Munichs, page 42
Jim Thain could hardly believe it; he had been the captain of the aircraft that day, but he had been sat in the right-hand seat, and BEA knew he had and why he had. He could barely contain his anger as he told Judge Stimpel and the commission, Regarding these instructions which have been brought to your attention and which you will find requires the person in command to occupy the left-hand seat: in this particular accident, I was operating within United Kingdom legislation, exercising my prerogative as commander, sitting in the right-hand seat, ordering Captain Rayment to occupy the left-hand seat.
I make no point of this at all, sir, said the gentleman from BEA. I am not suggesting it has any importance at all in the circumstances of the accident, but British European Airways do not want it to be thought that anything we have is not available to the commission.
Then why bloody bring it up, Jim Thain wanted to shout. Why bloody mention it at all? But he knew why, knew full well why –
British European Airways were hanging Jim Thain out to dry, stabbing Jim Thain in the back, casting any doubt they could upon his competence, his character, making sure the whole damn world knew what and then who, who was to blame.
The question of ice on the surface of the aircraft, whether it was the reason for the failure of the aircraft to become airborne, has been discussed thoroughly, Judge Stimpel told the press of the world. And a number of questions need further clarification. Apart from the problem of ice, the commission discussed a number of possible additional causes of the accident. Here, too, supplementary investigations will be necessary. As soon as these further investigations have been concluded, the commission will resume its inquiry.
The commission wishes to stress the fact that the present stage of the investigations admits of no definitive conclusions as to the cause or coincidence of causes responsible for the accident.
But Jim Thain knew no one was really fooled, no one deceived; three words in the judge’s statement had said it all: ‘possible additional causes’. That told him everything he needed to know, what he’d known all along: they had already decided on the cause, already come to a conclusion, a verdict; they knew then who was guilty, who was to blame; it was him, it was Jim; they had made up, already made up their minds.
*
Jimmy was sick of doubt, the constant thoughts, the permutations in his head, the beads in his hand, between his fingers, round and round they went. Width, width, width, that was the thing about Wembley, Jimmy knew, you couldn’t win there without playing to its width, so you needed wingers, and that was what they did not have, now David Pegg was dead, Johnny Berry not knowing who or where he was, and Albert Scanlon still with that bandage wrapped around his head. That just left young Kenny Morgans, and up to the Newcastle game, Jimmy had been pushing and pushing young Kenny, bringing him back as fast as he could, always in his ear, urging young Kenny on, On for the Dead, son, the lads who are not here, promising young Kenny Wembley, a place in the team.
But then, after the Newcastle game, Matt had said, Young Kenny looks so thin, so frail. I hope the boy is not pushing himself too hard, Jimmy, and Jimmy knew that Matt, the Boss, was right, young Kenny was just skin and bone, no wonder the boy played in fits and starts, the odd spurt here, the odd spurt there, but most times young Kenny just was not there, he was a ghost.
So Jimmy had rested Kenny for the game at Stamford Bridge, brought back Dennis Viollet, put Alex Dawson out on the right again, tried Colin Webster out on the left, and Colin had had a good game, but still …
Round and round the thoughts went in his head, and not just about the FA Cup, what side to name, he had to discuss the Welsh squad for the World Cup with the selectors, too, as if he didn’t have enough to do, and those discussions would feature young Kenny, too, whether to take him to Sweden or not, and more and more he was thinking not, best not, best let the boy rest, still …
Round and round the thoughts went in his head, the beads in his hand, between his fingers, followed him to Blackpool, back to the Norbreck Hydro, where from Monday until Friday, the week before Wembley, Jimmy had brought the boys again, for peace and quiet, some kind of sanctuary, the light training on the golf course, the jogs across the sands, keeping them away from the constant demands for tickets, the endless speculation in the papers, but, of course, the press came, too –
If you caught him on a good night, late at night, Jimmy would talk and talk, often keep folk up all night. He’d drink whisky and hot water with you till the dawn, fill the ashtrays, stain the walls with nicotine, as he talked about the war, the things he’d seen, the things he wished he’d never seen, but then he’d turn to music, the composers that he loved, why you really ought to hear Sibelius’s String Quartet in D minor, not just his Fifth Symphony, if you want to know the measure of his genius, and talk of genius would then lead back to football, the players he’d played with and against, the best ones he’d ever seen, how fucking great Hughie Gallacher, Alex James and Tom Finney really were, how no one really knew just how fucking good Tom was, how little people knew. But just imagine a world without Tom Finney or Beethoven? What a heartless, ugly place that would be.
But catch Jimmy on a bad day, early in the morning, well then –
Excuse me, Jimmy, said one of the new young press boys, the ones they had brought in to fill the shoes of the ones who’d gone, good pals of Jimmy, some of them, fast friends like George Follows, whom Jimmy missed, he really did, those men who knew what was what, how football really worked, what football really took, not like some of these new young boys, some of whom, it seemed to Jimmy, had never seen a match before Munich, but this particular new young lad, he smiled, he said, I’m very sorry to bother you, but –
Then don’t, piss off!
But then that better, bigger part of Jimmy sighed and shouted, Steve, Steve, I’m sorry, my old pal. Get back here with you. What is it, my old friend?
Well, I was just wondering if you’d be willing to share your thoughts on the team for Wembley, you know, whether you will be risking Dennis Viollet?
‘Risking’ Dennis Viollet, said Jimmy, scoffed Jimmy, shouted Jimmy. Go on, get out of here, go on, fuck off, will you, Steve or Kev or Dave, or whatever your fucking name is, ‘risking’ Dennis Viollet …
Jimmy had had enough of this, was sick and tired of this. He called a press conference then and there, that Tuesday morning, four whole days before the Final, and said, I was hoping to hold back until Friday, just to keep Bolton guessing, but I can’t hold back any longer. Every night since the semi-final I have been going to bed and seeing a new team line up at Wembley. I reckon I would have gone on picking and repicking the team until I finished up having eighteen players trotting out there.
I tell you, boys, it’s the toughest thing I’ve ever had to do, and I hope I never have to do this job again. So many of these lads, they have played their hearts out, but you just can’t pick them all and, of course, you can’t leave one out without a twinge of conscience.
But this is the best permutation I could produce, these same boys who looked so good against Chelsea last Saturday. I am just thankful this tough job is over now.
Then Jimmy led the press out onto the golf course, where Harry Gregg, Bill Foulkes, Ian Greaves, Freddie Goodwin, Ronnie Cope, Stan Crowther, Alex Dawson, Ernie Taylor, Bobby Charlton, Dennis Viollet and Colin Webster stood waiting to pose for the photographers in their Cup Final kit, with its special new badge.
What about the lads who didn’t make the team, asked one of the press. Mark Pearson, Kenny Morgans, Bobby Harrop, Wilf McGuinness and Seamus Brennan? How did they take the news when you told them, Jimmy?
Well, I told them in a private conference, earlier this morning, said Jimmy, and they were disappointed, of course they were, they want to play, of course they do, but young Shay Brennan, he said, That’s all right by us, Boss, you know best. Just give us a ticket for Wembley and we’ll be shouting our heads off for the other lads!
Then Jimmy turned away, took out and lit a fag, yet another fag, and with his other hand inside his jacket pocket, his beads back in his hand, between his fingers, Jimmy muttered, May God forgive me, please.
*
Bolton Wanderers were used to being the Bad Guys, the team no one wants to win, the nation hopes will lose. In 1953, it was Blackpool the whole world wanted to win, watching on their brand-new televisions, bought ready for the Coronation, that so-called ‘Matthews Final’, when Bolton were actually three–one up at one point, still winning three–two with three minutes to go, before they obliged the country and duly lost four–three. But that was then, and this time Bolton, its club and its people, they seemed in no mood for any form of sentiment –
On Cup Final day, wrote in one reader to the Bolton Evening News, I hope Bolton will beat Manchester United to a frazzle! I shall be hoping for a blow that will shatter the prayers of the distinctly unhealthy and morbid sensation mongers whose sentimental partisanship is no more than wallowing in momentary misery.
I am really disgusted with the day-by-day sentiments expressed by the national press about Manchester United, wrote in another. If Bolton do win, the papers will say they beat a poor team, but if they lose, the Munich to Wembley team will be toasted everywhere. All I can say is, ‘Carry on Bolton, get ’em beat and bring the Cup back to Bolton!’
In the weeks leading up to the Final, such letters filled the Bolton Evening News, railing at the national mood, the emotions on display. Even Alderman Vickers, the Labour leader on Bolton Council, felt compelled to say, While I am sure everyone in our town is very sorry about the disaster which overcame Manchester United, we would remind people that at Winter Hill, near Bolton, there was a similar disaster which left forty orphaned children in the Isle of Man, and little national coverage was focused on this tragic event. In other words, let us not have emotional sentiment at Wembley, but football!
In this, Alderman Vickers was supported by Alderman Taylor, the Conservative leader, who agreed, As things stand, there is a real danger that Bolton Wanderers will be playing the rest of the country!
Some of those fellows who died at Munich, said Nat Lofthouse, the captain of Bolton Wanderers, they were among my pals. Just a few weeks before the disaster, I was having a drink with them at Old Trafford, after they had thrashed us seven–two!
*
There had been singing on the team bus again, jokes returning to the dressing room, pranks at the Norbreck Hydro. It was Dennis and Albert who had brought back the songs, the jokes and pranks; it was Dennis who led the singing on the bus back from Highbury after beating Fulham in the replay, bursting into the ‘Manchester United Calypso’. Once again it was no longer wise to leave your shoes out for a shine in the corridor overnight. Even Bobby had bounced up and down on Ronnie Cope’s bed, used it as a trampoline, until Ronnie woke up and Bobby remembered, then Bobby didn’t speak for a week.
But then the Boss came back, frail on his sticks, a haunted, sickly king, and the clock went back, the jokes, the pranks, the songs all stopped. You never knew when the Boss would turn up again, and you didn’t want him to hear you laugh, to see you smile.
And here he was, he came again, hobbling up the Norbreck steps, the Boss driven over, watched over and supported by Louis Edwards and Paddy McGrath –
You here again, Paddy, my old pal, said Jimmy, fresh from training, still in his training gear.
Here to help, said Paddy. You know me, Jimmy, and Matt, he wanted to come over …
Aye, Jimmy, said Matt, sitting down in a chair in the hotel bar, closing his eyes for a minute, catching his breath, then, opening his eyes again, he said, I thought we could have a wee chat about Wembley, Jimmy?
Of course, Matt, said Jimmy.
I see you’ve named the side, said Matt.
Aye, said Jimmy. I thought it best, the speculation, you know, it was getting to everyone.
Aye, said Matt. You’ve no doubt seen all this speculation about me and Wembley, too, whether I will be leading the team out or not. There’s some people saying it’ll make the whole thing too emotional, if I do.
Well, that’s bollocks is that, said Jimmy. Every Wembley occasion is an emotional one. The bands, the singing, the Cup at stake, what else could it be? But it would be the grandest day of all for me, if you would lead the team out, side by side with me, Matt.
I’d love to lead my team out, with you alongside me, Jimmy. But it’s a long walk, a long stretch from that dressing room to the centre circle. I’ll only know on Saturday morning, when the doctor tells me yes or no.
Well, let’s hope it’s yes then, said Jimmy, and we can walk out together, side by side.
Aye, said Matt.
Jimmy nodded, Jimmy smiled at Matt, and Matt nodded, smiled back at Jimmy as there they sat, in the sudden silence, the afternoon shadows of that hotel bar, until Louis Edwards coughed, then said, Why don’t me and Paddy go take a walk outside, Matt, while you and Jimmy have your chat about that other thing?
What other thing, said Jimmy, but Louis Edwards and Paddy McGrath were already walking away.
Matt leaned slowly, still painfully forward, patted Jimmy on his arm as he said, It’s nothing so dramatic, Jimmy. You know Louis, know Paddy.
Yeah, said Jimmy, I do.
Well, they tell me there are rumours about you being offered other jobs, you know, a manager’s job?
There are always rumours, said Jimmy. That’s football. Football is a house of rumours. Gives the hangers-on something to do, to talk about.
So there’s no truth, then, in these stories that there are two big clubs coming in for you, Jimmy, one in the North, one in the South? Maybe a few others, too?
They may want me, said Jimmy, for all I know, but I’ve had no calls from anyone, and if I did, I would tell you straight. But I’m not interested, Matt, I’m not.
This time in charge, it’s not whetted your appetite then, asked Matt, his cheek resting on his hand.
No, nor the Welsh job either, said Jimmy, then he smiled, laughed a little, then said, You know, Matt, the other week, Wales were playing Northern Ireland at Ninian Park, and I should have been there, I know, but it was the same night that we were playing Portsmouth away, and I just couldn’t leave the boys, and so I called up the Welsh FA, asked to be released for that match, and of course they said yes, of course …
Matt swallowed, he sighed, then said, It’s a good job you didn’t ask them to release you for the Israel game, or you’d have been on that plane with me.
I know, said Jimmy, I know, and poor Bert would be here today, not me, and I think about that every day, many times each day, but that’s why I could never leave, Matt. My heart is at Old Trafford, and all I want to do is to help you pick up the pieces, Matt, and start all over again, just like we did in 1946.
*
This was the best place in the world, thought Bobby, the sauna at the Norbreck Hydro. He’d sit in here and sweat and sweat; sweat out all the dirt, the tiredness, all the impurities and weaknesses, all those things he did not like, but best of all, it was a place cut off, within these wooden walls, it was a world apart, a place where no one but the players came, a world where no one made demands on him, up close and in his face, all those people now who thought they knew him, like they somehow even owned him, not just Bobby but the club itself, the ‘nation’s team’, so every newspaper, every broadcaster now said, a piece of public property, a piece of which, a piece of him, everybody seemed to want, want and expect. But not in here, within these wooden walls, sweating out all that nonsense, all that shit, cut off and set apart, all on his own.
*
Bolton had got the jump on United, they had booked the hotel nearest to Wembley Stadium, gone down to London early, planned to have a walk out on the Wembley pitch on Friday, get a feel for the ground, a touch of the turf.
Meanwhile, United were still checking out of the Norbreck Hydro, getting on a coach to Crewe, then the train down to London, sat in a blazing-hot dining car, exhausted before they even got on the coach out to their hotel in Weybridge, and all along the way, this long, hot journey north to south, Matt travelled with the team, in his sunglasses, with his stick, sat at the front, not saying much, if anything at all, and all along the way, people crowded in around their Blackpool coach, their London train, their Weybridge coach, whenever, wherever people glimpsed, they saw them, wishing them well, cheering them on, banging on windows, banging on doors, and so when they finally, finally reached their hotel out in Weybridge, all of the players, the staff alike, they went straight up to their rooms and collapsed on their beds, all except the lads who had not been picked, who would not play, they went back outside with Albert for a round or two of crazy golf, but the lads back inside, up in their rooms, exhausted on their beds, the lads who had been picked, who would walk out of that tunnel onto that Wembley pitch, shake hands with royalty and then play tomorrow in the FA Cup Final, watched by one hundred thousand people in that stadium, watched by millions on their television sets, millions who wanted them, expected them to win, those lads, most of those lads, they found it hard to sleep.
*
Hark, the voices of history gather, thought Geoff, listened to them say, Every side beaten at Wembley one year, who then returns the next, they win: Preston North End in 1938; Charlton Athletic in 1947; Manchester City twice, in fact, in 1934 and in 1956. Last May, the Manchester United of old were the hottest favourites for many years but were surprised, beaten, some would say robbed by Aston Villa. But if United were to continue this tradition, the strange trick of losing one year, winning then the next, then Geoff knew most of the world beyond Bolton, beyond football, too, would be delirious with joy. But under Matt Busby’s old pal Bill Ridding, Geoff also knew Bolton Wanderers were a hard, solid side who would be only spurred to greater efforts by the nation’s sentiment, its sympathy for Manchester, only for United. The Wanderers had the England goalkeeper Hopkinson, a sure-footed defence built around the craggy, granite rock of Higgins and, of course, up at centre-forward, the lion-hearted Lofthouse. But if Nat sat deep, brought Holden and Birch on the flanks into play, created space for the inside-forwards, Stevens and Parry, then they may very well be able to press home a Bolton victory. Geoff worried that United had won only one of their last fourteen League games, that they had a weakness on the wings in Dawson and in Webster, that Charlton may well be wasted as a centre-forward, that the famous Wembley turf, it drained and sapped the best of men, in the best of form, and could likely prove a pitch too far, a game too soon for the return of Dennis Viollet to this new United side. Oh, what rot, what utter rot, said the voice on Geoff’s shoulder, in Geoff’s ear again. Have faith, dear boy, have faith. Destiny will play its last card in a Manchester win, you watch, you’ll see. It will be the greatest human story in the history of sport. Yes, yes, thought Geoff, for Geoff knew, even to have got to Wembley in itself was a remarkable achievement. Incredible, frankly.
