That United would go to the heart of it all back in the spring of 1957 and, finally, carry me along, was confirmed by the semi-final draw. Fiorentina of Italy would travel to Belgrade for their first-leg game against Red Star, and we would go into the jaws of Europe’s greatest team in Madrid.
At Old Trafford there was a giant collective intake of breath when the news came in. Matt Busby had been to Nice to see the reigning champions cruise into the semi-finals on an aggregate of 6–2, and everyone was impatient for him to be back. In those days you couldn’t hop on a plane as though it was a bus. When he did come home, he was besieged by questions: ‘Boss, how good are they?’ ‘Are they really as strong as they say?’ ‘Is Gento the quickest thing in football?’ ‘How will we play di Stefano?’
Busby frowned a little and said, ‘Boys, I don’t want to talk to you about it. You just concentrate on what you have to do: playing the best you have ever played.’ We believed we could see between the lines. The Boss had obviously been extremely impressed and now he had the air of a scout in a cowboy film who had gone to the top of the hill and seen more Indians than anyone could imagine.
I was allowed to go to Madrid because of the possibility of one of the regular first teamers going down with a training injury or a bug, and though I would have given so much to play, I knew that just being there was a mark of progress. I expected to be at least a little awestruck and I was not disappointed. The Bernabeu ground was enormous and dramatic with its two famous columns rising against the skyline of the Spanish capital. Under one of the stands there was a chapel with an ornate altar where the Real players would go for their pre-match prayers, as the matadors did before they faced the bulls down the road at the Plaza Monumental. The tension was established the moment we set foot in Madrid. For the first time there were crowds waiting to greet United at an airport and I remember saying to Eddie Colman, ‘Well, we’ve got something in common with Real: their fans are as daft as ours.’
I joined in the training on a beautifully manicured pitch and the roll of the ball was so true anyone would have been aching to play the following night. Instead, I had to make my way to a seat in the stands. What I saw from there was so entrancing that for a little while at least the pain of defeat, by 3–1, and anger at the rough defensive tactics greeting my friend Tommy Taylor particularly, was somehow reduced in importance.
David Pegg played one of his best games for United; brave and elusive, he made the life of the right back Becerril so miserable he would not appear in the second leg at Old Trafford. Real were held for an hour before they scored after the referee waved play on as Gento shook off a foul by Bill Foulkes; then di Stefano, fifteen minutes later, lobbed Ray Wood quite beautifully.
United still had some fight, however. Taylor, having survived various assaults, reduced the lead with eight minutes to go, only to see Mateos restore Real’s advantage five minutes from the end. In the beaten dressing room, the wounds from punctured hopes were not exactly soothed by another bonus report: di Stefano and his team-mates, we were told, were on £350 a man to reach the final – for us, more than half a season’s wages. However, one thing was beyond any souring. It was an unprejudiced appreciation of di Stefano’s extraordinary talent.
I thought, ‘Who is this man?’ as he made his early impact on the game. ‘He takes the ball from the goalkeeper; he tells the full backs what to do; wherever he is on the field he is in position to take the ball; you can see his influence on everything that is happening.’ Whenever he got into any kind of decent position in midfield it was the signal for Gento to fly. He would go at a hundred miles an hour, di Stefano would send the ball unerringly into his path, Gento would go bang, and you just heard yourself saying, ‘Oh God.’ It was pure revelation. I was high in the stands, taking in the sweep of the great stadium and a crowd estimated at more than 130,000, but from the moment my eyes settled on his compelling figure they rarely strayed. Everything seemed to radiate from him.
I had never seen such a complete footballer. The magic of Stanley Matthews would never die, the growth of Duncan Edwards was a wonder, and in later years I would know Pelé as both an international opponent of stunning range and a warm friend, but the impact of di Stefano crossed all boundaries, despite the disappointment that my club’s brilliant arrival in Europe was being dealt a heavy blow and, as it would prove two weeks later at Old Trafford, one that did not permit recovery. It was as though he had set up his own command centre at the heart of the game. He was as strong as he was subtle. The combination of qualities was mesmerising.
By the time his playing career was over, di Stefano had had three nationalities, Argentinian, Colombian and Spanish, and that night it was easy enough to understand. What football nation on earth wouldn’t want to adopt such a man? At the time I thought that his changes of nationality were too easily accomplished, certainly I couldn’t see it happening under the gaze
