Yet the hecklers were not without some seeds of truth. The going would get tougher soon enough, and it was no doubt true that the deficiencies of Anderlecht had inadequately represented the depth of the European challenge. Certainly that was the theory of the press after the next game at Old Trafford, one which sent Chalky and me back to Shropshire in a much less exultant mood. Another claim of the press was that United, and not least Duncan, might be getting a little big for their boots. The press box detected a touch of damaging arrogance in the performance against Borussia Dortmund.
Dennis Viollet was again dynamic, scoring twice in the first half, and with David Pegg adding another before half time, United again looked at least one class above the opposition. However, the second half was a completely different matter as the Germans scored twice, and made the away leg in Dortmund a much more formidable challenge than anyone had imagined when the draw was made. It was a huge relief two weeks later when the news reached the camp: United had held out in a goalless but fiercely fought game.
Confirmation that United were indeed performing in a theatre much tougher than it first appeared was swift. It came in the cold of Northern Spain, where Bilbao, the Spanish champions who had qualified alongside the holders Real, confirmed the fierce competitive instinct of the Basques. After the game, there were pictures – disturbingly prophetic, it would turn out – of the United lads clearing snow away from their plane for the return flight to Manchester. No doubt there was an urge to retreat from the scene of defeat as quickly as possible.
The Basques had hit United with three goals in the first half, then came again with two more after Tommy Taylor and Viollet led a comeback early in the second half. At 5–2, the exit door had swung wide open, but then Billy Whelan breathed back some life five minutes from the end. The passionate crowd was stunned by the United resistance, but it didn’t take away any of our foreboding.
Chalky again pointed his little car towards Manchester, and for the second leg we were in the stand. Afterwards, I was agog for the detail that lay behind the magnificent recovery, a classically patient performance which, I learned, was partly the result of a typical Busby contribution in the dressing room. At half time United had been still two goals away from their target of a 3–0 win, and no doubt the mountaintop would have seemed even more impossibly far away if Viollet, in the form of his life, creating danger whenever he received the ball in an advanced position, had not scored just two minutes before the break. The Old Man, however, concealed any alarm he might have felt. ‘Boys,’ he said, just as he would say so many times in my hearing, ‘do not panic. Play the game as you know how. Make your passes and do your running, but, above all, keep your patience. If you can do that, we will get there.’ He was right, and gloriously so.
There were eighteen minutes left when Tommy Taylor scored the second, and just six when he made the life-giving third for Johnny Berry. There was a great eruption in the ground – part of it being a celebration of value for money by those of the fans who had paid as much as £11 – well above the average weekly wage – for tickets with the face value of seven shillings and sixpence. The United players who showed their competitive nerve, who announced that they were indeed ready and equipped to compete at the highest level of European football, were still five years away from the end of the maximum wage. This was something to think about when they heard the news that Bilbao had been on £200 a man to win the chance of deposing their mighty and much hated masters in Madrid. However, the glory of playing for Manchester United – and winning a dramatic match – still outweighed all else.
The effect of the result swept beyond the boundaries of the city. Manchester and so much of the rest of English football had burst into new life. Matt Busby had declared that this was the future of the game and here, in this match, beyond the celebration of the goals orgy against Anderlecht, was the hardest evidence that he was right. United versus Bilbao had produced the best of football, some brilliant skill and a razor edge of competition. Charges that United had got above themselves were promptly withdrawn. You could only guess at the reaction of Alan Hardaker, the man who had tried so hard to slam the door on Europe – and at the same time wonder why he had been so dead set against pushing back the boundaries of English football.
Some years later, I had what might have been a small glimpse into some of his attitudes when I was on a bus filled with club chairmen who, at least in theory, were supposed to be the league secretary’s bosses. Hardaker was the last to get on. When he got to the top of the steps, he looked round and said to no one in particular that he was reminded of some film on TV he had seen the night before. It had shown pigs being taken to market. Most of the chairmen laughed, and one said, ‘What a character!’ Presumably he had received a similar reaction from his employers when he announced, ‘I wouldn’t hang a dog on the word of a professional footballer.’
I cannot judge Hardaker or his overall contribution to English football, but in that flash of ‘humour’ when he boarded the bus what I saw in his joke to the club chairmen was more than a hint of arrogance. Did a team like Manchester United
