The Day a Team Died by Frank Taylor

Author:Frank Taylor [Taylor, Frank]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780285639935
Publisher: Profile
Published: 2011-03-28T00:00:00+00:00

13 United Miss that Treble

Real Madrid, at their best, could have taken on any team in the world. Had it been possible for them to have entered the World Cup, they would probably have won it.

This may seem an extravagant claim to modern football fans, who have been brought up to admire the discipline and the consistency of teams such as Liverpool, Bayern Munich, and others.

It is only when you study their record that the true picture of their staggering skill emerges. They won the European Cup six times, including that epic victory over Eintracht Frankfurt at Hampden Park, which many experts rate the best game ever seen in the British Isles.

Jimmy Murphy, I think gave the best assessment of Real Madrid when I was writing the book Matt, United and Me with him. When we came to Real Madrid Jimmy said: ‘Everyone in Britain is forever quoting the great Hungarian side. They were great, though they never won the World Cup, but Real Madrid were not only great, they were consistent with it …’

When United were drawn to play Real Madrid in the European Cup semi-finals in 1957, Busby wanted to have a close look at them beforehand. I flew with him to Nice in the Spring of 1957, and what an eye opener that was! Matt studied the play of Alfredo di Stefano, a centre-forward who appeared to cover every blade of grass on the field, before commenting, ‘Until today I thought Alex James and Peter Doherty were the two best inside forwards I had ever seen. But now I have seen Alfredo the Great … he’s in a class of his own.’

Apart from di Stefano, Real had other great stars, such as Gento, a left winger with the pace of an Olympic sprinter; Mateos who goaded opponents like a matador; and Kopa the Frenchman who had all the skills.

Busby prepared his players for the great game, and in April we flew to Madrid in an Elizabethan for the first match, piloted, ironically, by Captain Ken Rayment.

Madrid was afire for the game. The sun beat down mercilessly as the Spaniards besieged the plane at the airfield, dark-haired, flashing-eyed señoritas among them, eager to see this wonder team from England. The Busby Boys wore their usual club blazers and typically English flannels with flashy grey trilbies, which made them conspicuous on the streets. They couldn’t move without a swarm of admirers or autograph-hunters. Wisely they spent many hours resting for the ordeal ahead, away from the sun and the crowds.

At the hotel, there was an incessant call for Mr Taylor. I answered the phone and was greeted by a husky, charming feminine voice which said: ‘Ah, Mr Taylor, you are the Manchester United centre-forward Tommy Taylor. This is one of the flamenco dancers from Mr Antonio’s troupe. We have entertained your club with our dancing, is it possible you have a ticket for tomorrow’s match?’

I broke in hastily: ‘Madam, I am not the United centre-forward, heaven forbid.’ And I hastily

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