He went back to Old Trafford and said ‘This is where I hurt my head’
THE GREAT MANCHESTER UNITED TEAM OF 1968 HAS BEEN DECIMATED BY DEMENTIA. HERE, THE FAMILIES TELL US THEIR HEARTBREAKING STORIES
WHILE he was still capable of fighting the disease taking over his mind, Tony Dunne asked for a gun to end his torment.
Before David Herd could no longer recognise who he was, he began defacing photographs of himself at home.
Well into his 70s, Bill Foulkes would be up in the dead of night searching for his football boots, convinced he was still playing for Manchester United.
All three men were part of the United team which went on to win the European Cup in 1968. All three died with dementia.
Shortly after Nobby Stiles passed away in October, the family of Sir Bobby Charlton confirmed he too has been diagnosed, bringing the total number of afflicted players from that famous team to five.
That sobering statistic supports the theory that football is a direct cause of the high number of dementia cases in former players, and is at the heart of Sportsmail’s campaign to tackle the issue.
Stiles’ family donated his brain to the FIELD study conducted by Dr Willie Stewart at the University of Glasgow, and revealed this week that tests have proved his illness was caused by heading a ball.
The families of Dunne, Foulkes and Herd are convinced the same is true of his late team-mates.
‘We think it had a massive impact on dad,’ says Dunne’s daughter Lorraine, talking through the ‘horrendous journey’ that led to his death in June at the age of 78.
It began when the former leftback suffered the first of several mini-strokes. The family noticed childish, giddy behaviour and how he would come downstairs with a T-shirt or sweater back to front.
Dunne, who had a driving range in Altrincham after he retired from football, gave up golf and became a recluse, living in fear of what would happen next.
‘He was absolutely petrified,’ says Lorraine. ‘He used to say to me in the early stages: “If I have a broken leg or arm, I can deal with that, I know it’s going to fix”.
‘But the fear for my father was he didn’t know what was going on. He knew something wasn’t right. He could never describe it to us, just that he had this fuzziness in his head. It completely took over.
‘He went through a terrible stage of depression, which is part of the onset of dementia. It led to suicidal thoughts. He didn’t want to be here. His life was over as far as he was concerned because he couldn’t swing a golf club or kick a ball.
‘He asked for a gun or a knife. He would say: “Please help me”. He used to plead with my mum to end his life. He was frightened. You could see he was tormented and the pain in his eyes.
‘His whole life became sitting in a chair in total silence. He stopped reading books because his head was hurting, and he didn’t like the TV on because of the noise.’
Dunne had Parkinson’s disease as well as Lewy Body dementia, which led to hallucinations. When the security lights came on in the back garden, he would picture a night match at Old Trafford.
‘They had a lovely green garden and the lounge was his favourite room,’ says Lorraine. ‘He could see them playing football.
‘Dad would be talking to Georgie (Best) and Bobby (Charlton). As soon as you mentioned their names, his eyes would light up.’
The f amily arranged with United for Tony to return to Old Trafford in the hope it might stir some happy memories.
They put his wheelchair at the side of the pitch where he made so many of his 535 appearances for the club, but Dunne quickly became distressed and had to leave after half an hour.
‘He knew where he was,’ says Lorraine. ‘He said: “This is where I hurt my head”.
‘ That moment was a reality check for us. For him to associate where we were with his head was quite frightening really.’
A banner at Old Trafford pays tribute to The Quiet Man. But as dementia took hold, his character changed and he was sectioned under the Mental Health Act.
‘He got aggressive,’ says Lorraine. ‘He was throwing furniture, biting, kicking. He would pull the drawers out and cupboard doors off.
‘I could always reason with him, but he used to take it out on mum, frighten her. My dad was a very quiet man, as they used to call him. He was all about respect. He wouldn’t behave in that manner.’
Lorraine visited her father every
Tony Dunne asked for a gun to end his torment
day in hospital. She washed him, shaved him and cut his hair. His family were adamant Tony would not go into care, and he was home after 10 days.
But when he was re-admitted following a fall earlier this year, she never saw him again.
A positive Covid test meant only her mother Anne got to visit him once for 20 minutes, dressed in full PPE, before he passed away.
‘We weren’t even allowed to see him in the coffin,’ says Lorraine.
‘The suffering and mental torture he went through. All the career memories, yet he didn’t know he was a footballer by the end and that was the sad part.
‘It was all taken away from him by this illness. It’s an awful journey and I went through it all with my father. I did the best I could as a daughter, but f or him i t was soul-destroying.
‘It’s one of the cruellest diseases. I would never want to encounter it again. It has scarred me for life.’
FOULKES played centre-back for United and was required more than most to head the heavy leather balls of that era.
Like his friend Harry Gregg, he was a survivor of the Munich Air Disaster and a key figure in the team that rose from the ashes. Amazingly, Foulkes was captain against Sheffield Wednesday two weeks after the tragedy.
He worked down the mines for two years after signing for United, earning more than he did from football, and turned down a rugby league offer from St Helens. His father thought he had gone soft.
When Foulkes broke a rib, he had
David Herd defaced photos of himself at home
United’s medical staff strap an arm to his torso so he could play on. After he returned against Real Madrid in the 1968 European Cup semi-final following a knee injury, he refused a cortisone injection before scoring the goal that sent United to the final.
Foulkes’ competitive spirit and bravery were especially poignant in his battle against dementia.
‘When I was little, I remember kicking a ball in the back garden and Harry Gregg would jump out of the way and let me score,’ recalls Foulkes’ son Stephen.
‘Dad would berate him and said I had to learn. I was three, and had to beat an international keeper! That’s the way he was.
‘Matt Busby had George Best, Bobby Charlton and Denis Law to do all the other things, but he needed someone competitive and dad would never give in.
‘Even right the way through to the end. In dad’s last days, he was obviously gone completely and wasted away to next to nothing.
‘But he wouldn’t stop breathing. He was concentrating so hard. I thought: “Dad, for once just give up, there’s nothing you can do now”. It was hard to watch.’
Foulkes was a fine golfer, good enough to turn professional, but he remained in football as a manager and scout. His work took him to the US, Scandinavia and Japan even though he hated flying after Munich.
The first the family noticed something wrong was about eight years before his death at the age of 81 in November 2013.
‘He’d go to drive somewhere but forget the route,’ recalls Stephen. ‘He had a great sense of direction, so that was a concern to him.
‘I used to take him to events at United. Although the dementia was quite well on, they wanted him to go and he wanted to go.
‘ Going to Old Trafford was important to him. He wouldn’t remember it the next day, but when he was there and dealing with the public, it was almost like second nature to him.
‘ He would insist on signing autographs. It was hard towards the end for him to sign his name, but he would really concentrate to get it right. The effort he put in was heart-breaking. One night I stayed at mum’s before taking him to Old Trafford the next day. About three in the morning dad was up, and I got up because I could hear him.
‘He said he didn’t have his boots and all his stuff to play. He knew in his head he was going to Old Trafford and he wasn’t prepared for what he had to do.’
Foulkes had a full-time carer before going into a home near United’s Carrington training base. Charlton was a regular visitor.
‘Bobby was very good with him,’ says Stephen. ‘He didn’t fuss. They would go for a walk up to the garage and buy chocolate and have a chat. Denis Law came once but it upset him too much.
‘You never thought heading the ball was going to be that big a deal, but obviously over time it can cause issues. The balls back then were so heavy when they got wet. Heading it was like a punch. Bashing your head on a regular basis can’t be good for you.
‘I would say it’s fairly conclusive there is a link.’
HERD’S sister Retta remembers pictures of him heading a ball suspended on a piece of elastic.
It was an exercise the players would repeat in training and Herd, a classic centre-forward, would do this more than most.
He scored twice for United in the 1963 FA Cup final win over Leicester, but a broken l eg against the same opponents in March 1967 meant his role in the winning European Cup campaign was limited to a quarter-final appearance against Gornik Zabrze of Poland.
‘David headed lots of goals,’ says Retta. ‘There are pictures of him i n this harness, l i ke a baby bouncer, in training. With the ball rattling your head, you may as well be a boxer. I’m surprised they haven’t looked before. Thousands of players must have it.’
Herd continued to run his own garage after retiring, but his health deteriorated following a triple heart bypass.
‘I used to ask if he was alright,’ says Retta. ‘ He’d say: “Yes, I’m playing golf four times a week”. He wasn’t playing golf at all then. It’s an illness, they don’t know what they’re doing.
‘He defaced photos of himself at home. You don’t know what goes on in their heads, the brain is so damaged. He ended up having social workers, but they came to the house with three police cars. I’ve never heard anything like it. He was frightened, ran into the garden. They took him away. Is that any way to treat someone?’
Herd had a spell in Trafford General Hospital’s dementia unit. He was moved to a care home in Timperley, but escaped on day one and spent the rest of his life at the Bedford Nursing Home in Leigh.
He died there in October 2016, aged 82, and is buried next to his other sister Sally, who had passed away three weeks earlier, in Dumfriesshire.
‘I didn’t go much towards the end because he didn’t know us much really. It was upsetting to see him like that,’ says Retta.
‘He thought he was on a cruise. He used to say: “Where did you embark?” He thought he was 21.
‘We’d take him different United books, but he didn’t recognise himself, to be honest. He had such a good career, all that experience, yet he couldn’t remember a thing.
‘It’s awful. A horrible illness. Nobody should end up like that.’