Munichs, page 36
But even with the police holding back the crowd, when Dennis and Kenny stepped down from the train, people still broke through the line to shake their hands or pass them flowers, to wish them well, it seemed, just to wish them well, and one older lady, she ducked down under a policeman’s arm and rushed to hug young Kenny, held him, squeezed him tight and said, It’s me, love, it’s your mum, but then she was gone again, back into the crowd, lost and swamped by reporters and photographers, could they not just leave them alone for five bloody minutes, with their questions and their flashes, but the police and station porters now jostled the journalists, manhandled the cameramen out of the way, moving young Kenny and Dennis away, off into their separate cars, to go their separate ways –
Dennis and Barbara had decided to go back to Manchester by car, but young Kenny and his fiancée Stephanie travelled back by train, and when they got off the train at London Road, there were no crowds, no reception party, no one even seemed to recognise them, and as they walked out of the station into the thick, thick Mancunian fog, young Kenny pulled the collar of his coat up over his mouth to keep out the smog and felt relieved, he thought it for the best, it best there was no fuss.
*
Twenty-five doctors and nurses from the Rechts der Isar Hospital, led by Professor Maurer and his wife, walked out of the Old Trafford tunnel to a huge cheer from the sixty-three thousand supporters before the League game, against West Bromwich Albion yet again, snow falling on Old Trafford yet again, the cheers only getting louder as Professor Maurer and his party gathered on the pitch, embarrassed by the photographers, blinded by their flashes, and then the Chairman, Harold Hardman, introduced the members of the party to the crowd, each member waving shyly to the crowd, Mister Hardman expressing the admiration and gratitude of the club for all that Professor Maurer and his staff had done and were doing for the injured. Then Bill Foulkes, Harry Gregg and Bobby Charlton came out onto the pitch, each carrying a bouquet of red and white flowers, presenting the bouquets to the party to yet more cheers from the crowd. But then Harold Hardman asked for quiet, said they had a special message for the crowd from Munich, and the whole ground fell suddenly, utterly silent as over the loudspeakers came a familiar, yet strangely haunting, haunted voice, falling with the snow upon the crowd –
Ladies and gentlemen, I am speaking from my bed in the Isar Hospital, Munich, where I have been since the tragic accident of just over a month ago.
You will be glad, I am sure, to know that the remaining players here, and myself, are now considered out of danger, and this can be attributed to the wonderful treatment and attention given us by Professor Maurer and his wonderful staff, who are with you today as guests of the club, said the voice upon the still winter air.
I am obliged to the Empire News for giving me this opportunity to speak to you, for it is only in the last two or three days that I have been able to be told anything about football, and I am delighted to hear of the success and united effort made by all at Old Trafford. Again, it is wonderful to hear that the club have reached the semi-final of the FA Cup, and I enclose my best wishes to everyone. Finally, may I just say,
God bless you all.
And then the voice, that familiar yet strangely haunting, haunted voice, was gone again, leaving tears with snow upon the cheeks, the faces of so many in the crowd, the crowd still hushed, still sombre as into the snow, the biting, bitter wind, United now kicked off, but this time they did not, could not win, nor even draw, despite the best efforts of Bobby Charlton, running here, there and everywhere, every inch of ground, position on the pitch he seemed to try to cover, but Little Ernie Taylor could not help him, not today, limping from early on, a strain in the muscle of his thigh, and West Brom scored, and scored, and scored, then scored again and won four–nil, and for the first time since the tragic accident of just over a month ago, Manchester United lost, and as the still hushed, still sombre crowd made their way home from Old Trafford, in the snow and in the wind, in the evening papers they read that while Johnny Berry was now considered out of danger, the day before in Munich gangrene had been found below the knee in the left leg of Captain Kenneth Rayment, and the only possible way to save his life was to amputate, and so that night, while Professor Maurer and twenty-five doctors and nurses from the Rechts der Isar Hospital, along with players and officials from Manchester United Football Club, attended a civic reception and dinner at Manchester Town Hall given by the Lord Mayor of Manchester, Captain Kenneth Rayment had his left leg amputated from above his knee.
*
Are you still planning on leaving United, Ray?
Ray Wood and his wife Betty got off the train from Munich at Liverpool Street Station, to a lot of shouted questions and bursts of flashbulbs from the reporters and photographers gathered there. But there were no other people waiting, no crowds of well-wishers for Ray and Betty, but some passers-by, when they realised who it was surrounded by the press, they shook Ray’s hand, they wished him well as they were passing by, one even said, I hope you stay on at United, Ray, but if you don’t, you come play for us, for the Arsenal, son!
Before Munich, before the crash, Ray Wood had wanted to leave Manchester United. Ray knew the Boss had never really trusted him since Wembley, the Cup Final last year, that the Boss thought he’d lost his nerve since that shoulder charge from Pete McParland had knocked him out, had broken his jaw and fractured his cheek, that was why the Boss had bought Harry Gregg from Doncaster in December, paid twenty-three grand for Harry had the Boss, made Harry the most expensive keeper in football history did that, and Ray had not played for the first team since, not once, so Ray had read the writing on the wall, he wasn’t stupid, what with young David Gaskell coming through in the reserve team, too.
Ray plucked up the courage, went to see the Boss, told the Boss straight he wanted to leave, asked him for a transfer there and then, but the Boss had just smiled at Ray and said, well, what had the Boss just smiled at Ray and said? Back at home, when Betty asked what had happened, what the Boss had said, Ray couldn’t really say, but thought it was something like, Don’t you worry, son, I’ll see you right, you’ll be all right, you don’t worry, son. And that was that, left at that –
Well, I’m suffering from double vision, Ray Wood told the press at Liverpool Street Station, and it may take three months or more to clear up, the doctors reckon. So I shall be out of action, out of soccer until next season, anyway. But since the disaster, I have given up all hope of moving to another club. I am going to stick with the lads and do all I can to help them.
*
Jimmy had known it couldn’t go on, it wouldn’t last. You cannot pitchfork third-team players into the electric atmosphere of Cup football, play them out of position, then expect them to do that week in, week out in the League as well. No, at some point they will run out of steam, drop to their knees and not be able to get back up again. But though Jimmy had seen defeat coming, could even point to certain reasons – reasons, not excuses: the ceremonies before the kick-off, the injury to Ernie Taylor, in particular – no reasons ever made a defeat any easier to swallow or digest. United had slipped down to sixth in the League, too, though it was true they’d played three less games than City or Luton, who were both above them now. But those three games in hand, they were a problem in themselves, when to play, how to fit them in; they would have no choice now but to play at least one midweek game a week until the end of the season. And just to compound a bad day, the reserves were well beaten at Preston, and that was after Jimmy had strengthened the side, surprising many by bringing in Warren Bradley, Derek Lewin and Bob Hardisty, three amateur but experienced players from Bishop Auckland, and yes, Bob Hardisty might well be thirty-seven or however bloody old he was, but Jimmy didn’t care how fucking old Bob was; Bob had been England amateur international captain, and more to the point, Jimmy knew Bob, knew Bob would be a great help to Jimmy with the youngsters in the reserves; even if Bob ended up just standing there, prompting them, Jimmy knew he’d be helping them, teaching them. But the defeat at Preston only confirmed to Jimmy what he already knew: there were going to be a lot of hard lessons coming their way now, now the well of sympathy was drying up.
*
The army insisted that Lance Corporal Charlton must play in the postponed RAOC Cup Final at Didcot, on the Friday afternoon, the day before United travelled to Turf Moor to play Burnley in the League. Bobby didn’t mind, he didn’t complain, he scored three goals, he made four, and the Seventeenth Company, Nescliffe, beat the Fourth Training Battalion, Blackdown, seven–nil and won the Army Cup. Major-General Richmonds presented Bobby with his medal, then Bobby said goodbye to his army teammates, got into a car and was driven back to Manchester, ready for the game at Turf Moor the next day.
United had brought a lot of supporters with them to Turf Moor that sunny Saturday afternoon, but in the shadow of the Pennines, the dark and silent mills, ‘Murphy’s Marvels’ would need all the support they could get, because the sunshine wouldn’t last for long, not round here, that was for sure. Jimmy had not dared risk Little Ernie Taylor, and so perhaps Bob Lord’s Burnley ‘Butcher Boys’ sensed a chance for a much-needed win, or maybe they’d just had it up to here with all the bunkum still being said and written about Manchester bloody United, felt a meal had been made of Munich, the mourning overdone, gone on too long, well, today they’d give them something new to cry about –
Early on, Harry Gregg dived at the feet of Brian Pilkington and the ‘Hero of Munich’ got a boot in the mush for his bravery and needed treatment. But soon after, when a patched-up Harry went up for a ball with Alan Shackleton, Harry thought there had been an elbow in there, aiming at his face again, and Harry didn’t like that; Harry went for Shackleton in a scuffle in the box. But once again the referee didn’t put Harry in the book, he just had a word, turned a lenient, sympathetic eye again, and the Burnley crowd, some in that crowd that day, they didn’t care for that, and for the first time that Saturday afternoon, as clear as day, there were shouts in the sunshine of IT’S A PITY THEY DIDN’T ALL DIE!
Minutes later, Doug Newlands went in hard on Ian Greaves, and this time the referee did get out his notebook and take down Newlands’s name, and soon after he had his notebook out again, evening up the score, taking down Stan Crowther’s name after Stan had squared up against Les Shannon, who seemed to be out looking for trouble that Saturday afternoon, and Shannon found it soon enough again when Mark Pearson tackled him. Now Mark Pearson was only seventeen, he really was a Babe, and Jimmy loved Mark Pearson, he really did. He never shirked a tackle, chased down every ball, won back balls he’d lost, he was a fighter, not a quitter, a Jimmy Murphy type of boy, but with his dark hair and long, Latin sideburns, his build and strength, the way he put himself about, there had already been talk in the press that young Mark Pearson needed to tone it down a bit, get his act together and start to show more respect, so when young Mark Pearson clipped old Les Shannon, put Les on the ground, Shannon wasn’t having that, not from some seventeen-year-old bloody hooligan, Les straight back on his feet, his fists up and raised, jostling, pushing Mark Pearson, young Mark Pearson not backing down, no, he stood his ground. But the referee was having none of this, he said, and sent young Pearson packing, Straight off you go, but not Shannon, only Pearson, and head down, off young Pearson went, to boos and jeers, the police having to protect him as he went, the cries again, the abuse, You should have died at Munich, you!
In the first minute of the second half, things went from bad to worse as Jimmy McIlroy beat Harry to score, and then with only ten men and twenty tiring legs, despite Bobby doing all he could, all he possibly could, despite the taunts still upon the air, Pity you ever came back from Munich, Charlton, in the seventieth minute Alan Shackleton scored, and then two minutes later, local lad Albert Cheesebrough scored a third and Burnley won three–nil, with very few handshakes at the end –
You cheating fucking bastard, raged Jimmy, storming into the Burnley dressing room, squaring up to Les Shannon. You dirty, cheating fucking bastard, getting young Pearson sent off like that, he’s only fucking seventeen, the boy, you’re a fucking bully is what you are, Leslie Shannon, should have been you that was off, not him, and if not for that, then for that fucking tackle on Bobby Charlton, you could have broke his leg you could, you dirty bastard, you should have been off for that, half of your fucking mates and all, you’re a fucking disgrace, the bloody fucking lot of you!
Jack Crompton dragged Jimmy out of Les Shannon’s face, hauled him back down the corridor to the away dressing room. But soon after, when a Burnley official came knocking on the door, bearing a tray of sandwiches for their visitors, meat sandwiches from the shops of Chairman Bob himself, as was customary in these parts, Jimmy told the player closest to the door to tell that Burnley Butcher and his boy exactly where they could stick their bloody meat fucking sandwiches.
*
Teddy Boys, shouted Bob Lord from every paper in the land, Manchester United were running around playing like Teddy Boys this afternoon. If we allow this lot to carry on like this, and ride roughshod over the rest of us, well, it will put the whole structure of organised League football at stake. It looks to me like they don’t like losing, but they’ll be losing the sympathy a lot of the public have given them if they carry on like this, in this unsporting way, and they’ll do a great deal of harm to the game, too. Everybody was grieved by the terrible tragedy at Munich, but I am afraid that the public spotlight focused on the new United, all they have had to withstand in recent weeks, well, it seems to be a bit too much for some of these young men, and some of the players, well, they seem to be losing their heads. I know Manchester people are still swayed by what happened in Munich, but it isn’t a good thing for the team or for the game. There is too much sentiment about Manchester United in Manchester, and to put it bluntly, they need to remember there are other clubs in football than Manchester United.
Now Jimmy was no saint himself, a man of many faults, he knew, and aware of every one of them, but Welsh and Irish as he was, the thing about the English that always got to Jimmy, not all of them, but many, particularly the richer they were, the richer they got, was that they just could not seem to be nice for more than five bloody minutes, it just didn’t seem to come natural to them; you could guarantee any praise would be always quickly followed by abuse, sympathy by mockery or worse, a simple act of kindness by an act of utter selfishness, as though they regretted any good they did. They just seemed a very petty, jealous people, more naturally given to hate and spite than love and kindly acts. No wonder they needed all their fabled manners and codes of conduct, otherwise they’d slit each other’s throats, and God help you if you weren’t from round here, then they didn’t even bother to pretend to be nice. Still, Jimmy wasn’t going to let the Burnley fucking Butcher get away with talk like that, not when his bloody team had started all the trouble, all the bother anyway, going in on Harry Gregg like they did, Shackleton and Shannon coming at young Mark Pearson, both with fists up.
It’s a shocking thing, boys, it really is, said Jimmy to the press when they called him up, as he knew they would, up in his office at Old Trafford, late on Saturday night. Disgraceful to be coming from the chairman of a football club, it really is, you must agree, it’s not worthy of the game, and to be honest with you, boys, I wouldn’t even bother to answer such an outburst. I’ve more on my mind. But I have to defend my players, reply on behalf of the boys, and I can tell you, we object most strongly to the remarks about Teddy Boys. They are totally unjustified. We have played five matches since Munich, and until the Burnley game I cannot recall one single incident to which anyone could take exception. They have all been played in a sportsmanlike manner. Our club has a record, on and off the field, as second to none in sportsmanship. But we don’t like losing? Well, no one likes losing, not even Bob Lord, but when defeat comes, we are not upset. Why should we be? I’ve been on the losing side many times over thirty years, and always been taught to accept defeat, and that is what I tell my lads. When things happen on the field, you leave them on the field and forget them later.
You see, boys, after the Munich disaster, we did not expect to win a match. Not a single one. But it is not about winning or losing. All we want to do is to keep the flag flying until the end of the season, when we can then start to reconstruct. So the question of losing does not enter into it. You shake hands, as many did on Saturday. We have no excuses for our defeat. But Mister Lord’s remarks were totally unjustified, a shameful thing to say, and I take the strongest exception to these comments.
Jimmy put down the telephone, opened another bottle of beer, poured himself another glass and smiled. That’ll tell them, thought Jimmy, show them they can’t be talking shit about Manchester United players in the press, not while I’m about, no, not while I’m in charge, but then Jimmy started to think about Matt again, about what Matt would have done, Matt would have said, and Jimmy knew Matt wouldn’t have done what Jimmy did, said what Jimmy said, no, he’d have played it cool would Matt, a quiet, hard word that would have put Bob Lord in his place, or maybe he’d have just turned and walked away, not deigned to get involved with the Burnley Butcher, not stoop that low and get dragged down, and Jimmy took another drink, filled the glass again, just wishing Matt would hurry back, would soon be back, spare him all of this, this world of boardrooms, directors and the English rich, their money old and new, it didn’t seem to matter which, Jimmy just wished, he wished Matt would soon be back, please, God, please.
*
Jim Thain put down the telephone, paused a moment in the hall, then went back into the sitting room.
His wife Ruby looked up. Who was it, dear?
It was Doctor Taylor, calling from Munich, said Jim Thain. Ken didn’t make it, dear. He’s dead.
Oh, no, said Ruby. Oh, poor Mary.
