The joy when your heroes write back
IT arrived in a plain, white envelope. How I wish, in hindsight, that I had opened it neatly rather than ripping it to pieces. From the moment I got it in my hands, though, I knew exactly what it was. In the top left-hand corner was the Manchester United crest. At the bottom, in the slightly shaky handwriting you might expect from a man in his late-70s, the signature: ‘M. Busby’.
I must have read it 100 times over that morning, absorbing every word.
Heaven knows how many times since. A signed letter from Sir Matt Busby, the man who rebuilt United after the war and rebuilt them again — this time, into European champions — in the wake of the Munich air disaster.
Not just a signed letter, though. Such a lovely, interesting letter, sharing recollections of his extraordinary life. A tiny snapshot, the beauty of which has become ever more evident through time, that makes me think what a great and splendid man he must have been.
I was 15 when I wrote to Sir Matt, then president at Old Trafford. I was always coming up with silly, little projects, usually connected to football. Selling fanzines at school. Writing stories for no one in particular.
I came from a mining village and a family with a background in pits.
From Stein to Shankly and beyond, I had a fascination with football’s links to Lanarkshire’s industrial heartland. Still do.
Born in Bellshill, where Busby, once a miner himself, originated, it seemed perfectly natural — as these things do in the innocence of youth — to ask if he could spare some time to do little other than satisfy my curiosity.
His letter back actually began with an apology. ‘I am sorry that I have been so long in replying,’ he wrote, ‘but have been away for a short holiday and, with the Christmas mail coming in, I have had plenty to catch up with.’
The sheer thrill of actually hearing from him — not to mention the absurdity of him saying sorry for not writing sooner — rushed back this week with the story of Jordan Rhodes’ charming, handwritten note to young Oliver Warren, an eight-year-old Middlesbrough fan who had written to him to express his disappointment over him joining Sheffield Wednesday.
Rhodes’ reply, confirming reports of what a smashing boy he is, was pitch-perfect. It no doubt attracted such attention as it went against the common image of the selfish modern-day footballer. It is a lazily crafted caricature, really.
For the few bad eggs that do exist, most players, certainly in Scotland, strike me as being rather good with this kind of thing.
I implore them all to continue, to give their time whether results have been good or bad, and remain conscious of the effect they have on these youngsters who adore them whether through an autograph, a quick selfie or an encouraging word.
I would also implore Oliver to keep his letter from Jordan somewhere safe. Soon, life will be a whirl in which the importance of Boro’s result on a Saturday will face increasing competition from women, drinking, travelling, studying, clubbing, working and maybe even bringing up some kids of his own.
That letter, whatever may happen in the intervening years, will always be there as a reminder of these glorious days in which football is the centre of the universe. A safe, warming place to which he can always return.
Even now, after almost 30 years, looking at that letter from Sir Matt makes me inordinately happy, transporting me back to a time when I was inescapably obsessed with football, past and present, and all those stories passed down through the family about playing it, watching it, breathing it and supporting friends who became successes.
One of my grandfathers served in the Royal Signals during the war with Tommy Walker and Billy Steel. A much-cherished, heavily battered notebook — pages loose and yellow — contains the photos and autographs of them and the rest of their army team.
My other grandfather, a boxing man, cared little for football but had so many stories of his own. He lived in Annathill, three rows of miners’ cottages connected to Bedlay Colliery, which produced the legendary Rangers captain ‘Tiger’ Shaw, his brother Davie and Bobby Flavell, who finished up with Alfredo di Stefano at Millonarios in Colombia. Count in Frank Brennan and Drew Jarvie and you are looking at some amount of Scotland internationalists for such a tiny place. Naturally, I know their careers off by heart.
Busby came from Orbiston, a place of similar size to Annathill. That letter he sent me in December 1988 referred to his own local heroes Alex James and Hughie Gallacher, recalled his early days with Orbiston ‘Cannibals’ and explained how his mother Nellie’s plans to emigrate to America were cancelled when he met Manchester City boss Peter Hodge at the Bank Restaurant in Glasgow, run by famed Celtic manager Willie Maley, to sign professional terms.
I have no idea how well-known this was at the time, but it felt like he was sharing it purely with me.
‘It meant that our trip to America was called off, but I never regretted it,’ he closed his letter. ‘Do hope this information is of help. With all good wishes for a very happy Christmas. Yours sincerely, Sir Matt Busby, CBE.’
In rediscovering it this week, it became apparent I had also written to Billy McNeill, also from Bellshill, at the same time. He replied a good month earlier.
Letters back from the 1967 European Cup-winning captain and the winning manager from the following year. Not bad, eh? Even better, I would go on to enjoy the privilege of getting to know Billy, a wonderful man, when my working life later brought us together at the same newspaper.
We all know that well-worn phrase about never meeting your heroes. It depends, I suppose, on what they are made of, where they came from.
What is to be lost in approaching them, though? As little Oliver and I will tell you, there is nothing better than when they turn out to be humble. And understanding. And kind.