Once at a football writer’s dinner his speech was very short. He simply produced a record player and put on Louis Armstrong, one of his favourites, intoning, ‘What a wonderful world’. His presence always helped to make it so – and he could certainly have played it again on the hot, tense night in Madrid when Manchester United finally fought their way through to the final of the European Cup.
We led 1–0 from the first leg, with a fine goal from George Best, but even though Real were no longer the force that had swept beyond us eleven years earlier in another semi-final, with Gento their only surviving player of the great team, the narrow advantage left us uneasy. Denis Law had briefly returned to the European theatre that night, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle against a knee injury, and after the game he had been told he needed to go to hospital for an operation. For the away leg, the versatile David Sadler took Denis’s place in the forward line and Bill Foulkes was brought back to the middle of defence. From the Old Man came the eternal advice: play naturally, pass accurately – and, above all, play without fear.
The best advice in the world would have counted for nothing, however, if Nobby Stiles had not simply refused to be beaten. His defiance grew through this most vital of games to an extraordinary degree and before the end, decisively, it had touched us all.
Two years earlier he had become a hero of the nation when he brilliantly curbed the threat of Portugal’s Eusebio in a World Cup semi-final. That was the performance that persuaded our team-mate George Cohen that the Football Association should make a video and offer it to all young players as a classic lesson in how to defend. Now, in the Bernabeu, Nobby produced something more than a technical masterpiece. He persuaded all of us that defeat simply wasn’t an option, and he did it from a position that, from any other perspective but his own, would have looked pretty hopeless.
It was not just that we were 3–1 down at half time. Amancio, the hero of a crowd of 125,000, was running free. He was also arrogant to the point of provocation, needling us and playing to a great gallery that greeted his every touch with the most excited anticipation. Later Nobby revealed that his taming of Amancio – the key to the game – was not entirely legal.
He reported that after the Real player had kicked him, off the ball and without a word from the Italian referee, he had taken football law into his own hands, throwing a punch that escaped the attention of the officials – if not the booing crowd – and rattled the Real star. I didn’t see the punch, but Nobby said that one of our team-mates’ reactions could just be heard above the din: ‘Fucking hell, Nob,’ he exclaimed. Nobby’s contribution amounted to so much more than one piece of villainy, which he justified by saying that he had feared he might break down with injury at any moment because his leg was tightening a little more each minute with the effects of the illicit kick. Nobby had had heat treatment at half time, but he was concerned that Amancio’s speed might embarrass him in the second half, and that the Spaniard’s advantage had been created quite unfairly. It was a version of football justice to which no one in our dressing room, perhaps not surprisingly, could raise an objection.
We were desperate at half time, really quite distraught after seeing our lead vanish under goals from Pirri, Gento and Amancio, with our only riposte an own goal forced off the defender Zoco. Matt Busby buried his own feelings of disappointment, insisting that we could get back into the game. He kept pointing out that on aggregate we were only one goal down. His encouragement wasn’t all that comforting when we thought about what faced us: a Real side made confident by their goals and the extraordinary level of support from the vast crowd. Their cockiness was underlined as we walked back down the tunnel to the pitch. Some of the Real players, with Gento involved, made it clear that they considered the game won and there was something of a confrontation, with Nobby, naturally, to the fore.
He was magnificently defiant. The man who was christened Happy because of his tendency to moan would not let us feel sorry for ourselves. Despite his injury worry, he made a series of brilliant tackles, and that changed the entire mood of the game. Suddenly, we were thinking, ‘The little sod is winning everything’ – and the opposition were beginning to argue among themselves. At half time, when the Old Man had said we needed only to score one goal, we had nodded our agreement – but had thought, ‘Oh, yes, boss, but have you noticed how they are playing?’ Now we were beginning to feel differently, although the immense heat was a constant worry.
When David Sadler, who had been pushed forward in pursuit of the aggregate equaliser, scored twenty minutes into the second half, the Bernabeu fell into a shocked silence. It was a softish goal – it only rolled into the net – but its impact could not have been greater. Nobby was emphatic now, ‘Come on, come on, you bastards!’ he shouted. ‘We can win it now, we’ve just got to keep the focus.’
He was right, of course, but saying it is not always the same as doing it, even though there was no doubt that we were now in charge.
