Tale of two Harrys and Three Lions BRUCE JENKINS
This is a tale of two Harrys. They have no connection to each other, save my devotion to England’s national soccer team. The singer got it started, and the athlete keeps it going.
London, 1973: Through a sequence of heaven-sent events, I found myself on a brisk walk through the streets of southwest London, bound for Stamford Bridge, with the gifted Harry Nilsson. We were about to watch Chelsea host Arsenal in one of sports’ most storied rivalries, and my life would never be the same.
Nilsson had been enlisted by Derek Taylor, the so-called “Fifth Beatle,” to record an album of classic 20th-century standards, arranged and conducted by my father, Gordon Jenkins. My mother and I made the trip and were privileged to witness the sessions for “A Little Touch of Schmilsson in the Night,” recorded at the famed Wembley studios with an orchestra of London’s finest musicians, many of them from the symphony.
Nilsson was an after-hours legend, favoring the likes of John Lennon and Paul McCartney as his partners in revelry. I was searching for some sort of identity in life, temporarily disenchanted with sportswriting and weighing an offer to join The Chronicle’s Sporting Green as a vacation replacement. We were many worlds apart, but when Nilsson caught wind of my sporting bent, thoroughly vacant of soccer knowledge, he felt I was ripe for a religious experience.
Watching from an exclusive wing of the historic old stadium, sipping scotch with no ice, we watched the action unfold. I was spellbound by the raging passion in the stands: thousands of rugged, blue-collar men suddenly breaking into song, with no apparent cue. After 45 minutes of continuous action — a revelation for the American football fan — the halftime “show” was nothing. Before an empty field, people smoked and drank and engaged in vigorous conversation. And then 45 more minutes of play, without question the purest form of sustained entertainment I had ever witnessed.
I came to memorize some of the names: Alan Ball, Charlie George, Peter Osgood. In the coming days I bought every newspaper (and there were nearly a dozen), devouring every word about English football. That led to a lifelong attachment to the Three Lions, a team with glorious history — notably winning the 1966 World Cup — but stricken by ongoing disaster in modern times. Sorting through the rubble of failure, I realized that only the last names need be mentioned: Pearce, Waddle, Ince, Batty, Southgate (the very one, Gareth, now coaching the team). Even the greatest players seemed destined for World Cup disgrace: Paul Gascoigne’s misbehavior against West Germany in 1990, David Beckham sent off against Argentina in 1998, Wayne Rooney’s red card against Portugal in ’06.
Still, a four-year wait brings solace to the broken heart. The British tabloids never let up, always quick to let fly with a “Here We Go Again, You Idiots” brand of dispatch, but there is eternal hope amid the public. And such is the case right now, in Russia. England has completed its first match, in triumph — and it was all about Harry.
There’s nothing particularly eye-catching about Harry Kane, certainly not in the manner of Portugal’s Cristiano Ronaldo, Spain’s Sergio Ramos or France’s Paul Pogba. He’s a rather ordinary-looking fellow, looking somewhat harmless as he moves about the pitch, but how deceiving that is. Kane’s goal-scoring knack is pure genius, making him virtually unstoppable at Tottenham Hotspur and ranking him with the very best in the world.
So it was that Kane scored both goals in Monday’s 2-1 victory over Tunisia, a match fraught with English-style angst. The players fumbled about through most of the match, promising plays rendered too slow to develop. It was ugly inside the box, Kane brutally taken down by obvious-looking penalties not called. “It’s always in the back of your mind,” he said later, “that it’s going to be one of those days.”
Then came second-half stoppage time, and Kane’s gamewinning header inside the far post. Back in London, the tabloids quickly reversed course. The traditionally slow-starting Lions had come through. Remarkably, Kane’s brace (two goals) was England’s first in World Cup play since Gary Lineker’s against Cameroon in 1990.
So that’s my story, heavily condensed. Harry Nilsson lived much too hard and passed away at 52, telling me near the end that his work with Gordon Jenkins was the most important of his life. I went back to San Francisco in April of ’73 and joined the Chronicle, never to stray. And Harry Kane is the modern-day symbol of English soccer.
He wears it well. Today, at least. One cannot be sure what lurks around that next Russian corner.