes than mix it with celebrities at a cocktail party. If he liked you, then Denis could be great company, but there was no middle road with him. If he didn’t like someone he wouldn’t talk to them.’

  Crerand’s friendship with his fellow Scot didn’t preclude him from getting it in the ear when Denis was unhappy. Harry Gregg, the Manchester United and Northern Ireland goalkeeping legend, recalled Crerand being on the receiving end of a verbal salvo from Law before a European Cup game against Benfica in Lisbon in 1966. ‘We had won 3-2 in the first leg at Old Trafford, so obviously, we were all a bit uptight at meeting this great Portuguese side in front of their own fans at the famous Stadium of Light,’ Gregg remembered. ‘Before the kick-off, we were all sitting there going through our usual routines. I recall it was a lovely dressing room and one wall was completely covered with a mirror.

  ‘Pat Crerand was standing around juggling the ball from foot to foot. The next thing we knew there was this tremendous crash. The mirror was on the floor, smashed to smithereens. Denis let rip at his fellow Scot. The language was choice. The last word was hooligan and I’ll let you fill in the blanks before it. Some footballers can be a bit superstitious. What do you get for breaking a mirror? Seven years’ bad luck? Crerand had taken down an entire wall! What could we now expect when we ran onto the pitch to face Benfica? Almost straight away George Best scored with a header. At half-time we were 3-0 up and I’ll never forget what Crerand said to the Lawman in the dressing room during the interval. He looked at him and, completely stone-faced, asked, “Can someone else find another mirror?” The place just cracked up. We went on to win 5-1 and Crerand, in fact, scored a rare goal. It was a great night in Manchester United’s history.’

  Gregg remains a good friend of Law to this day and revealed, ‘Off the field, Denis was a completely different person to the one who displayed such fire and bravado during his day job. Even now, when required to do after-dinner speaking or appear in company, he’ll still come across as cheeky, chirpy and full of confidence. But it’s an act, something he turns on, rather than it being his natural way.

  ‘Denis is a quiet lad at heart, more of a thinker than his extrovert alter ego would suggest. He has always been his own man, even at United, where Matt Busby was the archetypal authoritarian. If Denis made up his mind about something, nothing – and I mean nothing on God’s earth – would shift him. Take injuries, for instance. The rest of us might have been easy to talk into playing if we were carrying a knock. Not Denis.

  ‘Matt’s presence in the dressing room was enough to sway most at least to test their injuries in training. However, this tactic failed miserably with Denis. Matt would ask, “Would you not give it a go, son?” Denis would just stand with his back to the boss and say nothing. In his own good time, he would then change into his kit and stroll down the tunnel past Matt. Then he would return, change and leave – all this without a word being exchanged. I consider Denis Law a good friend. I respected him as a player and I respect him as a person. Denis is the sort of fellow you could really depend on. In fact, there are not many players I would say this about, but I would bet my life on him.’

  Sir Alex Ferguson doesn’t hesitate when he goes on record about Denis Law. ‘Scotland’s greatest-ever footballer,’ the Manchester United legend emphasises in the Foreword. The managerial doyen goes on, ‘He was my hero. He typified my idea of a Scottish footballer. He was dashing, he was mischievous. He was everything I wanted to be. There were occasions when you were just waiting for Denis to cause trouble. A lot of Scots can do that, you know. It was his way of telling the world, “You’re not going to kick me.” He had wonderful courage and daring. There is a lot in Denis Law that we Scots appreciate. He was pure theatre and knew how to work the crowd. I saw him make his debut against Wales at Ninian Park in Cardiff in 1958 and I watched him in his next game against Northern Ireland when he kicked their captain Danny Blanchflower up and down the park! He was told to mark the great Spurs player, but he took it too literally. He was only 18 years old at the time, too, and Danny was one of the best players in Britain. I think it was Pele who said Denis was the only British player who could get into the Brazilian team. That says it all.’

  Bertie Auld played alongside Law in three international games and is still a close friend. ‘He was a fabulous guy to be around, a real man’s man,’ Auld said. ‘I made my Scotland debut against Holland in Amsterdam in May 1959. Denis was playing that day, too, and we hit it off. He oozed charisma, but he was far from being big-headed. He was just one of the lads and never came across as Billy Big-Time. We went for a wee walk through Amsterdam after a training session one afternoon and found it to be an interesting city – although possibly not as interesting as it is today! But I spotted that Denis was getting noticed by some of the locals. No wonder. He actually looked like a movie star. He was wearing this fabulous camel-haired coat, with a big collar and belt. Denis wasn’t trying to attract attention, he just did. And this was before he went to Turin and caught up with the Italian fashion which was all the rage at the time.

  ‘He was a dream to play alon
gside, too. Utterly unselfish. There was none of this superstar stuff with Denis. No chance. He was one of the boys and raced around and chased the ball all day. You watch some of the petulant prima donnas strutting around and preening themselves today and I can tell you they haven’t got a fraction of the talent or the ability Denis possessed. He was genuine class, no argument. I wish I could say it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience making my first appearance for my country alongside Denis, but, sadly, I can’t. I was sent off after a bit of a skirmish, but, on a happier note, we still won 2-1 with goals from my wee pal Bobby Collins and that great Aberdeen and Fulham player Graham Leggat.

  ‘It got a bit untidy at one stage and I can assure you Denis wasn’t slow to get in there with some Dutch heavyweights. There were tackles flying around everywhere and the Dutch fans were baying for blood. There were over 55,000 in the ground, as I recall, and it couldn’t have been more competitive if it had been the World Cup Final. You look at Denis and there isn’t a pick on him. He certainly didn’t take one of those Charles Atlas courses that were around at the time. You know the ones I mean. The advertisement of this muscle-bound bloke, posing in tight swimming trunks, saying, “You, too, can have a body like mine. No-one will ever kick sand in your face.” Denis would probably have made mincemeat of him. It was only too easy to be impressed by Denis. There wasn’t an awful lot of him, but he really got stuck in. It’s rare that a guy who is so obviously gifted gets involved in the physical side of things. There are some blokes out there who can play football alright, but they couldn’t tackle a fish supper. Not Denis. I never saw him shirk a challenge in my life.’