Paddy Crerand: Never Turn the Other Cheek

Back on the pitch, the biggest fixtures of the season were of course the Old Firm games. There was segregation at these games long before it became the norm in England. At Celtic Park, the fans approached and left the stadium down different roads to keep them apart. There were always incidents, with people fighting at the ground and all over the city. It wasn’t nice – decent working class people beating each other up. Being a socialist, it always saddened me.

We were told to play to the whistle before every game and never to get involved in any incident with any other player. This was underlined before Rangers games. I had a great hatred of Rangers as a club – that came with growing up in the Gorbals – but I never agreed with the fighting. Later, I always had the needle with Rangers as a football club because I was never allowed to play for their team. I would never have gone there, but it would have been nice to say no. And yet I got to know a lot of the Rangers players when I played for Scotland and they were smashing lads. Bobby Shearer looked after me and made me feel welcome when I first got in the Scotland team, yet he was the Rangers player that most Celtic fans hated because he used to kick other players. I was a young lad when I first played for Scotland, but Bobby was like a father figure and was someone I could go to if I had a problem. When I was an older player, I treated the younger lads like Bobby had treated me.

We used to get a bonus of £25 for beating Rangers, almost three times our weekly wage. Invariably, we didn’t beat them because they were a far better side with players like Jimmy Baxter, Jimmy Millar, Ralph Brand, Bobby Shearer, Eric Caldow, Harold Davis, and Alec Scott. The best players in Scotland were not confined to Ibrox though. Pat Quinn of Motherwell was probably the toughest opponent I played against because I couldn’t get near him. He was an inside-forward, a great passer of the ball with the imagination to beat players in different ways. Several English teams were looking at him.

One of my lowest moments for Celtic was when I missed a penalty in an Old Firm game at Parkhead, which we lost 1–0. Jim Baxter started messing about with the ball on the penalty spot to try and distract me. He succeeded. I had to get back to the Gorbals after the game and it was difficult not to be noticed. I took a tram car and then a bus. I just kept my head down and tried to be inconspicuous, but I was wearing a shirt and tie which made me stand out. I saw my pals on the corner that night and they were not happy. As I approached them, someone shouted: ‘Professional footballer and you can’t score from 12 yards out.’ For once, I didn’t reply.

Missing that penalty hit me hard, so much so that I asked to be relieved of the job of penalty taker at Celtic. The decision drew an interested reaction from Matt Busby. Matt had missed a penalty playing for Scotland against England so he knew how I felt. He wrote a consolatory piece in the Scottish Daily Express about my predicament. He mentioned United’s great penalty takers like Charlie Mitten and Bobby Charlton, saying that they had also missed penalties and asked to have been relieved of their position. ‘While footballers remain human,’ Busby wrote, ‘even the greatest marksmen will miss a penalty. And the penalty for that should certainly be something less than shooting the shooter.’

The way Celtic was run remained a shambles. The disorganization ran from top to bottom and top players continued to leave. There was even more lack of direction at the club, with Bob Kelly, ever the autocrat, picking the team, no question. It was a standing joke which Alex Ferguson and I still talk about now, marvelling at how such a situation was allowed to be. We often speak about life in early 60s Glasgow and the characters from that time. The crisis at the club was a heartbreaker for me because I was a Celtic fan, yet my illusions were being shattered when I saw the reality of the way the club was being run. The community I had been brought up in were mad about Celtic. The club was supposed to light people’s lives.

Rangers were winning everything and, seeing the chaos at Parkhead, I knew why. I didn’t have the heart to tell people on the streets what a mess the club was in. I’d tell them that we were optimistic about the future and that results would change, but I knew they wouldn’t. It was that bad. Had you told me Celtic would be European champions in 1967 I would have laughed out loud.

The problem wasn’t the lack of talent, but the bizarre team selections and naïve technical decisions and I blamed Bob Kelly. For example, our team coach edged towards the ground at Airdrie for one game when Kelly spotted Willie Goldie, a former Celtic reserve goalkeeper, walking along to the ground as a fan wearing a green and white scarf. Kelly stopped the coach and invited him to play. The players couldn’t believe it, but anyone who stood up to Kelly didn’t have a future at Celtic.

On one hand I admired Kelly’s idea of bringing youth through, but he made major errors. Bertie Auld was a great footballer, a hard inside-forward and a typical Glaswegian. If he looked in the mirror he’d try and start a fight with his reflection. He wasn’t afraid of answering back and that was to be his downfall at Celtic. In one game against Rangers in 1960, Bertie ruffled the hair of the Rangers’ player Harold Davis after he had scored an own goal at Parkhead in a Glasgow cup tie. Davis was furious and ran the length of the park to catch up with him. Bertie was just having a laugh and maybe he shouldn’t have done it. Bertie would often fly off the handle at the smallest thing – if he couldn’t find one of his boots in the dressing room he would start raging – and Bob Kelly didn’t like his style. He was transferred at the end of the season. Bertie eventually returned to Celtic and was a key player in the side that won the European Cup in 1967, but in 1960 those in power at Parkhead wanted rid of him.

Jimmy McGrory was a soft manager who used to let anything go. Maybe he should have been stronger with Bertie and told him to be quiet once in a while, but Jimmy didn’t do discipline. A balance was needed because players should be allowed to have an opinion otherwise resentments fester, but under Bob Kelly, anybody with an opinion that didn’t tally with his was seen as a dissenting voice.

Another example of Kelly’s amateurism was how he dealt with Mick Jackson, who wasn’t a full-time professional when he should have been. He had a heavy shift as a printer and one day finished work at 3.00 pm so that he could make a 4.30 pm kick-off against Rangers in the semi-final of the Scottish Cup at Hampden Park. Things like that would never have happened at Rangers.

Despite the problems, I loved playing for Celtic. Players like John Colrain and Mick Jackson were real characters. One of my highlights for the club was a friendly game in 1962 against Real Madrid. Over 73,000 filled Celtic Park to see us play a side that included Ferenc Puskas, Paco Gento, and Alfredo Di Stefano. The speed of their passing was incredible, so simple and yet so devastating, and they were 2–0 up after half an hour, three after an hour. We kept battling and pulled a goal back to make it 3–1. We felt that we had been outclassed, but done ourselves justice and even 3–1 was a magnificent result. The crowd agreed. ‘We want Celtic, We want Celtic,’ they roared until we left the dressing room and returned for an unlikely lap of honour. Most of us only had our socks on, but the fans were going wild. Puskas said that he had never seen anything like it.

By 1962 I was the highest paid Celtic player on £22 a week. I was seen as Bob Kelly’s boy and indeed he loved me for a short period of time, probably because I was a good player. I wasn’t the quickest runner and I wasn’t good in the air, but then I had Billy McNeill alongside me who was great in the air. My qualities were that I passed the ball well and I could tackle.

Kelly was the main reason why I came to leave Celtic. I never wanted to go, but my situation at the club became untenable. We played against Rangers at Ibrox on New Year’s Day 1963; the game should never have been played because it was a brick hard pitch. I argued with the coach, Sean Fallon, with whom I normally got on well, about what kind of tactics we should play. Sean was a former Celtic player who had played in the double-winning team in 1954. He had legendary status among fans because after breaking a collarbone in a game against Hearts, he left the pitch for twenty minutes only to return with his arm in a sling. Sean earned the nickname ‘the Iron Man’ for his part in Celtic’s momentous 7–1 League Cup final victory over Rangers in 1957. He retired a year later but remained a major figure at Celtic and eventually became assistant manager when Jock Stein took over in 1965. In truth, Sean and I differed on our football theories that day and I couldn’t hide my feelings any longer. We were trailing 1–0 when we trudged back into the dressing room and the lid came off.

‘We need to knock long balls forward,’ said Sean in a measured and firm manner.

‘No, we need to pass the ball to feet,’ I replied angrily. ‘The long ball won’t work.’

‘No, we play long balls forward,’ replied Sean, clearly agitated. ‘And you, Crerand, don’t move so far up the park.’

‘I’m not going back on the field if we have to play like that,’ I said. ‘You don’t know what you are talking about.’ The toys had well and truly been thrown from my cot.

‘You’re wrong Crerand, you’re wrong,’ Sean replied. I was, especially as there were no substitutes in those days, and after a few minutes I backed down and walked back angrily onto the pitch. Bob Kelly was in the dressing room and witnessed everything. He didn’t say a word though. Nor did ten of my team-mates. It was me against the rest.

We were hammered 4–0 anyway and one of the goals was a deflection off me. I can’t take anything away from Rangers because they were a better organized team with better players, but I was distraught and very angry when we returned to the dressing room, where I had another stand up row with just about every Celtic player and Sean. I adore Sean; he’s one of the greatest Celts that has ever lived. He was from Sligo in Ireland and when he was given the Freedom of Sligo in 2002 I was honoured to be invited along with him. But that day at Ibrox I was furious with everyone, especially Sean.

The repercussions were serious. Bob Kelly got the needle and dropped me for a game against Aberdeen five days later. Celtic never stayed overnight and we travelled to Aberdeen by train in the third class carriage, with wooden seats and no toilet. When we got to Aberdeen I wasn’t named in the team. There was no explanation as to why. I was particularly annoyed because my mum had got a train from Glasgow to watch me play. I met her outside the ground before the match to give her a ticket and told her that I wasn’t playing. She didn’t say anything, but I could see her disappointment.

It was obvious to me that the club either wanted rid of me or that I was just not good enough to be in the side, despite being a Scottish international. Because of a bad spell of weather – one game between Partick Thistle and Morton was called off ten times – there was no play in the Scottish Leagues for four weeks. Then I was dropped for a game against Falkirk. I decided that enough was enough and asked for a move in a written transfer request. I didn’t consult Noreen or my mum, when I should have done. Mum found out when a newspaper journalist went to her front door. ‘This has come as a great shock to me. In fact I am stunned,’ she told him.

I handed in my transfer request. The news made the front page of the Scottish Daily Express at a time when football stories were rare on the front pages. ‘Crerand Shock: Transfer Plea,’ said the headline.

Noreen, by this time my fiancée, was quoted in this article saying, ‘I was surprised when Pat told me that he had asked for a transfer – but I was even more surprised when he was dropped for the game against Falkirk on Monday night. This will make no difference to our wedding plans. If Pat does move, then I will go wherever he wants me to go. I don’t see much point in him staying at Parkhead if he is not happy.’

After 120 appearances and five goals, I would never play for Celtic again. Unbeknown to me, Bob Kelly and Matt Busby at Manchester United had an agreement that Matt would have first refusal on me if I ever left Celtic.

I came home from mass on Sunday and found Jim Rodger, a journalist from the Daily Record, waiting at the door. He knew everything about Scottish football and was big pals with Matt Busby, and, in later years, Alex Ferguson. He told me that I was going to Manchester United and explained that Matt Busby and a delegation from United had been in Manchester discussing my transfer with Celtic. I didn’t play any part in discussions about my future. My mother started crying.

The journalist told me that I was going to Manchester the following day to meet Matt Busby. My initial thought was that Noreen and I had both had family ties in Glasgow and were reluctant to leave. Noreen had never even been to England before.

I went to Celtic Park for training the following morning and trained as normal. Nobody said anything to me and I assumed that Jim Rodger was wrong. Then, after training Jimmy McGrory asked for a word. He told me that there had been talks between Celtic and Manchester United and that a fee had been agreed for me to move to England.

‘That’s what I’ve been told to tell you Pat,’ he said, as if it was nothing to do with him. Jimmy, despite being manager, wouldn’t have had a choice whether I was sold or not as he would have been acting on Bob Kelly’s orders. There was no room for negotiation, I was going to Manchester and that was that.

I went for something to eat with Mick Jackson. My head was spinning. He convinced me to go to Old Trafford. He wasn’t to know it, but two months later he would be on his way from Parkhead, too, deemed to be ‘disruptive’ by Bob Kelly. Another good friend, a bookmaker Tony Queen who was also a great pal of Jock Stein, agreed. ‘Go to Manchester, Pat. Celtic are going nowhere.’ Deep down, I knew he was right.

The Celtic fans were up in arms when they found out I was going. I got loads of letters telling me not to go and the newspapers were full of the same thing but what could I do?

Looking back now I realize that my doubts had set in during 1960/61, another unspectacular season as we could only finish fourth in the league. We did better in the Scottish Cup, reaching the final, only to be beaten in the replay. I left the Hampden pitch that night with tears in my eyes. It was bad enough to be beaten. What made it unbearable was the fact that Jock Stein was the Dunfermline manager and it angered me to think that he had been allowed to leave Parkhead in 1960. He had transformed them into a team good enough to win the Scottish Cup. I don’t think that Celtic realized his coaching talents when they let him leave, but the young players who had played under him, players like myself and Billy McNeill, did.

That Dunfermline game brought home to me what a shambles Celtic was. Bertie Peacock was the captain of the team and the most experienced player. After recovering from injury, it was assumed he would go straight back into the team for the final. The inexperienced John Clark was picked instead for both the final and the replay. Bertie was not even considered for the replay and Celtic even gave him permission to turn out for Northern Ireland against Italy the day before. Northern Ireland had asked Jock Stein to release their full-back Willie Cunningham. There was no way Jock would let him go.

The bizarre decisions continued after I left Celtic. The team went on to reach the Scottish Cup final in 1963 against Rangers. After doing well to get a draw, Celtic dropped Jimmy Johnstone, who was the best player in the first game, and replaced him with veteran Bobby Craig, who put in a poor performance. Rangers won 3–0 and I was later told by my former team-mates that they were livid with the constant tinkering by a man who was not even manager.

It was heartbreaking for me to see the state of the club I had supported all my life. The training schedule, for example, was so bad that you were never put in any situations where you were under pressure. Training amounted to a long jog followed by a game of five-a-side. There was never any tactical talk, feedback from previous games or information about our opponents. I maintain to this day that fans should just support their team and their manager rather than trying to find out what is happening behind the scenes, because they won’t like what they see.

Celtic would only change when Jock Stein took charge in 1965 when he won nine league titles in succession and took them to become the first British European Cup winners in 1967. I doubt that I would have ever left Celtic if Jock Stein had been in charge, but then I might not have got in the team that won the European Cup with Bobby Murdoch there.

Even though I was disgruntled with Celtic, I still felt that I was pushed out of Parkhead because the club knew that they could get money for me. I had an opinion and usually answered back which didn’t go down well with Kelly. Maybe sometimes I had too much of an opinion, but I wanted what was best for Celtic and what I saw was a disorganized rabble.

On the morning of 6 February 1963, myself, Noreen and a journalist called John McPhail flew down to Manchester airport, which was little more than a house. John wrote for the Daily Record. He was an ex-Celtic centre forward and a great fella.

Matt Busby was waiting at the airport with Denis Law and his wife Diana. United were cute as anything. I had never met Matt Busby before, but Diana Law took Noreen shopping in Manchester and made sure that she was looked after. Some photographers followed them and there was a picture in the paper the next day of the pair of them looking at shoes.

I went to Old Trafford to negotiate my contract. I was a nervous 23-year-old, completely in awe of Matt Busby. He said that he was building a strong team and that United had been ambitious enough to sign Denis Law who joined from Torino in 1962. He said that he needed somebody to play the ball up to the forwards and that player would be me. He could have told me anything and I would have agreed. I didn’t so much as negotiate as listen to what United were saying. They offered me £45 a week – more than twice what I was on at Celtic – plus crowd bonuses. We would get £1 extra if the crowd was over 35,000, £2 if it was over 40,000 and £3 if it was over 45,000. That was quite a lot of money when you consider that the maximum wage of £20 a week had only been abolished in 1961. United agreed a fee of £43,000 – not the £57,000 often reported – the most ever by an English club for a Scottish player and £3,000 more than Manchester City had paid Kilmarnock for wing-half Bobby Kennedy.

Bad weather meant we couldn’t fly back to Glasgow that night and Noreen got the sack from her job at Singer’s. She had taken a day off work to travel to Manchester with me and not explained why, but the story of me going to United was plastered all over the papers and her bosses were not impressed.

I signed for Manchester United on 6 February 1963, five years to the day since the Munich air disaster, as part of Busby’s plans to build another great side.

FOUR (#ulink_bff76a46-a3bf-51e4-abb2-f1f00b676435)

South of the Border (#ulink_bff76a46-a3bf-51e4-abb2-f1f00b676435)

The winter of 1963 was savage. It was the coldest on record with an average temperature of zero degrees across Britain. All you ever saw on the news were stories about the big freeze, cattle being stranded and pictures of snow being piled up against front doors.

No trophies had been won at Manchester United since the Munich air disaster. Matt Busby was rebuilding, but the fans didn’t see it that way. United had finished a very creditable second in 1958/59, the first full season after the disaster, but then slipped to seventh a year later and fifteenth in 1961/62. United may have attracted many new fans across the country who felt a sympathy with the club after the disaster, but many of these didn’t come to watch matches at Old Trafford and average gates had fallen away badly. Crowds of 25,000 were not uncommon, a figure well under half the capacity.

I walked into a club where confidence was low and the team hadn’t been playing well. And because of the weather, United didn’t have a chance to find some form. The team didn’t play a league game between Boxing Day and 23 February and the FA Cup third round wasn’t staged until 4 March.

I had plenty of time, therefore, to study the little red book given to all players, containing a list of training rules and instructions. Some of these regulations, expressed in the most pompous of tones, were standard. Firstly, this pass book had to be carried with you at all times and it was supposed to be shown so you could gain entry to the ground. Players were expected to ‘attend the Ground, or such other place as the directors may appoint, at 10.00 every morning (except Saturday) to undergo such training as the Manager or Trainer appointed by the Directors shall order’. There were two training sessions: 10.00 am to 12.00 pm and 2.30 pm to 4.00 pm. You were expected to turn up forty-five minutes before kickoff for home matches and at the station or coach pick-up fifteen minutes before departure, and you weren’t allowed to slope off during a trip without permission. If you had an accident or were ill, then you had to notify the manager and see the club doctor, unless you lived away from the club, when in ‘necessitous cases’ you could ‘consult your practitioner’ and send in a doctor’s certificate. Not that the club expected to pick up the bill, as they were careful to state. Any player rendering himself unfit to perform his duties through drinking or any other causes would be severely dealt with, and friends or acquaintances were to be kept well away from the ground or the dressing room.

Rule 11 would raise a few eyebrows today. ‘Smoking is strictly prohibited during training hours, and players are earnestly requested to reduce smoking to the absolute minimum on the day of a match.’ Brilliant isn’t it, a request to cut down on smoking on a match day? I didn’t smoke, but fellow Scot Denis Law, one of the few lads I knew at United when I arrived, took a sly fag now and then. Denis was one reason Matt bought me. He’d watched us link up well for Scotland and he had a long term plan for United which included us two, with me being Denis’s main supply line. Some people told me that another reason why Matt had gone over the border to sign me was that he considered my style of play the closest to the kind of role he himself once had while playing for Manchester City. Matt never said that to me, but others did.

Despite knowing Denis Law, I still felt like an outsider and the whole experience was a bit strange for me because I’d only lived in Glasgow and I was a bit of a mummy’s boy. To make matters worse, I was described by the Scottish newspapers as an ‘Anglo’, a phrase I hated, which was used to describe Scottish players who played in England.