Murphy had been right, utterly right, when he first spoke to me of the meaning and the possibilities of Duncan Edwards. Every move the big lad made ridiculed the scepticism I had felt on that taxi ride from the station. He made every other player seem like just another lad on the team. He showed awesome power as he ran through the churning mud of pitches that the modern professional, so used to manicured fields which provide true playing surfaces at almost every time of year, would find hard to believe. His tackling was a series of tank traps, as ferocious as it was perfectly timed; his passing was penetrative and accurate; and, whatever the conditions and however heavy the ball had become, his heading was always immaculate in its strength and direction.
In five years of unbeaten FA Youth Cup football there was scarcely a hint of crisis for the team, even after Duncan left us for exclusive action with the first team – and then England. The only serious problem that I recall from my days in the tournament, when I collected three winning medals, was in a tough semi-final second leg game with Chelsea who, under the old England centre forward Ted Drake, had also assembled a fine squad of young players.
The brief but critical loss of certainty was provoked by Murphy’s worry that we were becoming too dependent on Duncan. He said that for once we should try not to make giving the ball to him the only solution to any problem. Maybe the pressure would mount, maybe we would find ourselves closed down, but top players should always find a way out of trouble. ‘Try to put more pressure on your own ability,’ he told us. ‘There may be days when Dunc isn’t around. Sometimes you have to solve your own problems.’
Against Chelsea in that second leg we struggled with Jimmy’s initiative through the first half. Duncan’s usual authority had been completely marginalised, and at half time we faced the prospect of going out, which was something that might just have shaken the foundations of Old Trafford. Jimmy certainly wore a rare frown as he told us in the dressing room, ‘Remember I told you not to automatically pass the ball to Duncan? Well, forget what I said. Give him the fucking ball whenever you can.’
When I took a corner in the second half I depended totally on Duncan’s ability to rise above the pack. I looked up and just thought, ‘There he is,’ and I lifted the ball so that it would drop into his path. I stood back to watch the flight of the ball and Duncan charging to meet it, defenders just bouncing off him as they tried to stop his run, and then he soared into the air and headed it into the top corner. I shook my head and thought, ‘What more can he do, what more can be said? It’s just bloody sensational.’
Not so long ago, while walking along the High Street in Wisbech in Cambridgeshire, I was reminded of another example of Duncan’s extraordinary power. It was when we were based in Shrewsbury for our National Service and we were picked for a Western Command team playing the Royal Air Force in Cosford. He was at his most masterful. His play was always filled with confidence and authority, but on this day he was particularly dominant. Jimmy Murphy had told him that he should always demand the ball as a right, and that he should do it loudly. ‘Maybe there is a big crowd and a team-mate might not hear you,’ Murphy said, ‘so make it clear that you want it.’ Against the RAF Duncan’s desire for possession was insatiable. The move that I will never forget started when he shouted for the goalkeeper to give him the ball. Naturally, the goalkeeper complied. Then Duncan passed to the full back, who promptly delivered it back after receiving the firmest order. I was next in the chain. I received the ball and duly returned it to sender. By now the RAF was in full retreat. The last act involved the centre forward. He held the ball for a moment, then rolled it into Duncan’s path. At this point he was running into the box. He shot immediately, straight at the head of the goalkeeper. The goalkeeper made no attempt to save. Instead, he ducked as the ball rocketed into the back of the net.
So, forty-odd years later I was walking down Wisbech High Street and was stopped by somebody who asked, ‘Aren’t you Bobby Charlton?’ When I confirmed it, he said, ‘I once played against you when you were in the army. I was playing for the RAF against Western Command.’ I said I remembered the match very well, and for a special reason, and then I asked him what position he played. He told me that he was in goal and – I swear this is a true story – that it was the proudest day of his life. I said, ‘But you were the only goalkeeper I ever saw who ducked a shot that was going straight at him.’
‘Maybe so,’ he replied, ‘but it was still the proudest day of my life.’ While I found this a little difficult to understand, given the circumstances, I supposed it was still another strand of the Edwards legend. One certainty is that of all the
