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Ode to Bobby Chapter One ODE TO BOBBY CHAPTER ONE It’s Autumn 1987. I’m 20 years old. 11 stone wet through with a permed mullet and a bruised ego after my professional career had fizzled out in Malaysia (more about that later!). Leeds, Leeds, Leeds. As ever, I was running late and the traffic on the M62 across the Pennines to Yorkshire was much heavier than I had anticipated. It was a beautiful blue sky but a crocodile sun, and there was a chill in the air on this early autumn Sunday afternoon. As I drove past the farmhouse that sits defiantly between the eastbound and westbound carriageways, my mind began to drift back to the previous week when I’d played in a former players’ match against Manchester City at Altrincham’s Moss Lane ground. I played pretty well if I say so myself – mind you, I was half the average age of the players on the pitch so I guess I had the advantage! Always keenly fought both on the pitch and at the bar, post-match. Legs may have gone, but the skill, heart for battle and, it must be said, the ability to race to the bar and sink a few pints never left these old warriors. The match itself was memorable for me if not anyone else, except my dad, who cheered me on as though it was an important match, for late in the game I slotted a perfect through ball to the relatively new Manchester United Manager. A certain Alex Ferguson. ‘To me now son,’ he yelled across in his fierce Glasgow accent etched with that particular menacing Govan tone to ensure that I actually passed it to him. Would I freeze, imagining that maybe he might spot my hidden talent and sign me back on? Thank God I didn’t. My sublime – again, if I say so myself – lay off was drilled home to perfection by Fergie, and we nodded to each other acknowledging his cool finish and my perfect set up. Whilst I tried to stay cool, calm and collected, I swear Fergie gave me another swift look to say, ‘Who the bloody hell are you anyway son?’ 15 MY UNITED ROAD As thirty years and more have passed, I think it’s relatively safe to admit – even to Sir Alex – that after a tough start, me and my mates thought he wouldn’t last long at United. Now, I’m so happy to report that we didn’t have a clue and, to give him his due, let me go on record to say that Sir Alex Ferguson is the greatest football manager the world has ever seen and a true gentleman to boot. The best of that legendary clan of great Scots managers – Busby, Stein, Shankly, Ferguson and the rest – who have through the decades blessed us with their knowledge; their nous; their skill and their temperament; their respect for others, however important or ‘small’; their love and passion; and most of all their steely determination to win. I acknowledge this – even if he never truly acknowledged my sublime part in his goal. What a pass! Still time, boss. Come the final whistle, I was tapped on the shoulder by one of our 1968 European-Cup-winning United legends, David Sadler. ‘Nick, do you fancy turning out for us again next week against Leeds United at York City’s Bootham Crescent?’ Secretly, they must have been impressed after all with my set up for Fergie. ‘Love to Dave, it would be my pleasure.’ (I actually called him Dave?) It was obvious, at least in my head, that I was one of the boys now. ‘The coach leaves Old Trafford next Sunday at 11am,’ said my new mate Dave. ‘Make sure you’re not late, Nick.’ Still shy amongst such prestigious company, true greats of the club who I and all my family so loved and adored – I thought it best to decline the lift. ‘No, you’re OK Dave, you don’t have to trouble yourselves. I’ll drive and make my own way to York in my car.’ To this day I don’t have a clue why I rejected the offer of a trip with some of my all time heroes. Was I shy? Did I want to let him know that I had a car – or was it another case of Intermittent Welsh Tourette’s syndrome? To be fair, I would walk on my hands anywhere in the world to get the opportunity to represent United at any level and to pull on that famous red shirt just one more time. Dave didn’t seem too bothered, simply shrugging his shoulders and walking off. I remember thinking that a little strange, but with me still grinning like a chimp who’d just been handed a basket of bananas, I thought nothing more of it. So. Back to the M62 that Sunday afternoon. One week after ‘that’ pass! Kick-off was set for two fifteen and by quarter to two, with the team coach driver already on his second cuppa at Bootham Crescent, I was struggling to get anywhere near the ground in my much-loved, but sadly clapped-out Volkswagen Golf. I could just about make out the floodlights in the distance and also noticed that the crowds were drifting to the 16 ODE TO BOBBY ground around me. A rowdy white sea of tatty Leeds scarves. All too late it dawned on me that this was enemy territory. Suddenly, there was fire in my belly and, what’s more, the butterflies had begun to kick in. The sixties and seventies had seen a re-run of The War of the Roses. Imagine Game of Thrones with flares and feather cuts, windjammers and platforms, Woodbines and Watneys Red Barrel. Every game saw punch- ups and head-butts and people getting booted six feet in the air – and that was just on the pitch. Off the pitch it was equally brutal, both at Elland Road and Old Trafford. The Pennines had always been a natural barrier between two warring tribes, as well as one of the north’s most splendid natural landscapes. The animosity between the red rose of Lancaster (we won) and the white rose of York (they lost) has remained in the blood centuries after the last battle of that war at Bosworth Field. After our hatred of Liverpool I reckon Leeds is next – even 15 years after they got relegated to the Championship in 2004. It remained in the blood long after those warriors had hung up their boots, and today promised to be no different. It was two o’clock by now and I still hadn’t moved for a quarter of an hour. I checked my watch. It was getting close and I was starting to panic. ‘Make sure you’re not late, Nick’ echoed in my head – which by now felt as hollow as the Etihad on any average match day. The traffic crept along at a snail’s pace as the coach driver probably started on his pie, chips, peas and gravy – which by now I was desperate to tuck into – not unusual for players in those days. Nothing was ever rushed on this side of the Pennines. All around me the half-witted, grey-faced, grim-browed Yorkshire orcs were shouting their vile, humourless chants about my club – but I thought it best simply to seethe in scornful, furious silence. The odds of winning a scrap if I stopped the car and jumped out to defend my club against that throng of imbeciles were terrible – also, I wasn’t actually driving the bat mobile. At an upcoming junction I spotted a side road leading to the ground. This was my chance, but as I signalled to turn, a policeman came knocking on the window of my car. ‘Oi, who do you think you are, Don bloody Revie? That road is off limits to the public. Back you go.’ Ah, I thought, this is where I play my top trump card. ‘You don’t understand officer, I’m playing for Manchester United today and I’m already late. I need to get to the ground urgently.’ PC Don was probably close to retirement and was still on the beat – not good. He stared at me with the kind of look you have on your face after walking into dog shit with no shoes on – and this was a squelchy, slimy, modern one, not a good old fashioned white one at that! Definitely not impressed. 17 MY UNITED ROAD ‘I’m sure you are son, and I was in bloody Starsky and Hutch. Now, sod off and park away from the ground back with the others before I lose my temper and book you for something.’ ‘Come on mate,’ I shouted back, really worried by now about my team starting short – without its new top midfielder at that – and having to use the typical ‘Traffic was bad’ lame excuse. ‘Do you really think I’m sad enough to try and blag my way into a charity football game? I’m here to help you lot raise money.’ ‘Are you on Coronation Street or something?’ he asks. ‘My Mrs watches that. I like Emmerdale Farm myself.’ ‘Yeah,’ I replied. By now I was desperate and close to losing it. ‘I was a barman in The Rovers Return. I actually won a Bafta.’ The policeman smiled wide. More a grimace to be honest. ‘Right OK, well why didn’t you say so in the first place.
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