Bill Foulkes played for England at right back, but I have to say he never looked completely at home in that position: the cleverness of a good winger tended to undermine his confidence and this would sometimes lead to the kind of lunging which can draw free kicks – or leave the rest of the defence exposed when the commitment to the tackle is made unsuccessfully. What Bill Foulkes was, however, was a natural born pillar at the heart of a defence. He was maybe the hardest physical specimen I ever encountered on a football field. If he happened to clip you with his arm during training it was like being hit by a rock. You would cry out with the force of it, ‘Jesus Christ, Bill!’ Accompanied by the Nobby Stiles radar system, this Bill Foulkes was an immense asset; there was his strength and height and a tremendous love of the battle, which would be absolutely vital to us reaching the European Cup final.
When this happened, it was a moment so crucial to the history of Manchester United that it demands, and will receive, more attention than the passing references in this chapter, but maybe at this point it is relevant to say that it sprang from the perfect understanding Bill Foulkes developed with Nobby Stiles. There was no way Bill could be drawn out of his fortress of central defence, and after Nobby had made one of his seek-and-destroy satellite runs he was obliged to scamper back into the defensive lines. There were two reasons for this. One was his own deep awareness of his function. The other was Foulkes’s piercing yell, ‘Get back here, you little bastard.’ In the middle, Foulkes showed no trace of the uncertainty that sometimes came to him on the flank. He was fast into the tackle, rarely missed anything in the air – you would see opponents wince as they bounced off him – and there was never a moment when he was tempted to try to look good by dwelling on the ball. There would be no flowing pass. Just some basic delivery of the ball accompanied by a grunt of satisfaction.
Foulkes, my World Cup team-mate George Cohen and Tommy Banks of Bolton Wanderers, were a breed of defenders who at that time could bring tears to the eyes of skilful, nippy little forwards. I would have hated to have played against Bill. It would have been something to recall in terms of bruised limbs and battered spirit. You would look at someone like George, and, say, well he’s not a classic international full back, there isn’t a lot of touch there – but he was such a wonderful competitor, fast and hard, another guy you didn’t really want to go near on the field. When clever little wingers like Brian Pilkington of Burnley or Joe Haverty of Arsenal came into 50–50 situations with such men, you could only cringe and feel deep pity.
As the Old Man shaped his last team, he recognised the need for one more piece in the jigsaw. He needed a strong new element in midfield, something of the order of Davie Mackay at Spurs, or the generalship of Johnny Giles, which would emerge later alongside the bite of Billy Bremner at Leeds. He settled for Pat Crerand from Celtic. I heard later that the other contender was the Scottish virtuoso Jimmy Baxter, a player of genius on the field but one whose reputation for ill-discipline off it would have made any manager think twice. It was said that Busby took his dilemma to Denis Law, who knew both players from the Scottish team. Denis recommended Crerand for his brilliant ability to pass the ball long and penetratively, and for his immense competitive instinct.
After accepting the obvious fact that Paddy would never break any speed records, it was clear soon enough that he brought huge value to the team. Around him it seemed a few sparks were always flying. In training, he could be quite ferocious in opinions about who was doing what, and how effectively. He and I were not always doting team-mates (for Crerand there was the unassailable problem that not only was I English, I also played for England), but he did have a warm heart, and with his warring instincts and his passion for Manchester United he became an integral strength of the team. It was also a great help that he could put the ball on a sixpence from fifty yards.
In the build-up through the sixties, it was clear to me that Matt Busby had achieved the last football ambition left to him after he accepted that he had to go on as manager after Munich. It was to rekindle not only success on the field, but a certain kind of playing, a way of saying the game wasn’t solely about winning and losing but also lifting the spirits of all those who watched the game, not just those who were there for partisan reasons. For me this is one of the great differences between the football of the past and the game of today. In the sixties there were still so many who had the spirit of those Arsenal fans that day we beat them at Highbury in such an unforgettable match. The Old Man wanted to cater for that longing to see beautiful football.
He differed from Stan Cullis, a hard and brilliant maker of a formidable, winning team; the Old Man wanted to win, but also wanted to entertain, and of course he had achieved that with the ’48 team which won the cup so brilliantly but had to wait until 1952 to get their hands on the league title. In the sixties, the team of the Big Three – and the Big Four – were racing ahead of that old schedule. The cup fell to us in 1963, the title in 1965. Equally important to the Old Man, and to me I
