Jack Charlton: The Autobiography by Jack Charlton & Peter Byrne

Author:Jack Charlton & Peter Byrne [Charlton, Jack & Byrne, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-06-28T23:00:00+00:00

14

IN THE DUGOUT

APART FROM THE DISAPPOINTMENT WITH ENGLAND, LIFE DURING that summer of 1977 was relaxed and satisfying. For the first time in my adult life, I didn’t have to fret about kicking a football or watching others do so, and I loved it. No contracts, no pre-season training - bliss! Instead, I took the family on holiday, got more involved in television work and, yes, you’ve guessed it, got my fishing rod out again.

Two or three newspaper people, purporting to represent clubs looking for a manager, contacted me at different times, but I was sincere when I told them I wasn’t particularly interested. Then, in October, I had a call from Roy Whitehead, a director of Sheffield Wednesday. With the minimum of preamble, he told me that they wanted me to come and join them as manager. ‘But you already have a manager, Len Ashurst,’ I said.

‘Len’s leaving,’ he told me, ‘and he’s recommended you as his successor.’

‘Tell him I’m grateful for the vote of confidence,’ I replied. ‘But when the job is vacant, come back and talk to me.’

And I dived for the nearest newspaper for a quick gen up on Sheffield Wednesday. No wonder Len was thinking of a new job! The season’s only a couple of months old and already they’re four or five points adrift at the foot of the Third Division.

In that moment, the prospect of a new career with Sheffield Wednesday looked anything but inviting. It would mean going from a job with a First Division club to the Third Division - and with the exception of Tommy Docherty, not too many managers have done that. Fortunately or otherwise, the phone rang before I’d too much time to dwell on it. It was Roy Whitehead again, and this time he started by telling me that Len had quit.

I said I’d think it over, and perhaps go and have a chat with them. So together with Pat, I went and bought two tickets to watch them play Brighton. They won the game 2-1 - but without putting too fine a point on it, they were bloody awful!

One or two of their players could go a bit, but compared to the group I’d left behind at Middlesbrough, the rest were nondescript. After the game we wandered across to meet the club directors and I was introduced to the club chairman, Bert McGee. A nice fellow was Bert, but like everybody else at Hillsborough, I reckoned he was pretty close to his wit’s end at that point, trying to save a club that once commanded so much respect.

Oddly enough, I’ve never been attracted to a club which was at the top of their division or even close to it. Perhaps that’s down to the fact that when you inherit success, so much more is expected of you. That kind of pressure certainly didn’t apply in this instance. Perhaps it was the realization that we could move only in one direction which attracted me. Anyway, before I

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