Banksy (15 page)

For now, though, I needed to concentrate on our forthcoming Wembley date. While we had made hard work of defeating Sheffield United in our FA Cup semi-final, Spurs were breezing
past Burnley 3–0 in the other tie. The reported ease with which Spurs had beaten Burnley was a little disconcerting. Burnley were the reigning league champions who, along with Sheffield Wednesday and Wolves, had clung on to Tottenham’s coat tails in the title race. So magnificent were Spurs, however, that by January the bookies were only accepting bets on the points margin at the end of the season. All championship bets were settled in April, with five matches to go. Nevertheless, Spurs had considered themselves fortunate to beat us at Filbert Street while we, of course, had beaten them at White Hart Lane. Formidable as they were, we had to fancy our chances against them at Wembley.

Spurs were managed by the straight-talking Yorkshireman Bill Nicholson, one of the all-time great soccer bosses. Their captain Danny Blanchflower, also skipper of Northern Ireland, was an articulate and deep-thinking player who not only played a good game, but talked one too (half the night before internationals, apparently). When a player at Aston Villa in the fifties, Danny suggested that the team play to a 3–3–4 system that he had seen on the Continent. This idea was so revolutionary that it was greeted not just with scepticism, but scorn. Pained at such a rebuff, in 1954 he asked for a transfer and eventually signed for Spurs for the then substantial fee of £30,000. The love affair had begun.

When Bill Nicholson took over as Spurs manager in 1958, Danny at last found listening and willing ears for his tactical theories. Without taking anything away from Bill Nicholson and his assistant, Eddie Bayley, Spurs’ double success in 1960–61 resulted in no small part from Blanchflower’s theories on football and the way it should be played.

Jimmy McIlroy, Burnley’s mercurial inside forward, was a Northern Ireland team mate and roomed with Danny. For some reason, McIlroy never produced the sublime form when playing for Northern I reland he was so renowned for in a Burnley shirt. A reporter from the
Daily Sketch
once asked him why. Jimmy
replied, ‘It’s because Danny keeps me up half the night before a game talking about his theories on football.’

Danny was a beautiful passer of the ball, a midfield player with great vision and one who never knew when he was beaten. He was also football’s most quoted player, quite simply because everything he said was so eminently quotable.

The Northern I reland manager, Peter Doherty, a fabulous player himself in the forties and fifties, was Danny’s hero and mentor. Following his hero Peter Doherty’s resignation as manager of Northern Ireland, a reporter asked Danny for a comment. ‘He was the great North Star,’ said Danny, ‘that twinkled brightly in the heavens, promising untold glory, beckoning me to follow, and always showing the way.’

I can’t for the life of me ever imagine another player, of any era, talking in that way about an outgoing manager. But that was typical Danny Blanchflower. There was a lyrical, poetic quality to the Blanchflower quote that is a far cry from the homogenized blandness of today’s media-trained young stars giving their postmatch soundbites. Here, for example, is Danny commenting on Northern Ireland’s performances in the World Cup of 1958: ‘We did not win anything,’ he said, ‘but in keeping with our reputation as the Cinderella side of international football, we made quite a stir at the ball.’

Along with that Irish lyricism was Danny’s ready wit. A journalist quizzed Blanchflower about an alleged secret plan with which to beat England in an international at Windsor Park. Unwilling to reveal his hand, the wily Irishman said, ‘Tis true what you have heard. We do have a new plan. We’re going to equalize before England score.’

Within a few games of his arrival at White Hart Lane, the then Spurs manager, Jimmy Anderson, offered him the captaincy. Danny told the press, ‘I have accepted the captaincy, because I believe we have here the makings of a fine team. I would not want to be captain unless I had something to captain.’

Danny Blanchflower brought to Tottenham and to football
an unorthodoxy that had not been seen, or, permitted for many years. Yet we had out-thought and out-fought both him and Bill Nicholson at White Hart Lane. Could we do so again at Wembley?

Sportsmanship was still very much in evidence in football at this time. The game was very physical, but I cannot recall an instance in any match in which I was involved, where a player took a dive or overreacted to a tackle with a view to getting an opponent in trouble with a referee. It is a commonly held view that the game has always had little place for sentiment. That is not to say sentiment did not exist. During this season Manchester United suffered two heavy defeats against Sheffield Wednesday. In March United lost 5–1 in a First Division fixture at Hillsborough. That day Dave Gaskell was in goal, but their 5–1 defeat was a marginal improvement on their previous encounter. In the fourth round of the FA Cup, once again at Hillsborough, both United’s goalkeepers – Harry Gregg and his understudy Dave Gaskell – were unavailable through injury. As the players’ loan system was not in operation in 1961, United manager Matt Busby had no choice but to call upon his youth-team goalkeeper, Ronnie Briggs. Briggs let neither his manager nor his team mates down in United’s first encounter with Wednesday which ended in a 1–1 draw at Hillsborough. The replay, however, was a totally different story. This game turned out to be an Old Trafford baptism of fire for young Briggs, Sheffield Wednesday winning 7–2. Perhaps a combination of his own adrenalin, the fact Briggs received a late call-up and therefore had little time to become anxious, and an over-protective United defence at Hillsborough, helped Ronnie to acquit himself well in the original tie and concede just the one goal. In the replay I should imagine a degree of self-doubt possessed him and, given his inexperience, he began to worry about whether or not he could produce a similarly sound performance.

What fragile confidence young Briggs may have possessed
must have been shot to pieces when conceding seven goals in front of United’s own supporters. Two days later, however, Ronnie Briggs received a letter at Old Trafford. It was written on 2 February 1961 by the Sheffield Wednesday manager Harry Catterick.

Dear Ronnie,

I felt that I must write to you to let you know how highly some of our players, and Ron Springett [Wednesday’s goalkeeper] in particular, rate you as a goalkeeper of the future. I should not like to feel that the fact we beat you 7–2 was in any way going to shake your confidence.

All the great goalkeepers have had days when they have been beaten several times, and, of course, being a goalkeeper, when they pass you they are in the back of the net.

You showed sufficient ability at Hillsborough in the first cup tie to convince me and many good judges of the game that you have a bright future. This game is full of ups and downs, and I feel it is part of its fascination to players, managers and spectators, but I am equally sure, Ronnie, that you are going to have far more ups than downs. In addition to which, you are probably with one of the finest clubs in the British Isles and in the very capable hands of Mr Busby and Jimmy Murphy.

Kind regards,

Yours sincerely,

Harry Catterick

Bearing in mind what I previously said about opponents only offering compliments when they have beaten you, it would be crass simply to think this was the case regarding Harry Catterick and his letter. On the contrary, it was a tremendous gesture on his part and I genuinely believe him to have been sincere in his words. Ronnie Briggs was just a teenager and in writing the letter, I think Catterick was hoping his words would lift a young lad whose spirit and confidence must have been laid really low.
In short, what Harry Catterick did not want, was the experience Briggs had suffered at the hands of his own players to have a detrimental effect on his career in the game.

Unfortunately, Ronnie Briggs did not go on to make a name for himself at United, nor in the game in general. Perhaps the shattering experience of conceding seven goals at Old Trafford at such a tender age had something to do with that, though my guess would be that it was simply a case of early potential not being realized. Whatever, I hope he kept that letter from Harry Catterick as a constant reminder to him that the 7–2 scoreline was not solely a reflection on his ability as a young keeper. I have been able to quote Catterick’s letter verbatim thanks to a friend who owns a copy – the very fact that a copy exists suggests that Ronnie did, in time, come to derive pride from the letter he received. I would certainly like to think so.

No place for sentiment in football? In 2002, following the death of Glenn Hoddle’s father, Derek, a minute’s silence was held prior to Tottenham Hotspur’s home game against Sunderland. The attendance for that game was 36,062 and the minute’s silence was respectfully and flawlessly observed by everyone present that day, including 4,500 Sunderland fans. So appreciative was Hoddle, that he wrote a letter to Sunderland Supporters Association conveying his gratitude for the respect shown in his bereavement.

Hoddle’s letter was written in response to very different circumstances from the one penned by Harry Catterick all those years ago. But I make mention of both simply to illustrate that, in certain circumstances, sentiment does play a part in football. It did in 1961 and still does today.

In the week during which Leicester City were preparing for the FA Cup final against Tottenham Hotspur, however, we were to witness behaviour in which not only was sentiment cast aside, but common sense was inexplicably defied. Matt Gillies was to make a decision that made Leicester City headline news in just about every national newspaper. Two days
before the final he dropped the player who was our best hope of winning it.

During our last training session before setting off for London the next day, I was doing some ball work with Frank McLintock, Jimmy Walsh, Howard Riley and Ken Leek, when Matt Gillies called Ken over for what I assumed would be a chat about his role against Spurs. After three or four minutes we could see Ken standing head bowed, hands on hips, his shoulders slowly rocking to and fro. Gillies, his back turned to us, was making his way back to the changing rooms. Aware something was amiss, Frank, Jimmy, Howard and I made our way over to Ken. On arriving at his side, Ken looked up and I was astonished to see that he was crying.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘He’s not playing me. He’s dropped me for the final.’

Were it not for his tears, I would have thought Ken was having us on. Ken had scored in every round of the FA Cup and since taking over as centre forward from Derek Hines in September, had scored eighteen goals in the league, a tally second only to that of Jimmy Walsh. To say he was important to the team would be an understatement.

He was inconsolable. Eventually he explained how Matt Gillies had found out that he had gone to a pub the previous night for a couple of pints with some friends. Matt interpreted this as a gross breach of club discipline, a wholly unprofessional act in the week prior to the Cup final. Perhaps it was, but Ken’s punishment was severe in the extreme. His replacement was to be our reserve centre forward, 21-year-old Hugh McIlmoyle, a promising player but with only seven league games behind him.

I felt a mixture of shock and disbelief, as did the rest of my team mates. Ken Leek was the best centre forward we had at the club. Even at full strength, with everyone playing to the best of his ability, we knew Spurs would be very difficult opponents. Surely it was a case of Gillies using a guillotine to cure dandruff. Yes, Ken should have known better than to go out in public for
a beer three nights before the FA Cup final. But the fact was, that when we didn’t have a mid-week match, a Wednesday was one of two nights in a week – the other being Saturday – when players were allowed out for a drink. I thought Matt should have shown some common sense in dealing with the matter. To drop a key member of the team before Leicester City’s most important game for years seemed absurd to me. I know his combative play and sharpness made him feared by the Spurs defenders. When we beat them at White Hart Lane, Ken scored one of our goals and won just about every ball against Maurice Norman, who was no mug. Yet this psychological advantage had been thrown away.

There are occasions when a player relishes playing against a certain opponent because, irrespective of the quality of that opponent, he always seems to get the better of him. This has much to do with an individual’s style of play. Ken, for example, might find his style as a centre forward bore little fruit when up against, say, Tommy Cummings of Burnley. Though Maurice Norman was no less a defender than Cummings, Ken’s style came off to his benefit when faced with that of Norman. Psychology plays its part. When this happens a couple of times, the defender on the receiving end of a run around, starts to think that particular opponent has the Indian sign on him. The defender gets it into his head that no matter how hard he tries, he will never get the better of this particular centre forward. Conversely, such a situation can also work in favour of the defender.

I am sure this ‘mind game’ was the case with regard to Ken and Maurice Norman. Yet Matt Gillies chose to ignore what I and other Leicester players perceived to be something that would be to our advantage in the final against Spurs.

Football has much to do with fitness, both physically and mentally. Ken’s controversial omission from the side – there is no other way to describe it – did not make us any less committed. Nor did it lessen our motivation or our belief that we could beat Spurs and lift the trophy. Subconsciously, however, it must have had an effect on every player. In the build-up to an important
game, and an FA Cup final was seen as being the most important game in the domestic calendar, a team must be totally focused. The last thing you want is for the boat to be rocked. In dropping Ken Leek, Matt Gillies had, however unwittingly, blurred our focus and though he had not exactly sabotaged our chances, had certainly disrupted what should have been a tranquil build-up to the final.