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- Herausgeber: Icon Books
- Kategorie: Lebensstil
- Sprache: Englisch
'A superb book and a must-read for any City fan.' - DANIEL TAYLOR, senior writer, The Athletic 'A thorough and delicious retelling of perhaps not the most successful of European journeys, but definitely the most interesting ... Fantastic.' - DAVID MOONEY, BBC Radio 5 Live 'A book that brilliantly explodes the myth that City have no history or pedigree in Europe.' - SIMON MULLOCK, chief football writer, Sunday Mirror THE ESSENTIAL NEW HISTORY OF MANCHESTER CITY'S EUROPEAN TRIUMPHS AND TRAGEDIES FEATURING A FOREWORD BY CITY LEGEND FRANCIS LEE As one of the first English sides to taste glory in Europe, lifting the Cup Winners' Cup in 1970, City looked set for life among the continent's elite. But as their domestic fortunes went from bad to worse to absolute calamity, the wilderness returned. Avid City fan and respected journalist Simon Curtis dusts off the details of some truly intoxicating away days. Filled with tales of the club's travelling support and the evocative accounts of the journalists who saw the team of the Seventies, Curtis tells the story of a club steeped in history, defiantly refusing to bow to pomp and ceremony as it goes about lifting the ultimate prize. After a spectacular rebuild and having achieved all there is to achieve on the domestic stage, including a record-breaking 100-point season in 2017-18, City's deep-pocketed owners have their sights firmly set on European glory once more. Yet for all their recent success at home, they are anything but welcome guests at Europe's top table.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
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Praise for City in Europe
‘“Next stop Mars,” said Malcolm Allison. Not quite … but it’s been a hell of a ride. A superb book and a must-read for any City fan.’
Daniel Taylor, senior writer, The Athletic
‘A thorough and delicious retelling of perhaps not the most successful of European journeys, but definitely the most interesting, liberally sprinkled with the sort of humour that only a City fan could write. Fantastic.’
David Mooney, BBC Radio 5 Live
‘A book that brilliantly explodes the myth that City have no history or pedigree in Europe. Curtis doesn’t just detail the club’s adventures on the continent from the late 1960s, he also captures their essence with accounts from fans who were there.’
Simon Mullock, chief football writer, Sunday Mirror
‘Simon Curtis is a fine journalist with an extensive knowledge of the club – he is also a seasoned veteran of many European away trips. This book is essential reading for all City fans.’
Ric Turner, founder and curator, Bluemoon forum
‘If you think that not winning the Champions League means there’s no story to tell then think again. This book provides the story of every City game in Europe – a record that stretches back 54 years. Read the twists and turns of City’s fortunes written in an engaging style with quotes from fans, players and broadcasters who were there.’
Gary James, football historian ii
‘From Down the Kippax Steps to the latest rapture at the Etihad, Simon’s gift for articulating how it’s felt to support this undeniably unconventional football club has been unmatched. In times of comedy, tragedy, feast or famine, his writing has defined what it’s meant to be City like no other.’
Mark Booth, head of content, New York City Football Club
iii
v
To Barbara Curtis, whose early exhortations of ‘good word that, my love, use it in your essays’, started the ball rolling, and who, I hope, would have been proud to see this in print. vi
CONTENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Simon Curtis is a freelance journalist specialising in all things Manchester City. He has written extensively for the club’s various official platforms, with regular columns in the matchday programme and articles on the official website spanning a number of years, in addition to many years writing Manchester City content for ESPN, contributions to Champions magazine and a variety of UEFA publications. He lives in Manchester.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In mentioning the following individuals’ contribution to City in Europe, I am simultaneously acknowledging that none of this would have been vaguely possible without their input.
That the words you are about to read are reliable, factually accurate and in a vaguely coherent pattern is down to the eagle-eyed Graham Ward, who had the distinct challenge of reading the first draft (‘it hit his arm not his nose, Simon’, ‘Sané scored in the 87th minute not the 86th’ and my personal favourite, ‘the attendance at Plzeň away was 11,281 not 11,282’) and my long-suffering editor James Lilford, who had the unenviable task of putting the final version into readable shape on what was ultimately, after many unforeseen delays, a very tight deadline, and to whose wise counsel I am indebted. Thanks too to Philip Cotterell, Duncan Heath and the rest of the team at Icon and to Melanie at the Michael Greer Literary Agency, who persuaded Icon I could be trusted with telling the story.
Thanks also for time, help, access, encouragement, opinion, varnish, hyperbole, realism and inside information from Simon Mullock, Daniel Taylor, Gary James, Roger Reade, Simon Hart, Ian Cheeseman, Michael Cox, Rui Botica Santos, Vicky Kloss and Rob Pollard at the club, to Chris Dottie and Mike Hammond, without whose help with tickets I may never have seen the wonders that eventually passed before my eyes, and to stalwarts Gary Owen, Joe Corrigan and Tommy Booth, without whose stories my own would be so much the weaker.
I am also beholden to Paula, whose complete indifference to xfootball has reminded me every step of the way that it may be a frivolous practice that some of us have got inextricably caught up in, but there are other pleasures to be had in life if you keep your eyes and mind open. It is of course ‘only a game’ and it is indeed inexplicable ‘why anyone should get in such a state about it’. Her plaintive cries of ‘Oh no, the telly’s gone green again’ will not go unremembered. Thanks too to our boys for understanding why their father appeared to have a greater affinity to Kevin De Bruyne’s pass success rate than to their end-of-term meetings. Not even remotely true of course, but easy to assume during yet another Champions League match where Dad is either absent or busy upending all the furniture. Apologies to Lucas, who has been bitten badly by the bug, and congratulations to Sam, who has been strong enough to steadfastly avoid catching it.
Thanks too to my father for failing to have his own football affinity, liberating me to make my own disastrous lifestyle choice of Manchester City on the back of a simple dread for my cousin’s bright red Sammy McIlroy tracksuit, worn every single day of a 1970s holiday on the Isle of Man. On such small and misshapen things entire lives are decided. That and Denis Law’s backheel, it must be said.
And, finally, as this is a book interwoven with the stories of the fans who make this club tick, I would like to thank all of those who shared tales with me, some of which did not pass the censor’s watering eyes, but who were there through thick and wafer thin following this marvellous club. You are as central to this story as Francis Lee, Fernandinho or, indeed, Martín Demichelis.
Finally, finally, to Malcolm Allison, Mario Balotelli, Stephen Ireland, Robinho, Craig Bellamy, Roberto Mancini, Jô, Gary Cook and Rodney Marsh, without whose unique taste for the ridiculous this story would be several grades less astonishing. If you enjoy the book half as much as they have enjoyed life, it will have been as well received as I could have hoped.
FOREWORD
I had never seen rain like it. Teeming down. Bloody pouring, it was. When you take a penalty, to get the accuracy needed, you have to put extra pressure on the standing foot, but I couldn’t. If I’d put any more weight on my standing foot that night I’d have gone straight on my arse, like John Terry did in Moscow (in 2008). It was the only penalty of all the ones I took that I just whacked it. I used to hit all my penalties hard, but I always aimed for one corner or the other. This time I hit it with hope in my heart. Hope that I would stay on my feet and that the keeper would not be able to stop it, wherever it ended up going. I wanted it just under the crossbar. I took a long run-up. It went low. The keeper parried it with his legs, but it carried into the goal. It turned out to be the goal that won us the 1970 Cup Winners’ Cup in Vienna and made me, makes me, to this day, the only person who can describe what it feels like to score the winning goal for Manchester City in a European final.
It is in my opinion a foregone conclusion that my record will fall. It is just a matter of time before City win the Champions League and somebody shares my feat of securing a continental trophy for the club. I don’t think there is extra pressure on this generation of City players. It’s just a matter of time. It’s the only thing they’ve got left to win, isn’t it?
The way City are structured these days, from top to bottom, the ladies’ teams, the youths, right through to Pep Guardiola’s brilliant squad, they are geared for winning. They spend wisely, they set up shrewdly, they are gaining that confidence all the time xiithat comes from winning things. I just cannot see them being diverted from their goal of winning the Champions League. They have the structure running through the club for winning things. They replace players brilliantly. David Silva, Yaya Touré, Sergio Agüero and Vincent Kompany have all moved on and yet it hasn’t disturbed the success of the team.
We had that too in 1970 under Malcolm Allison and Joe Mercer. Winning does that to you. You take on another level of calm, composure, a mentality that you know you are good. We were bloody good. We were strong, powerful and skilful. Malcolm was a visionary like Pep. He had us on the weights. He had us doing circuit training with pro athletes. The difference was that Pep Guardiola is more methodical. When we got the ball to the halfway line, Malcolm wanted us to shift it quickly; get it up to the target man as rapidly as we possibly could. Joe was the same. He used to say to us ‘stick the fuckers in their own half and keep them there’. There were five of us all pressing. ‘If they lose the ball there, we’re in,’ he would tell us.
Malcolm was ahead of his time in many respects, but he made mistakes like anyone does and he could be vain too. He was a terrific coach, so clever, but he sometimes did things just to get the limelight. Playing five at the back or something, just to be different. Think of Pep Guardiola in Porto for the final in 2020. No holding midfielder, just to be different.
Europe was a fantastic learning ground for us at City. That first year after winning the league in 1968, Fenerbahçe was like nothing we had seen before. We went out to Turkey and the ground was jammed. They were shooting rockets down the tunnel and everything. We had to have a police escort onto the pitch. I don’t think poor Ken Mulhearn, our goalkeeper, played again after that. It shook a lot of the team up and right after Malcolm had said we would frighten the life out of them all. It was us who ended up being frightened! xiii
But we were quick learners. You have to be in Europe. We won it the following year and nearly won it again the year after, reaching the semi-finals against Chelsea. We had a terrible injury crisis and Malcolm had to play the kids. There was only a squad of twelve or thirteen in those days. I remember Terry Venables playing in midfield for Chelsea and doing stepovers to waste time when they were ahead. We were calling him Charlie Cairoli for all his messing around. The year before, everything went right for us. After Fenerbahçe, we were determined to put on a good account of ourselves. We came up against some tough sides, but we were more than a match for them. Nobody roughed us up. Me and Mike Summerbee didn’t take any funny business from the opposing defenders. We would switch positions. We knew how to look after ourselves too. In one game against Górnik, I rode a terrible tackle – just got into the air in time. The defender came flying through and we both ended on the floor. When I looked around, he was lying there with his shin bone sticking through his sock. Tough buggers they were. I couldn’t believe it when he hopped off on one leg instead of waiting for a stretcher.
Everyone talks about the hardmen of the ’70s, but some had a reputation without deserving it. Tommy Smith at Liverpool, Ron Harris at Chelsea and Denis Smith at Stoke always get a mention, but the toughest I played against was Jerzy Gorgoń of Górnik. He was in the Poland side that knocked England out of the 1974 World Cup as well. Never seen anything like him. He kicked me up the backside so hard I had a bruise there for weeks after. I had to take one of those little lifebelt things with me to sit on in restaurants it was so painful.
Of course, there is little of that today. Antonio Rüdiger might have finished Kevin De Bruyne’s final early in Porto, but there aren’t many thugs around in the game today. Teams still need a good hard player like Rüdiger, anyway – someone you don’t xivtake liberties with. The pitches play true too. You can let the ball run. You can rely on the path it will take. I would have loved playing on them, letting the ball go and relying on my turn of speed without having to worry where the ball was going. I played in quagmires at Maine Road and later in my career at Derby. In fact, in one European game for Derby vs Slovan Bratislava, the pitch was so muddy I went flying under a heavy challenge from one of their defenders and I put my hands out to break the fall. As I landed, my hands went into the mud, followed by my face. I propped myself up and wiped the mud out of my eyes and there was a bloody frog in the wet in front of me! You don’t get so many frogs on the pitch today either.
The story of City in Europe is not one of toads though. It is about a football team that will win the Champions League very soon, maybe even next year, but also about a club that, when I left it in 1974, was already a very successful side with a rich history of winning things. In those days, there was no one-team domination. Every side reckoned they had a chance on their day. Derby, Everton, Stoke were all good sides that played in Europe. As did City, winning in 1970 before many of today’s rivals had managed to do it. So, there’s plenty of history to go through, plenty of games of which I am proud to say I took part in for City, and they are all covered in this book. I hope you enjoy reading about them as much as me and the lads enjoyed playing in them.
Francis Lee Manchester City and England 1967–74
INTRODUCTION CINDERELLA’S SLIPPERS
Don’t look back in anger
‘The Champions League is the beginning and the end; we want to do it; nobody knows if we can.’
Pep Guardiola
The broad church that is football punditry believes this statement to be true, but if you ask City supporters for their opinion, responses will be divided into three categories: ‘it’s inevitable’, ‘no way, we are cursed’ and the equally sizeable third group of ‘I don’t care as long as we win the Premier League’.
To get behind this mindset, it is critical that we first explore its wonky trajectory through European club competition and itemise the different approaches that go together to represent 50 turbulent years of City in Europe.
Writing this the day after a tumultuous Champions League semi-final in the Santiago Bernabéu Stadium ended with the most unbelievable storyline even a club with City’s gluttonous appetite for farce could summon up, it is easy to understand all opinions.
But then City’s tale, at home or abroad, has always been liberally sprinkled with the most outrageous stories and the most eye-catching characters the sport seems able to produce. 2
The domestic rise and fall and rise again has been well documented elsewhere, but, when the up and down and around the corner tale of Manchester City’s adventures in European football was first mooted as a story rich enough to warrant its telling, the original and symmetrical idea was to produce the work to coincide with City reaching (and perhaps – deep breath – even winning) their first-ever Champions League final.
The mirror image this would have produced with City’s beginnings on the continent were far too delicious to ignore. From Vienna 1970 and the rain-drenched Cup Winners’ Cup final to the ultimate deliverance of a club that has tried and failed more times than the rest have attempted to tackle a hot dinner.
Tony Book’s bent-neck-lifting of the cup to a three-quarters-empty stadium juxtaposed by David Silva needing assistance to hoist a trophy bigger than his own upper body precisely 50 years later in 2020 just seemed too irresistible for words. Words, in fact, were all we possessed to do the idea justice.
Then, as has so often happened in this maverick club’s patchwork quilt of a history, the story took on a whole new life of its own and all we could do was be tugged along, turning and bucking in its roaring slipstream.
Manchester City’s history in European football has always been a curious case of the premature, the not to be and the not quite right, but, as of March 2020, we could add the maybe never will be.
Cup Winners’ Cup winners before many British sides had even woken up to European football’s potent promise, the club has followed early success with embarrassment, disinterest and a solid grasp for slapstick.
Between losing to Borussia Mönchengladbach in 1979 and beating Total Network Solutions (what a re‑entry to the boiling cauldron of European club football that was) in 2003, a well-documented switchback of brave ups and laughable downs 3filled the gigantic void left by absolutely no European football whatsoever.
Twenty-four years of total network indifference, a blank canvas, a dark hole, a gaping crevasse.
City have always been a deeply contrary beast. Relegated scoring 100 goals as the reigning champions? No problem at all. (In the 1937–8 season, City became the only team to date to be relegated as reigning league champions and, not happy with that alone, to be relegated as that season’s top league scorers.) Kicked out of the FA Cup by a Fourth Division side hypnotised by a man who crashed his car into a police van driving blindfold a week later? They can do it. (In 1979–80, City were torpedoed from the FA Cup on a mudheap of a pitch at Fourth Division Halifax Town, their opponents having been apparently prepared for the event by a part-time soothsayer named Romark.) Missing UEFA Cup qualification whilst playing a substitute goalkeeper up front? Yes, naturally, without as much as a blink of an eye, they can do that too. (In May 2005, a win in the final game of the season at home to Middlesbrough would have taken City into the UEFA Cup. Manager Stuart Pearce decided, with time running out, to play goalkeeper David James in the centre-forward role. The beanpole James caused havoc, City gained an injury-time penalty, which was then punted into the waiting arms of Boro keeper Mark Schwarzer by Robbie Fowler. A relieved and sniggering Middlesbrough entered the 2005–6 UEFA Cup instead, and, naturally enough, reached the final.)
More recent times have seen the club transformed from the limping, ugly duckling always one step from getting run over by a Gazprom truck to a preening would-be superpower of the modern game. And this is really where the going begins to get tough.
Through a clean, straight pinstripe of Roberto Mancini, Manuel Pellegrini and Pep Guardiola, City have just got better and better, scooping up domestic prizes like they are going out 4of fashion and playing a form of sumptuous passing football that has glittered and shimmered and bedazzled all who have gazed upon it. They have won more trophies since the takeover of the club in 2008 than in the rest of their preceding 114-year history, so these have certainly been what poetic types might call the best of times.
Champions League football was gathered in for the first time in 2011–12, a brave new world that had cost the club a king’s ransom to even get close to. That supporters eyed the prospect of playing the likes of Real Madrid with glee was wholly natural. Before then, the only occasion City had entered the marble corridors of the Bernabéu in this correspondent’s lifetime was to be beaten 5–2 in a chaotic 1979 friendly that saw multiple red cards and a collector’s-item goal from Bobby Shinton of all people.
Real Madrid would be the natural benchmark.
In fact, the Spaniards have become much more than that. They form a central column of this bewitching story, first as difficult early opponents in the days when City’s naive enthusiasm was not enough to carry them through the group stages; then as the club’s first-ever semi-final opponent in the Champions League (2015–16) as Manuel Pellegrini’s stint in charge carried City to the brink of greatness; in the spring of 2020, Real played the sacrificial lambs as City weathered attempts at Financial Fair Play derailment and a global Covid-19 pandemic to wipe the floor with the Spanish aristocrats; and in 2022, as the opponent that has once again given the dirty-faced upstart a firm slap in the chops to emphasise that new arrivals in these gilded corridors must sit and wait their turn.
So, waiting their turn is where City are. And just how long this process will take, in light of their most recent experience in the Spanish capital, is anyone’s guess.
1
THE EARLY DAYS
The things we do for love
A little over an hour’s sleep was all he had had time for. In somebody else’s bed.
His head still throbbed, and the dizzying effects of the previous night’s alcohol made getting up a task more fraught than normal, but Malcolm Allison struggled drowsily to his feet. A euphoric buzz was preventing him from sleeping more, although the low light from the street lamp outside told him he could have done so if he so wished.
The woman asleep alongside him did not stir as he dressed quietly and made his way out to the living room to collect his things. Jacket, tie, lighter, belt, some documents from the day before, notebook, a scarf given to him by an excited supporter and a small key fob.
The party at the Cabaret Club had seen him in typically brash form, swigging champagne from the bottle and puffing contentedly on his trademark cigars, while the whole world had seemed to file by to pay their respects.
The success he had promised had come at last and he had thoroughly enjoyed milking every second of it. 6
Big Mal – his showbiz alter ego – had made an immense evening of it, but it was a slow-moving Malcolm Allison that now made for the dimly lit street.
The press conference he would attend later that morning would become infamous in the history of Manchester City and its at times troubled relationship with European football, which at that stage was still to begin. Allison had just seen the side he and Joe Mercer had constructed just a few years before from the frozen ashes of a derelict and unloved Second Division base become champions of England.
With a typically buccaneering 4–3 win at Newcastle, they had sealed the title ahead of rivals Manchester United, two points the difference between them after a 42-game slog.
Allison, tired but elated, gazed out at the faces turned towards him in the crowded Maine Road press room. Some of them had been on the journey with him from the depths of the Second Division. There had been brickbats aplenty and widely aired criticism at the so-called cockney coach’s highfalutin’ ways. The assistant manager, brought up in Dartford and schooled at the West Ham academy, was the mouthy southerner who was heading for a fall, but that fall seemed to be long in coming of late, as everything he and Mercer touched turned to goals. His brashness, the cocky persona he had built as a juxtaposition to general manager Mercer’s easy-going friendliness, the bravado and the boasting that often followed his colleague’s tight little football homilies, all served to build him up for some as-yet unheralded but catastrophic tumble from the pedestal he occupied.
Waiting in vain for this descent to occur, many of the press pack had grown to like the City coach and enjoy the vivid audacity of his team, a side apparently built more in his own devil-may-care image than the relatively claustrophobic caution of Mercer. For his part, Allison nurtured the relationship expertly, often taking a gaggle of scribes with him through the 7narrow streets of Soho that he knew so well. They lapped up the glitz and the proximity to greatness and danger that a night out with Allison entailed.
As for Mercer, he had learnt to put up with his partner’s outbursts, tolerating them at first, then growing to play them off as the enthusiastic outpourings of a larger-than-life character, a young buck, who needed to be given a loose rein in order to produce the heady cocktail of swagger and steel that had seen City punching so far above their weight with a squad of players almost entirely home-grown.
Mercer also understood two other things: firstly, that Allison’s football brain and ability to innovate at a time when English football lay stagnant and sclerotic was almost peerless and, secondly, that Allison provided ‘good copy’ for the feverish press and was, therefore, always being trailed for a quote or two. James Lawton of the Daily Express, later to be Allison’s ghostwriter on his racy autobiography Colours of My Life and later still the author of the excellent Forever Boys, a nostalgic look at Allison’s late ’60s City team, stated: ‘He was pretty user-friendly and he liked the publicity, but he had his favourites. He had a particular respect for Ron Crowther of the Daily Mail. I always used to get a bit restive if Ron was at a press conference because he was a good old-style reporter who would ask pretty good questions and Malcolm respected him. It stuck in my mind that Malcolm was not just there to cultivate anybody who would write any crap.’
Lawton went on: ‘It was obvious Malcolm had a very sharp intelligence and was lively company. Stockport County used to be run by a guy called Victor Bernard and their Friday night games were always a bit of a social occasion. Paul Doherty of Granada Television and Pat Phoenix of Coronation Street were there one night with Mal and they were obviously going out on the town, but Bernard was telling them how Stockport were going to get promoted and how he would get them into the 8Second Division after that, then the First. He was going on a bit and Malcolm turned to Paul and said, “I think we’d better fuck off before he wins the European Cup!”’.
Ironically, on this occasion, in front of the press at Maine Road, with his sharp intelligence dulled by booze and little sleep, Allison’s own boasting about Europe would come back to haunt him.
He looked out into the flashing light bulbs and announced in typical fashion: ‘Gentlemen, there is no limit to what this team can achieve. We will win the European Cup. We will terrorise Europe.’ Spurred on by his innate need to needle Manchester United at every turn, he continued, ‘Manchester City will not play in Europe like some of the sides I have seen play Manchester United. I promise that City will attack these people as they have not been attacked since the days of the old Real Madrid.’ Then he finished with the phrase that would live with him for the rest of his career: ‘I think a lot of these Europeans are cowards. Their teams won despite their coaches not because of them …’
These ill-chosen words would rebound on the man who had uttered them and act as an albatross around the club’s neck for the next 50 years, almost 30 of which would be devoid of any kind of European competition at all.
It was Allison’s way, and it was typical City.
Worse still for Allison, within a month of uttering this infamous statement, his bête noire across the city would lift the European Cup at Wembley, beating Portuguese champions Benfica in a final that cemented the public’s love affair with Bobby Charlton, George Best and their stoic leader Matt Busby.
Manchester United, it can be said with some authority, were quickly becoming a significant part of Allison’s focus.
Soon after agreeing to join Second Division City, the ex-Plymouth coach had found himself at United’s championship 9celebration gala, where he listened with increasing frustration to the various speeches. First, Busby, the iconic United manager and ex-City player, announced generously to the party that he considered ‘Manchester had enough room for two teams’. It was another example of what Allison would later call their ‘bumptious, patronising tones’ that irritated him so much.
Later, a little too full of wine, he clashed with United’s Scottish international Paddy Crerand and was told in no uncertain terms that ‘City would never get a crowd over 30,000 in my lifetime’. In tone and sentiment, the statement would not stand the test of time. It would eventually resemble the ‘not in my lifetime’ outburst from Sir Alex Ferguson in its forced self-assurance when the manager was asked if City could be top dogs. Ferguson’s ‘noisy neighbours’ quickly made mincemeat of his words, as Allison would of Crerand’s.
If time has taught us anything, it is not to underestimate its cathartic powers of change. Angry and inebriated, Allison lurched back across the bar to corner Busby’s son Sandy and muttered: ‘Your father has got a twenty-year start, but I’ll pass him in three.’ As Allison would later admit, ‘Now that was a bad thing to say, but a good thing to think.’
As things turned out, Allison and Mercer hauled City past United in less than three years and now they were heading to the continent to further rub United’s noses in the dust.
Sunlit uplands
City’s summer months in 1968 were full of high-spirited and badly organised travelling. The club undertook an arduous but light-hearted tour of the United States, Canada and Mexico, ‘a great colourful swoop’, as Allison himself called it in Colours of My Life. The trouble was that the ‘swoop’ through three sizeable nations took weeks and City started the season unfocused, distracted and in the wrong frame of mind to set about not only 10their first title defence since 1937, but also their first-ever tilt at a European trophy, in this case the prestigious European Cup.
As City physio Peter Blakey wrote in his account of the trip: ‘It was an exhausted and depleted City party, which arrived back via Pan American jetliner on Monday 17 June from a 20,000-mile tour of three countries.’
There had been hi-jinks and trouble, ranging from disappointed hosts at the depleted squad that showed up, to shootings in the middle of the night, player arrests and the sight of a bored Franny Lee eating decorative flowers when his table ran out of alcohol at one of the many official functions the players were forced to attend.
Although City started the season with a pleasingly fluid romp in the Charity Shield game against West Brom at Maine Road, the 6–1 mauling masked the truth that the squad was not fit for purpose. Three league defeats followed in the first eight games, and by the time City’s European campaign was set to start – they had been drawn against Turkish champions Fenerbahçe – the club was slumbering in 21st place, already a comfortable distance from the pacesetters Leeds, Everton and Liverpool.
Strangely, despite the virgin territory being traversed by both sides, they did have experience of playing each other, City having hosted the Turkish side in October 1953 in one of three matches to commemorate the completion of the new Maine Road floodlights. Although City were not expected to repeat the 5–1 score from 1953, confidence was high that a decent advantage could be constructed before the away leg in Istanbul two weeks later.
There was one unexpected element that would put a colossal spanner in the works, however.
Allison, one of the most accomplished and innovative coaches that English football had seen, committed the cardinal error of 11not bothering to have the Turks watched. Against Southampton at Maine Road, Fenerbahçe coach, Ignác Molnár, sat in the Main Stand taking copious notes. The 1–1 draw he witnessed did not faze him in the slightest. ‘I wish my club had been playing City today,’ he told the press afterwards, having seen the hosts labour terribly to bypass a defensive visiting side.
If Allison had been of mind to take a precautionary look at Fenerbahçe, he would have discovered a side that was defensively sound, with a young goalkeeper of outstanding talent. That he hadn’t, reassuring himself that his City side could wipe the floor with Second Division-level players, meant that this information came as something of a surprise as the visitors held out for a 0–0 first-leg draw.
Despite young Yavuz Şimşek’s tremendous showing between the posts on the night, City were presented with more than enough chances to score the necessary goals to make the second leg in Istanbul a formality. Francis Lee, Colin Bell and Tony Coleman all missed presentable opportunities, while Mike Summerbee snatched at the two best chances of all in a fitful, frustrating night for the near 39,000 packed into Maine Road for City’s European debut. Allison spent an increasingly fretful 90 minutes fidgeting and shouting in the dugout, his strained instructions ringing out across the night sky towards a grumbling, uncomfortable Kippax.
MANCHESTER CITY 0–0 FENERBAHÇE | Att. 38,787
Mulhearn, Kennedy, Pardoe, Doyle, Heslop, Oakes, Lee, Bell, Summerbee, Young, Coleman
If Allison regretted not watching his opponents, Joe Mercer was unrepentant after the first leg, saying: ‘Fenerbahçe are a good team, but I don’t know if they can play any differently on their own ground than they did here. I don’t plan to watch them in the 12meantime. I’ve seen all I want to see and I shall be very surprised if we don’t win over there in Istanbul.’
After all the fevered anticipation of competing with some of the global names of football, both Allison and Mercer had kicked off by underestimating their medium-quality opponents. There was still time to recover, but it would have to be done the hard way, winning away from home in a place and against a team nobody knew anything about.
Admittedly, Turkish football at this stage of the late ’60s had a reputation for amateurism and failure. The national team had not qualified for any finals tournaments and the biggest domestic sides were considered a soft draw in the early rounds of the continental competitions. That clubs from Turkey have since reached and – on one famous occasion – won European finals (Galatasaray’s 2000 Europa League triumph), as well as developed talented players for a national team that is now a regular competitor in finals tournaments, belies the image of the footballing backwater Mercer and Allison mistook it for in the autumn of 1968.
Interestingly, Allison confessed to making what was for him, one of the greatest students of the game in English football, a beginner’s error. He would later say in his autobiography: ‘One basic misconception had undone me. It is one that is being slowly discarded by all but a few diehards in the English game. I mean the theory that the English football league is the toughest competition of them all … I thought that because we had won the championship, that we were a great side. I was badly wrong.’
For Allison, schooled in the fluidity and movement of the Hungarian national side of Ferenc Puskás and Nándor Hidegkuti, the Milan side of Gunnar Nordahl and Helenio Herrera’s Inter, this was a return to the small-time English parochialism that he hated and it was about to cost his club dearly. 13
Neil Young, quoted in Ian Penney’s book Manchester City: The Mercer–Allison Years, agreed with his flamboyant boss: ‘To this day I still don’t know how we didn’t beat them 10–1 at Maine Road. In that first leg, we did everything but score. I think this was one of Malcolm’s biggest mistakes during his time at Maine Road.’
Teammate Colin Bell, City’s focal point throughout the glory years, was equally adamant that their approach had smacked of ill-preparation, stating: ‘It was unfortunate that it was our first experience of Europe. No English side had ever played against Turkish opposition either. They kicked us up in the air, picked us up and shook our hands and we accepted it. We weren’t in the best of form at the time, but we still expected to win.’
Before the second leg, there were three domestic games to negotiate. In those days, a busy league and domestic cup schedule did not mean changing the team around to save legs for the more crucial games. In any case, European games were not seen as being more important than domestic matches.
Neither did the way the team played change greatly. City’s ‘up and at ’em’ attacking style had served them well in the league and it was to be business as usual in European competition. As Allison had intimated, it was for the others to be frightened of City not vice versa.
League wins over Sunderland and Leeds were overshadowed by an embarrassing exit from the League Cup at lowly second-tier Blackpool.
Girl guides on the Bosporus
It was raining heavily in Manchester when the club’s travelling party arrived at Ringway on 1 October. The squad of seventeen flew out into the unknown to find out what Fenerbahçe and the city of Istanbul had in store for them.
City would be housed in the Hilton Hotel – befitting their new-found status as glamorous league champions – on a hill 14overlooking the Mithatpaşa Stadium. It had also been picked to make sure the squad avoided the worst effects of the local cuisine.
Captain Tony Book, travelling with the squad but unable to play owing to an Achilles tendon injury, could not believe the sight that greeted him on pulling back the curtains the next morning: ‘It was not much past 8 o’clock in the morning and already the queues to the ground were snaking back towards the hotel from the stadium. I realised straight away what this meant to the locals and that we were in for a hard time.’
By the time the squad headed for the stadium, its 32,000 capacity had been filled and another 10,000 fans were busy attempting to squeeze themselves inside its tall concrete walls. The bus carrying the City players edged slowly through the masses, affording the squad a close-up view of the fanaticism of the locals. ‘The whole place’, added Book, ‘seemed to be surrounded by soldiers with guns. It is hard to ignore that sort of stuff when you have not experienced it before.’ Once inside, a member of the local ground staff confirmed to an inquisitive Walter Griffiths, City’s secretary, that the stadium was indeed over-full. Everything was set for a real test of City’s sparse experience of such places.
At this point their coach’s outspoken comments in the comfort of a close-season Maine Road press conference must have felt hollow indeed. Without any kind of briefing on what to expect, the players were ashen-faced as they exited the bus to climb the steps into the heaving stadium.
Kick-off saw City led out into a wall of noise by Alan Oakes, captain in Book’s absence, carrying a large bouquet of flowers and an apprehensive expression.
After a cagey start, City settled the better, with Oakes and Summerbee testing the home defence. City got an early feel of what might be in store for them if things went wrong, however, 15when Ogün Temizkanoğlu strode through a hesitant backline to score from Can Bartu’s clever pass but was ruled offside. Not only had City been warned about Fenerbahçe’s quick, incisive passing, but also the delirium that would greet any goal. As the referee whistled for the infringement, the City penalty area was already full of cameramen and cavorting club officials. However, Fenerbahçe, spurred on by the thoughts of an early goal and by the exhortations of the bubbling crowd, were in for a shock of their own.
In the twelfth minute, a moment of disaster for the Turks almost gave the tie to City. As Albert Barham wrote in his Guardian report the next morning: ‘It seemed to knock the heart out of them for some time and gave City the lead they had wanted so desperately. It was a goal greeted in complete and shocked silence. Lee’s long, looping pass which hovered over the penalty area was the cause. Ercan Aktuna, the big, burly strong man of the defence shaped to head it back. But he made a mistake. Deciding to fox the precocious Coleman with some of his own medicine, he anticipated that the ball would carry to Yavuz. It did not. Coleman, quick to spot the chance, pounced on it and as Yavuz came out to him, trying to tackle waist-high, Coleman popped the ball into the net.’
The 1–0 scoreline would see City through to the second round safely enough, if a little shaken. Oakes, playing superbly with the extra responsibility, and Neil Young, foraging back to aid the defence, were the stand-out performers as City held their ground.
Others were not faring so well in the cauldron of noise, though. As Allison later wrote: ‘Before my eyes my players were simply freezing. The place was filled with hysterical Turks. Goalkeeper Ken Mulhearn was rooted in panic. George Heslop seemed unable to move coherently and even the swaggering “baby face” Tony Coleman found himself unable to play properly.’ 16
Playing for survival, in the face of renewed Turkish efforts after the break, City could not hold out. In a wave of attacks, the home side drew level. The all-important morale-booster fell within two minutes of the restart and it was the substitute Abdullah Çevrim that scored it, finishing clinically after being put through a statuesque City defence by the clever passing of Ogün Altıparmak. Fenerbahçe’s second, in the 78th minute, was scored by the provider of the first, after Can’s quickly taken free kick.
In truth, City had not only committed the cardinal error of underestimating the Turks before a ball had been kicked, they had also compounded the mistake by repeating it in the second leg. As for Fenerbahçe, looking beaten and dispirited after City’s early goal, they had been allowed back into a game they appeared to have given up as lost.
With Young pinned deeper and deeper by Fenerbahçe’s clever running, Summerbee was left to run a lone furrow up front, often seeing the ball cut out before it reached him.
Molnár, the home coach, had thus got one over on his English counterpart. Allison’s love of Hungarian football must surely have allowed him a wry smile, as he had been outfoxed by a countryman of his heroes Puskás and Hidegkuti.
City were out of the European Cup before they had had time to acclimatise. The bonfires being lit on the terraces as the teams left the pitch were a sure-fire metaphor for the heat being felt by Mercer and Allison. Having promised the earth, they were returning from their first-ever European trip empty-handed and embarrassed.
Barham’s Guardian report concluded: ‘City are out of the European Champions’ Cup at their first attempt. It was not for the want of trying. They did their best. They covered as well as they could. They defended stubbornly. But three Fenerbahçe forwards were their betters. One sensed they would be from 17the brief glimpses seen in their attack in the goalless first leg at Maine Road … By the standard one has seen elsewhere it was clean, fast and hard.’
As the excited crowd invaded the pitch, City’s defeated players trooped off round-shouldered to face the gruelling task of picking up league form and saving some face from a season that was quickly turning sour.
FENERBAHÇE 2–1 MANCHESTER CITY | Att. officially 32,000 | Coleman
Mulhearn, Connor, Pardoe, Doyle, Heslop, Oakes, Lee, Bell, Summerbee, Young, Coleman
Fenerbahçe’s progress in the tournament was halted immediately as they were dumped out without a squeak of complaint by an Ajax side playing the kind of ‘clockwork’ football under Rinus Michels that Allison had so admired from Puskás and his men.
For Allison, it was the bitterest pill to swallow. Ruminating in Colours of My Life, he remembered: ‘It was a colossal flop. I had been so sure we would cut a fiery path through European football. At that Championship press conference in the spring, I had announced that European football was filled with cowards, people who would simply turn and run against the force and aggression that had become the style of Manchester City … Maybe I had been a bit cocky about this first tie. I should have watched the Turks beforehand, if only to guard against complacency from the team. But the defeat had come simply because our team had not played. I remember groaning from the dugout “They look like girl guides.”’
Thus, Allison, the great student of European football, had been tripped up by it at the earliest stage possible. Undone by poor finishing in the first leg, City were undressed completely 18when they arrived in Istanbul, as the culture shock dumbfounded many of the players. After not knowing what to expect, not briefed by the staff as to how much pressure, noise and excitement the game was likely to engender among the home supporters, certain players froze like rabbits in the headlights. It was a costly, painful, but ultimately useful lesson. City would be stronger next time, although when that would be was at this stage unclear, as the team returned to a growing relegation fight in the First Division.
* * *
The 1968–9 season would end in bitter disappointment in the league. City, champions twelve months before, finished in a desultory thirteenth place, 27 points adrift of first-place Leeds. For Allison and Mercer, who were just getting used to the glory they had brought to the club, it was a huge disappointment.
Saviour came in the shape of a run to the FA Cup final, a string of great performances, which really began to take shape in the fifth round at snowbound Ewood Park where City demolished Blackburn Rovers. A last-gasp winner from Tommy Booth in the Villa Park semi-final with Everton took the Blues through to Wembley where they would meet Leicester City.
Young’s unerring left-foot winner from Summerbee’s cut back was enough to seal the win. The season had been saved with practically the last kick of the campaign. On top of that, City would be back in Europe for a second season in a row and Allison was already working hard on a fail-safe plan to avoid the disasters of Turkey.
The summer began with disruption. Tony Coleman, scorer of the sole City goal in Istanbul, put in a transfer request. Worse still, as the goal frames came down at Maine Road and the ground staff got to grips with their summer chores, news broke 19that Malcolm Allison had flown to Turin where he was discussing terms to become the new manager of Juventus. The initial contact had apparently even come as Allison was preparing his side for the Cup final.
Allison, for ever the itchy-feet merchant, was at it again. Mercer felt dismay and hoped publicly that his colleague would see sense and come back to the fold. Allison himself, beguiled by the reception he received in Italy and the champagne treatment he was being afforded at every turn, was close to signing the lucrative contract that had been prepared for him. It included alluring clauses regarding frequent travel back to the UK, a rent-free mansion on the shores of Lake Como, a car of his choice (not necessarily one of the prosaic models from Juventus’ main backers Fiat) and a salary that would have made his paymasters in Manchester blanch. In short, the only thing stopping him from taking out his pen there and then was the unfinished business that he and Mercer had talked about.
Instead, Allison took himself off on a flamboyant tour of the south of France and Rome with journalist friends, hooked up with what he euphemistically called an ‘exotic dancer’ – who, ironically, was Hungarian – whom he had met in one of Turin’s seedier nightclubs and allowed his mind to wander from the subject at hand.
The moment had passed.
In addition to the unfinished business, there was also Allison’s gnawing ambition to rub neighbours United’s noses further into the dirt. The run-ins with Crerand and Busby, when Allison had just arrived in the city, had left an indelible mark on his psyche and he dearly wanted to finish the job of levering City onto a higher pedestal than United.
By winning the league ahead of them, Allison had begun to bask in the glorious power shift that he had foreseen. What he had not imagined was United trumping that by winning the 20European Cup two weeks later, eclipsing City’s achievement. For the final game of the season, the Match of the Day cameras had followed their instincts to Old Trafford, confident that they were in the correct location to witness the title being won. City’s fantastic achievement was, thus, captured on grainy newsreel footage and half-forgotten when United triumphed so romantically at Wembley against Benfica.
On top of everything, it was here in Manchester, in the swirling vortex of European football, that Allison’s urges burned brightest of all.
Allison’s empathy with the City faithful had grown to such an extent he found it impossible to break the bond. Underneath everything, his failure in Europe was a stain on his credentials as a trailblazer. Having assiduously studied the intricacies of the continental game from the ’50s onwards, Allison wanted to emulate the greats and storm the European stage with his swashbuckling side. The long periods he had spent learning about the philosophies of Helenio Herrera at Inter, Gunnar Nordahl’s imposing AC Milan, Rinus Michels and his beautiful balance of steel and artistry at Ajax, Béla Guttmann’s groundbreaking work at Benfica and of the great Hungarians he had idolised since he was a run-of-the-mill centre-back at West Ham were not to be wasted now, just as his City team was flowering to greatness.
Allison’s mind was made up. He would stay in Manchester, shunning the bright lights of Europe, and he would bring the continental dazzle to Maine Road instead.
2
ALLISON’S PROPHECY COMES GOOD A YEAR LATE
This is the one
Without realising it at the time, Fenerbahçe had done Manchester City and Malcolm Allison something of a favour.
In dumping them out of their inaugural European adventure at the first hurdle, the Turkish champions ensured that City’s flamboyant coach would, in his own words, ‘never again’ underestimate an opponent. ‘Never again’ would he leave anything in the pre-match planning to doubt. Allison meant business. It also meant that as City began their preparations for the European Cup Winners’ Cup campaign of 1969–70, there would be no outrageous statements of intent from City’s boss.
Allison was just as focused and determined, but he was intent on letting his players do all the talking this time round.
Success would arguably mark Allison out as the innovative, outside-the-box thinker that certain aspects of his reputation concealed. Almost literally, the plumes of cigar smoke could occasionally veil the idea that here was a coach who thought about the game just as deeply as the grand masters. Allison’s career at West Ham in the ’50s had been cut short by tuberculosis. Like many players whose careers had been curtailed by ill-fortune, Allison the manager was profoundly driven. 22
As a player, he would lead delegations of teammates to Cassettari’s snack bar around the corner from Upton Park. There they would huddle round the tables and watch intently as Allison shuffled salt and pepper pots around, extolling the virtues of the great Hungarian side of Puskás and Hidegkuti. It became the daily meeting place for a group of Allison’s disciples, who would all go on to manage in one capacity or another in the higher echelons of the sport: John Cartwright for the England under 18s, John Bond, who would follow Big Mal into the Maine Road hot seat when Allison’s second coming at Maine Road failed, Frank O’Farrell, who would manage across the road at Old Trafford (and would be in charge of the Leicester side beaten at Wembley to allow City access to the Cup Winners’ Cup) and Phil Woosnam, who went on to be a founding member of the North American Soccer League across the Atlantic. There was also Ken Brown, who would be a hugely influential figure in Norwich City’s rise to the top flight, and Dave Sexton, who would carve out a successful managerial career at Chelsea, Queens Park Rangers and Manchester United. The list was almost endless. In the youth academy at West Ham, Allison took special care of another young prodigy that he felt had what it took. The spindly, star-struck youngster’s name? Bobby Moore.
While Joe Mercer got plenty of plaudits for his behind-the-scenes work as the grand old sage, Allison’s more boisterous reputation divided opinion. His players were cutting the mustard: his dietary regimes making them fitter, his exercise programmes making them nimbler and his team-building sessions making them mentally stronger. The City side about to unleash its effervescent attacking football on the continent would be doing it to Allison’s unique blueprint.
City had been drawn against Atlético Bilbao in the opening round. Bilbao, with a strong English history, were led by ex-West Brom and England player Ronnie Allen and had 23a side containing various elements of the Spanish national team. Owing to a decree covering nationalism issued by Generalissimo Franco in 1941, the club had been obliged to change its name from the original anglicised Athletic to Atlético, but would revert to the original in the late ’70s after the demise of the dictatorship.
Having started the season with mixed results, City were lower mid-table when a gap presented itself before they were due to play Chelsea. Taking advantage of the space, Allison and Mercer flew out to gain some inside information on their opponents. This time they were adamant nothing would be left to guesswork.
Although the Spanish season was yet to start, they took the chance to visit San Mamés, an intimidating 40,000-capacity arena that housed some of the most fanatical supporters in the country, to watch Bilbao in a pre-season friendly, where they were laughingly given seats behind a pillar. What Allison witnessed filled him with confidence. ‘I know we can cause them problems,’ he said on returning to Manchester. ‘If we put Bilbao under pressure, we can beat them.’ The old confidence was flooding back.
They even had time to check the hotel they would use on the outskirts of the city. As Mercer stressed: ‘This time, we will miss nothing in our preparation.’
Asked about their opponents’ style of play, Mercer continued: ‘They are a straightforward, hard side, who play in a very British style.’ Captain Tony Book, who had missed the previous excursion in Europe against Fenerbahçe, agreed: ‘Malcolm’s trip to see Bilbao play will be invaluable. He always weighs up a side very well, as we’ve found before with FA Cup opponents that he has spied on.’
If City were to fail this time, it would not be through a lack of preparation, nor from underestimating their opponents. 24
In an article in Goal magazine, dated 13 September 1969, under the headline, ‘Last year’s disaster won’t happen again’, Peter Barnard agreed that ‘Manchester City go to Bilbao this week thoroughly acquainted with their opponents and well aware that they cannot afford to fail as they did in last year’s European Cup’.
In the same magazine, Leslie Vernon ran the rule over Bilbao, writing: ‘Ronnie Allen lost his chief aid, Rafa Iriondo, whose coaching was largely responsible for the club’s cup success last season. The sensitive Iriondo did not like the idea of working under a new boss and now Allen has to shoulder the responsibility of preparing his squad for the needle games against City.’ This kind of clash of personalities would resonate with City supporters soon enough, when Allison and Mercer’s relationship foundered for similar reasons.
City’s side had not changed unduly from the one defeated in Turkey twelve months earlier. Joe Corrigan had returned in goal, ousting Ken Mulhearn, and Tony Coleman’s ongoing transfer talks with Sheffield Wednesday, which would come to fruition a month later, had brought about the promotion of promising youngster Ian Bowyer to first-team duties. Bowyer would, some ten years later, taste the pinnacle of European achievement in the Nottingham Forest side that defeated Malmö to capture the 1979 European Cup. Even more crucially, skipper Book was fit again. It should not be underestimated how much Book’s steadying influence counted, particularly in hostile away games. The captain’s solid character acted as a calming influence on the more volatile members of Allison’s squad. His presence in San Mamés would be invaluable.
The squad arrived late in Bilbao after their flight from Ringway was delayed while a replacement plane was found, the original having run into technical trouble during an earlier flight. The afternoon arrival still afforded Allison and first-team 25coach Dave Ewing time to take a light training session before the players were ordered to rest in their rooms.
If the players were well briefed on what to expect, there were plenty of surprises in store for the travelling fans, however.
In order to get to Bilbao and find accommodation successfully, City fan Steve Parish, an employee of British Rail, made his tortuous way courtesy of the national rail company to northern Spain. In Dave Wallace’s book Us and Them,
