Amy Lawrence on the 1971 Gunners_ FACup final hero Charlie George
Football supporters will forgive talented players most indiscretions so long as
they try. So long as they have pride in the shirt. For Arsenal fans and Charlie
George this was a given. He was one of them; he had the skills, he had the swagger, he had the Arsenal tattooed on his heart, and he made that dream-like,
quantum leap off the terrace and on to the pitch.
George was wonderfully unique. Although he wasn_t the only elusive maverick floating through football in the early Seventies, he was the only one who played
for the team he had loved ever since he could remember loving anything.
In the summer of 1953, with England in the throes of street parties to honour
the Queen_s coronation, George the toddler went out to play dressed up as Jimmy
Logie, the wizard who crafted Arsenal_s attack of the day. Little did Mr and Mrs
George realise that their boy would one day become the King of Highbury.
A vintage shot from football_s 1971 collection of gimmicky photographs depicts
George in full regalia _ shimmering robe over his kit, jewelled crown atop his
lank hair, sceptre in one hand and FA Cup at his feet. His expression is something to behold, a cross between, _What the _eck_s this all about, I quite
like being a king, as it goes_, and _This is a right laugh._
Nothing fazed him. _I wasn_t really a shy person,_ he says, master of understatement. _I never felt out of place. I_ve always mixed with people a bit
older than myself and as a kid I always played with older people so I never felt
inferior.
_Once you step over the line you get a buzz, you know? In a funny way it_s a
cockiness from knowing what I could do when I played football and I always had
confidence in my own ability. There wasn_t anything I didn_t think I could do
with a ball. That was my philosophy._
He breezed into the dressing room oozing the cheek of the Artful Dodger and the
arrogance of Top Cat. Not only did he enter into the banter immediately, he started plenty.
_He was just Charlie off the terraces when he was walking about in an Arsenal
blazer,_ remembers Frank McLintock, the skipper of that 1971 double-winning side. _If he didn_t like somebody he_d let them know, _You_re a tosspot_ and all
that, and he never lost his brashness at all. He was a right outspoken sod, but
that_s what made him a special player._
His social impact was nothing compared with the shock waves he caused at the
training ground. Some of the experienced pros had never seen anything like him.
His party piece was to launch the ball into orbit, eye it indifferently as it
sped down, then kill it stone dead. A doddle.
He had swank, he had subtlety of touch, he had substantial thighs, assets that
fused to give him the power to unleash those trademark missile shots. George
sprayed passes around with the ease of Beckenbauer, knocked volleys over his
shoulder and into the roof of the net like Best, swerved past challenges like
Cruyff … McLintock and McNab glanced at each other in amazement … and then
he swore like a trooper. Good old Charlie, all the skill in the world and none
of the sophistication.
George_s distinctive style made a statement: I don_t care, I don_t pose, I just
let it all happen. Without even trying the rebel was perpetuating his own myth.
But strip away the layers of bravado and way down in the pit of George_s stomach
was evidence of nerves. _I used to be physically sick before games,_ he admits.
_Frank said to me years ago, _I know there_s a lot of pressure on you because
you_re a local lad._
_I never actually felt it but I couldn_t eat before a game because I used to
burn a lot of acid up in my body. Once I was out there I was OK. I_ve never felt
in awe of anybody, never ever in my life. There was nothing that any footballer
could do that I felt I couldn_t do. Whether that was right or wrong it_s a good
attitude to have._
His unwavering belief endeared him to his team-mates. If he was having an average game compared to the grandiose heights he could achieve, Bob Wilson used
to get hold of him at half-time, urging him, coaxing him, pushing him to find
the magic. _He had an amazing ability, even if he_d played badly, to remember
the one great ball he_d hit,_ says Wilson. _Charlie had the strut at 19._
Don Howe, who coached that Arsenal side, was full of praise for George. _They
talk today about these players dropping off _ Zola, Cantona, Bergkamp _ we were
doing that 30 years ago with Charlie George,_ he says. _And he was superb. Yes,
he scored great goals, but he was the crucial link between the back and the front as well._
As for George, he couldn_t care less where he played as long as he played. _I
could play either up front or midfield. It didn_t matter, I always felt football
was easy. If you gave me the ball I would do the work. I only wanted the ball,
then I would do whatever you wanted me to do with it._
The FA Cup was the perfect platform for Arsenal_s virtuoso. The roulette wheel
of knockout competition stimulated his creativity and stoked his conviction.
Under the spotlight of the big occasion reputations are created or killed. With
each round in 1971, so George_s reputation grew.
Having got back into the scoring groove in the fourth round against Portsmouth,
he netted winners in the next two stages. And a couple of them were the kind of
gems only George could unearth.
Maine Road was not the most appetising draw for Arsenal, especially on a surface
like a swimming pool. _I don_t know whether Malcolm Allison [Manchester City
manager of the time] had flooded it at the time, I think they had a couple of
players injured,_ George recalls, _But when it rains in Manchester … it rains._
The game was played under the floodlights on a ghastly night. McLintock felt it
was time to play mind games with the joker in Arsenal_s pack, just in case he
wasn_t feeling inspired.
_I hope you play well tonight, Charlie,_ warned the captain. _I was talking to
Malcolm Allison and he doesn_t rate you at all. He reckons you can only last
about 30 minutes, he thinks you_ll die a death _ typical cockney._
George turned the air in the dressing room blue, then promptly went out and upstaged City_s stars Franny Lee, Colin Bell and Mike Summerbee, with a stellar
performance that included two goals. McLintock, of course, hadn_t spoken to City_s coach before the game and he took great delight in telling Allison and
George afterwards.
The semifinal pitted Arsenal against Stoke, the team whose 5-0 demolition job
had rocked them in the league earlier in the season. Nightmare start. Two-nil
down at half-time and on the way to another drubbing.
What_s more, both goals were gifts, one from Peter Storey and the other from
George with a wayward backpass. It was an afternoon ruled by nerves and Arsenal
were losing theirs. In the dressing room at half-time crockery was smashed, tempers soared, and Arsenal emerged refocused. Storey demonstrated all his deft
talent with a fierce, long-range drive to make it 2-1, then all his deadly nerve
with an injury-time penalty. The double dream remained alive.
The replay was a one-sided affair. No nerves this time. And George soon got over
his Hillsborough clanger: _The first touch I got was a 60-yard backpass to the
goalkeeper. I was very conscious of what had happened in the previous game and I did it just to prove to myself that everything was going to be all right.
_You get over something. You made a mistake but you_ve got to get on with it,
you_re not going to change the course of history because whatever_s happened
happened. We won the game 2-0, quite comfortably in the end._
George always was something of an enigma. How else do you begin to explain his
movements after the league title-winning night at White Hart Lane? The quintessential Arsenal man, born in Islington and bred on the North Bank, having
just played in the most liberating derby any Gooner could ever witness … what
did he do after their 1-0 win, when the team coach drew up at Southgate? He hopped on the Tube and went home.
The lads hit the boozer, his old man and fiance were out looking for him to
help their favourite boy paint the town red and white. And Charlie went home. He just felt like it, so he did.
Enigmatic? I_ll say. Little wonder moody pubescents all over London wished they
could be like Charlie George. And frivolous nymphettes wished they could be with
Charlie George. And bashful housewives wished they could mother Charlie George.
And that_s before even mentioning what George meant to the Arsenal faithful. He
was one of them, and he was living out all of their fantasies.
In the midst of the madness in the visitors_ dressing room at White Hart Lane
God knows how anyone heard the telephone ring. _Bill Shankly here, put that man
Bertie Mee on the line,_ commanded football_s mastermind. _A tremendous performance Bertie, magnificent. You may even give us a game on Saturday._ Mee,
we can safely assume, was in the mood to take on anyone.
And George was in the mood to go home to his mum and dad_s flat. Were you saving
yourself for something Charlie? _I don_t know what for,_ he says, with a teasing
laugh.
Shankly wasn_t the only one to indulge in mental trickery. _We got him back at
the final,_ Bob Wilson recalls. _As we_d been at Wembley twice before, we knew
that because of the drill with the Royal party they keep you waiting in the tunnel with the cameras on you for far too long. You can wet yourself there,
some players really lose it.
_We refrained from going out. The FA official knocked on the door. _Sorry, we_re
not ready,_ said Bertie. _Just doing my team talk._ The second knock and Frank
made out he had a problem with a stud. The Liverpool lads were out there for
ages and Shanks knew exactly what we were up to. We saw him fuming when we came
out._
George, having vomited his jitters out in the dressing-room lavatory, was as
imperious as ever. His first match at Wembley was beamed to 400-million around
the world.
_I wasn_t nervous. I just wanted to go and get started so we could get the game
over, win the cup and go and have a drink,_ he says.
Liverpool got their noses in front through Steve Heighway in extra time. Then
play Brian Moore: _Radford, back over his head. Kelly is right in there, playing
much more as a striker in this extra time … AND IT_S THERE! GEORGE GRAHAM!
It_s George Graham who got the touch and makes it 1-1!_ In fact it was George
Graham who sold the greatest dummy of all time, kidding everyone in the stadium
that he_d got the final touch.
_It didn_t matter, we_d scored,_ grins George. _Pushing forward and trying to
score in extra time is very difficult. It was so hot, like a cauldron. The heat
was so intense it was unbelievable. The day absolutely drains you.
_The 90-minute period I_d played as well as anyone, but in extra time I was tired. I swapped over and moved up front, I think Geordie [Armstrong] dropped
back. I was a little bit knackered but I could always find the strength to hit
one from 20-30 yards. It was never a problem. It was easy for me to hit a ball,
no matter how far._
Brian Moore: _Graham. Radford. Charlie George. Radford. Oh, Charlie George, who
can hit _em … OH WHAT A GREAT GOAL CHARLIE GEORGE! WELL WHAT A FABULOUS GOAL
BY GEORGE! CLEMENCE HAD NO CHANCE WITH THAT!_
It was stunning. And what followed was equally staggering: Charlie was floored
by his own knockout blow. It remains one of the game_s enduring images, imprinted on the minds of football fans regardless of club. There is George, a
symbol of everything that is precocious about football and life, lying flat out
with his arms outstretched on the Wembley turf. The best thing about it is the
look on his face. It_s as if he_s saying, _Well what did you all expect? It just
happened, didn_t it?_
George is as casual about it as ever. _I_ve been a supporter myself. I always
feel you_re giving them something back. If you score and just run back to the
halfway line it_s absolute bollocks. There_s no feeling. I always felt the rapport with the crowd. I enjoyed it _ if you don_t there_s no point in playing._
That night George didn_t slope off home _ he went mad. Critics say George never
fulfilled his true potential. He could have ended up playing for Barcelona. He
ended up playing for Dundee United. He shrugs. _I could have been a better player I suppose, people seem to have said that about me. I_m quite happy about
my life, I don_t complain about anything, just sort of get on with it._
So George drifted about, from one shenanigan to the next. One of his fingers is
missing, which he claims is the result of a lawnmower accident. It_s debatable
whether even the lawnmower believes him. He always was a rogue.
Now he_s back where he started, a face going about his business in Islington,
watching Arsenal on Saturdays. Wherever he goes he_s still patted on the back
for that goal. If you had a pound for every time it_s been mentioned to you, eh
Charlie? _People recognise you scored the goal which enabled the club to win the
double,_ he says. _No matter where I go now _ I watch Arsenal approximately 80%
of games home and away _ I_m recognised and I enjoy it.
_I_ve been a supporter and then I played and now I_m a supporter again. I only
watch Arsenal._
A version of this article first appeared in Proud to say that Name by Amy Lawrence, published by Mainstream