I need to go back before Munich if I am to provide any insight into what was
the central drama of my life, something which informed, inevitably, all that
came after. I need to try to recreate the sheer, uncomplicated thrill that
came with being a member of this young team. A team which, perhaps more than
any other in the history of the game, was filled not only with talent but
with what seemed a grace which came from some unchartable source, something
beyond even the planning and the vision of the great Matt Busby.
We felt nothing was beyond us as we talked so animatedly and laughed on that
journey home from Belgrade, where we had played with great maturity to reach
the semi-finals of the European Cup. In two days we were to face Wolves in
another game of vital importance, one which could prove decisive in our
pursuit of a third straight league title. The sky was low and filled with
snow as we landed in Munich for refuelling, but we saw little or no reason
to doubt that our own horizons stretched out seamlessly.
You looked around and saw one strength piled upon another. If we didn’t have
Di Stéfano or Gento, we had virtuosos of our own: Duncan [Edwards] was
touching new levels of authority, Dennis Viollet was playing with tremendous
bite and was just irrepressible around the box, and Eddie Colman was
producing a little more swagger and a little more confidence with every
game. Harry Gregg had brought a lot to the team with his fierce protection
of the goal and his fighting spirit. On top of all this was the
extraordinary leadership of Roger Byrne.
It was a wonderful state of mind we took on to the plane. In the cabin there
was a buzz of conversation and bursts of laughter and the card players were
aggressively at work. We were heading home for yet another red carpet
welcome, another return of conquering heroes.
Ushering us through the airport in Belgrade, Busby had no doubt been concerned
by the need for a prompt departure and swift completion of our trip. The
requirement to rush home to Manchester through the snow-filled skies of
Europe had been spelled out by the Football League, which had been so
emphatic in its refusal to give a blessing to our continental mission. Under
new league regulations, any team competing in Europe had to be back in
England a full 24 hours before they were due to play a championship game.
League secretary [Alan] Hardaker no doubt argued that he was protecting the
“integrity” of the Football League, preventing important matches being
squeezed into the programme in the shadow of European action. Another
interpretation was that he was making it as difficult as possible for the
man who had defied him with his insistence that United would fight on this
new frontier of football.
When we landed in Munich the weather was as bad as I had ever seen it on my
football travels; beneath the low clouds the sky was filled with snowflakes,
and when we touched down we saw there were six or seven inches of slush on
the runway. However, we were assured that we would be on our way soon
enough.
There was no point of concern until after the second aborted take-off. Then
the mood dipped, not in any dramatic way but quite perceptibly; certainly
conversation became less chirpy and the card players were less absorbed by
their game.
By the third attempt at take-off, conversation had dwindled almost to nothing.
I looked out of the window and as I did so I was suddenly conscious of the
silence inside the plane. Outside, the snowy field flew by, but not quickly
enough it seemed. I knew it was too long when I saw the fence and then we
were on the house.
There was an awful noise, the grind of metal on metal. Then there was the
void.
When I came to, I was on the ground, outside the wrecked plane, but still
strapped into my seat. Dennis Viollet had been pulled out of his seat and
was lying beside me, conscious but obviously hurt. Later, I learned that
Harry Gregg and Bill Foulkes had helped to get some of the injured out of
the plane.
I could hear sirens blaring and then Dennis said, “What’s the matter, Bobby,
what’s gone on?” Instantly I regretted my reply, which was, “Dennis, it’s
dreadful.” He was not in a good condition and at that point I should have
protected him from the worst of the truth, but as the horror was
overwhelming me, I suppose I was removed from rational thought. I saw the
bodies in the snow, though one small and passing mercy was that I didn’t
recognise among the dead either of my closest friends, Eddie Colman, who
with his family had befriended me so warmly in my early days at Old
Trafford, and David Pegg from Yorkshire, who shared my roots in the mining
community. In addition to my seven, ultimately eight, fallen teammates, the
carnage that confronted my still blinking and dazed eyes had robbed another
14, and in time 15, souls of their lives.
Eventually, I was helped into a mini-truck. Gregg and Foulkes came with me as
we raced through the blizzard into the city hospital. There, the walking
wounded were taken to a waiting room.
I had one small bruise on my head and I was suffering from concussion. Reality
came drifting in and out, but at one of its sharpest points I noticed an
orderly smiling, as if to say, it seemed to me, that all this was a routine
matter and that the world would still be turning when the dawn came. But of
course it wouldn’t, not for the football team that was supposed to conquer
the world. I was filled with rage and it was directed at this hospital
worker who seemed to understand none of that. I screamed at him. What I said
exactly is, like much of that night and the days that followed, lost to me
now, but I remember vividly the pain that came to me so hard at that moment.
My next memory is of waking the following morning in a hospital ward. In a
nearby bed was a young German, who was looking at a newspaper that was
spread before him. I could see from the photographs that he was reading
about the crash. He spoke little English, but when he looked up and saw me
he managed to say, “I’m sorry.” At that moment I had to know who had gone
and who had survived.
The German lad read out the names and then, after a short pause, said, “Dead.”
It was a terrible roll call, and I make no excuse for repeating once again .
. . Roger Byrne, David Pegg, Eddie Colman, Tommy Taylor, Billy Whelan, Mark
Jones and Geoff Bent. How could it possibly be? It was as though my life was
being taken away, piece by piece.
There was some relief when I was moved into a ward with a few of the other
survivors. I wanted to shout, “At least we’re OK,” but then I thought of
Duncan Edwards, who was fighting for his life, and the badly injured Johnny
Berry and Jackie Blanchflower, who would never play again, and that took
away any such urge.
Harry Gregg and Bill Foulkes passed through the ward on their way to what they
saw as their duty to the dead, back at Old Trafford. I shivered when I
thought how it must be in Manchester. We had been screened from much of the
news, but then, as the days passed, you heard of the funerals and something
deep inside you was grateful that you weren’t there, because it would have
been so hard to say goodbye with so many eyes on you. All the time the
question came pounding in: why me, why did I survive?
When you heard how Manchester was stricken, how many people were turning up at
Old Trafford, aimless in their grief but just wanting to be as close as they
could to the team who had so lifted their lives, who they had seen growing
up before their eyes, you felt there had to be a match as soon as possible.
A match would take away some of the horror. It was a small piece of escapism
and it didn’t take you far. It couldn’t, because upstairs Duncan Edwards and
Matt Busby were in oxygen tents and fighting uphill battles to stay alive.
Eventually, I was able to see them both. I went up with my heart pounding.
Later, I was told that Duncan’s fight, which lasted nearly a fortnight, was
the result of freakish strength and willpower. The German doctors did all
they could and then just had to shake their heads in disbelief that anyone
could fight so hard against such odds.
He was in obvious pain when I visited him, but his spirit was still as strong
as ever. When he saw me he threw back his head and said, “I’ve been waiting
for you. Where the bloody hell have you been?” I whispered my encouragement,
feeling my eyes smart while wondering all over again how it could be that
this young giant of the game was so stricken while I could prepare to walk
down the stairs before packing for home. Big Dunc was more than the admired
teammate and older friend. He was the embodiment of everything I admired in
a footballer. He had skill and courage and tremendous power.
He could do anything, play anywhere, and the world awaited the full scale of
his glory.
There was never an instinct to try to put Munich out of mind, to say that it
was something terribly sad but had to be relegated to the past because how
else could you deal with the present and the future? Munich was just too
big, too overpowering, to permit that kind of reaction. It was something
that you knew, right from the start, you had to learn to live with. It was a
reality that was reinforced with every account of a funeral, every
description by Jimmy Murphy [the United coach] of how it was at Old
Trafford.
Jimmy, typically, was the strongest presence in those days when the Old Man
was surviving only with the help of an oxygen tent. He said that we had to
fight for our existence – and the memory of the teammates we had lost. He
had been through a war when men had to live with the loss of so many
comrades, had to fight on through the suffering and live with what was left
to them. It was the same now at Manchester United, Jimmy insisted. But then
later I heard that it was just a front that Jimmy put on. One day he was
discovered in a back corridor of the hospital, sobbing his heart out in pain
at the loss of so many young players.
Very soon it was clear that Jimmy Murphy, and everyone else at the club,
needed one thing to happen more than anything. They needed another match,
some sense of continuity, some belief that, however haltingly, the club was
moving forward from the worst of the grief. For several days I had pushed
away the idea of returning to Manchester, of picking up again the challenge
of playing football, but now I felt a few stirrings, partly inspired by the
courage of Harry Gregg and Bill Foulkes, partly by the fact that before I
left the hospital I was able to walk up the stairs and see both Duncan and
the Old Man. Both of them were so ill that it was obvious we were in danger
of losing them. To lose one would be the most terrible blow; to lose both,
unthinkable. Something had to be done. Their work could not be allowed just
to slide away – though saying that seemed a lot easier than dredging up the
effort and the will to begin the job.
- On February 19, a patched-up United team beat Sheffield Wednesday in the FA
Cup fifth round in the first post-Munich match. Charlton watched from the
stands. There was a blank in the match programme in place of the United team
list.
Why I went for Sir Alex ahead of Venables
Once the decision to part with Ron Atkinson was made, I was quite open – and
emphatic – about who the new manager should be. “It has to be Alex
Ferguson,” I declared.
I had seen him in action, driving Aberdeen to performances that smashed the
stranglehold of the Old Firm, and I had heard the stories of how he had
tackled his first managerial stints at East Stirling and St Mirren. He had
gone into the streets with a microphone to whip up the fans. He was
part-evangelist, part-fighter and there was never any doubt about either his
ambition or his ability to inspire his players.
In the boardroom there was a strong feeling for Terry Venables. I said that I
understood it well enough. Terry was a marvellous coach. He was another
football man of high profile and character who commanded attention and
respect in his players. I conceded all of that, but then I made the case for
Alex Ferguson. I pointed out the unique scale of his achievement in
Scotland; no domestic club could think seriously of taking on the Glasgow
powers and beating them, but that was the mission that Alex had declared on
his first day at Aberdeen.
Aberdeen were not supposed to beat Real Madrid in the Cup Winners’ Cup final
either. He had lived passionately every moment of the game, charging on to
the pitch, filling his players with his self-belief. “Never mind Real
Madrid,” he seemed to be saying. “This is my team, this is Aberdeen.”
I do not want to make too many claims for myself. Ferguson was operating in
northeast Scotland, not on another planet, and I wouldn’t begin to say that
I had discovered a talent that was not visible to anyone who cared to look.
I just felt it was necessary to make an old player’s point as strongly as I
could; an old player who had long experienced the special demands and forces
of Old Trafford.
Soon enough – and despite the fact that some of his early signings were not
greeted as great successes and that we had to wait until his fifth season to
land a major trophy – I was convinced there would be no regrets. Alex
Ferguson showed something you can’t teach and can’t learn. He assumed a
right to victory in every match – and if it didn’t happen, you knew his
resolve would not fade but redouble.
For me, and more of my colleagues in the boardroom than reports suggested,
there was never any question of firing him before the great logjam of
frustration was swept away. However, there was a strong belief within
football that the Ferguson regime was in danger of going down at the turn
into 1990 if we were defeated in the third round of the FA Cup at Nottingham
Forest. I would have fought any move to dismiss the manager with all the
resources of argument I had. It all became increasingly academic, however,
when Mark Robins scored the goal that sent us into the fourth round.
Sir Bobby Charlton’s best United XI
I am going to pick the best Manchester United team from all my years as a
player and director. There is one place that is automatic. It is the one
that belongs to Schmeichel. He gave United the greatest gift at any
goalkeeper’s disposal. He sent waves of confidence through the team. He even
became an arm of the attack, moving the ball to Ryan Giggs or Andrei
Kanchelskis in one easy, powerful motion that turned defence into assault so
quickly.
He also, as Cantona did in his prime, embraced the meaning of the club and is
still frequently to be seen around Old Trafford, revelling in the aura of
the place. He gave an early indication of his commitment while helping
Denmark to the European Championship title in Sweden in 1992. Before the
game against England, he was asked if he was aware Gary Lineker was close to
scoring a record number of goals for his country. “Yes, I am,” he said, “but
it’s not going to happen against me. That record belongs to Bobby Charlton
and my club.”
All this means that Peter Schmeichel has no rival as the foundation of
my best United team chosen from the mid-Fifties until today. The rest of it,
playing 4–4–2, is: 2 Gary Neville, 3 Pallister, 4 Stiles,
5 Irwin; 6 Cantona, 7 Robson, 8 Keane, 9 Edwards;
10 Law, 11 Best.
Gary Neville has been a marvellously consistent and highly competitive player,
confident and tough, the strongest of the pack led by Scholes and Beckham.
He’s quick and wins his tackles, and when there is a need you can trust him
in one of the central defensive positions.
You never worried about Denis Irwin; I remember him once making a mistake, an
occasion so rare I found myself thinking, “Really, I never thought I would
see that.”
In the middle of defence I am torn between the twin pillars of Alex Ferguson’s
first title-winning team, Gary Pallister and Steve Bruce, but Pallister was
a little more composed on the ball.
Nobby is in because no teams were ever more reassured, or so driven, than
those of United and England before such great matches as the semi-finals and
final of the European Cup in 1968 and the World Cup two years earlier. I
felt the force and strength of Nobby as though he was a band of steel
running through everything we did.
Bryan Robson is in midfield for the sheer quality of his competitive
character; the other skills – the tackling, the goalscoring, the inspiration
– were all bonuses which carry him in alongside Roy Keane. Between them,
they would squeeze the will out of the opposition.
Cantona goes in because maybe no one ever seized a time, and an opportunity,
at the end of a previously flawed career quite so perfectly as when he set
the young Lions of Old Trafford on their way.
Fans of today may wonder about the absence of such as Paul Scholes, my model
footballer, Ryan Giggs, David Beckham, Wayne Rooney and Cristiano Ronaldo,
but they are still playing and, certainly in the case of Rooney and Ronaldo,
have time left to define their careers fully.
Some accounts, which were closed long ago, just cannot be forgotten – or
surpassed. It is why Duncan Edwards, George Best and Denis Law walk into my
team.
Now, when I look at the list and the notes and scratchings in and out that
accompanied it, I feel the strongest surge of pride. It comes from the fact
that all of them wore the shirt that became the badge of my life – and that
on any given day I would back them to beat anyone in the world.
Next week: My pride at being part of the “big three” with George
Best and Denis Law
© Sir Bobby Charlton 2007. Extracted from My Manchester United Years: The
Autobiography, to be published by Headline on September 6 at £20. Copies can
be ordered for £18 with free delivery from The Times BooksFirst on 0870 160
8080 or timesonline.co.uk/booksfirst
