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United were one of the soccer powers in the land, capturing the imagination of the public with their dynamic style and young stars. On the other hand, Leeds United were languishing in the Second Division, an ordinary side full of ordinary players. What particularly surprised Jack when he arrived at Elland Road was the shabbiness of the ground, the disrepair symbolic of the state of the ailing club. ‘I always regarded Leeds as a big club but I must confess that I had the wind knocked out of my sails when I saw the place for the first time. The terraces were made from ashes, not concrete, and there was more than a liberal sprinkling of weeds sprouting around the ground. In general the ground had a look of untidiness and at first I was disappointed. Frankly, I don’t know just what I expected but it did not quite come up to the standard I had envisaged as a youngster,’ wrote Jack in one of his testimonial programmes when he retired in 1973.

      The only thing the clubs had in common was the reputation of their managers. When Bobby joined Manchester in 1953, Matt Busby had already been in charge for eight years, building teams which combined a dazzling creative flair with a powerful competitive edge. Born in a poor Lanarkshire mining village, Busby had been a highly effective wing-half for Manchester City, Liverpool and Scotland in the inter-war years, his ability to read the game making up for his lack of pace. A family man and a Catholic, he exuded a natural charisma and authority as manager, rarely having to raise his voice. His judgement of a footballer, both in terms of talent and character, was almost impeccable. All players held him in respect, the younger ones in awe. In his control of the club, there is a lot of the character of a stern devoted grandfather, making all the big decisions, ordering and disciplining in some huge, unpredictably gifted household,’ wrote Arthur Hopcraft in The Football Man. John Docherty, one of the United players of the 1950s, says of Busby: ‘There was always this impression of him being such a gentleman, but, in fact, he was as hard as fucking nails. Remember, he was from the Scottish coalfields. You don’t build great sides by being a nice guy. In private, he was a hard bastard.’

      Jack’s first manager at Leeds, Major Frank Buckley, was an equally powerful figure in the football world. Unlike Busby, who could terrify a professional with just a raised eyebrow, Buckley was much more volcanic, using loud, foul-mouthed tirades to impose his will. Born in 1883, he fought in both the Boer War and the First World War, where he acquired the title of Major. He was a good enough footballer to have played for England, while his finest spell of management was at Wolves just before the Second World War. An autocrat with a flair for publicity, he captured the headlines in 1938 by announcing that he had given his players ‘monkey gland’ injections to increase their energy levels. Stan Cullis, the Wolves captain of the 1930s and later Busby’s biggest managerial rival of the 1950s, once said of Buckley’s authoritarian style: ‘He was never one of those equivocal people. He was a one-man band, who knew exactly what he wanted and where he was going’ – an approach that some might argue Jack Charlton was to adopt in his managerial career. When Jack arrived at Leeds in 1950, Buckley was past his best. But signs of the old dictatorial spirit still lingered. Bobby Forrest, who joined Leeds at the same time as Jack, recalls: ‘When we were training, Major Buckley used to sit in the old stand with a megaphone. If you did anything wrong, you’d get a real blast. The language was unbelievable. If I played a ball and it was cut out, he would scream, “You’re fucking useless, Forrest.” The residents nearby would regularly complain and eventually Leeds had to take the megaphone off him.’ Buckley could be witty as well. In one dressing-room talk he admonished his centre-forward: ‘Jesus Christ was a clever man, but if he’d played football he would never have found you.’

      As a member of the ground staff, Jack also experienced the sharp end of the major’s tongue. On one occasion he was on the Elland Road pitch with another boy, carrying out the monotonous task of removing weeds and replacing them with grass seed. For once, the cold heart of the major softened, for when he saw the two lads, he promised them each five shillings for every bucket they filled with weeds. When the boys had finished, they had filled six pails, so, with characteristic impertinence, Jack walked straight up to the major’s office.

      ‘What the hell do you want?’

      ‘My 30 bob for the buckets of weeds.’

      ‘Get out of here! You’re already getting paid to do that work. Don’t ever let me see you up here again with your buckets.’

      In fact this kind of menial task was typical of the life of the ground staff. ‘It was a hard apprenticeship,’ said Jack in a 1968 television interview. ‘You were basically a lackey, cleaning out the toilets, sweeping the terraces, painting and oiling the turnstiles, cleaning piles and piles of boots, putting studs in them, pumping up balls and brushing the car park.’

      Traditionalists would say that such a routine taught the teenagers discipline, but Jack’s friend and fellow manager, Ian Greaves, thinks it was a nonsense. ‘I found it really odd the way these clubs exploited the future stars. It stuck with me for years. There is no way you could get away with that nowadays – and quite right too. You are either a cleaner or a footballer. When I became a manager, I never insulted young boys that way.’ But Jack, in a rare submission to officialdom, knuckled down, still haunted by the fear that if he did not stick at it, he would be forced to return to Ashington. As he wrote in his autobiography, ‘There was shame for the lads who were rejected. That was the fear that drove me during my first two years at Leeds. I did not regard myself as anything special when it came to playing football, otherwise I would have jumped at the first offer from Leeds and never gone near the mines. But now I had been given a second chance, I was determined that, come hell or high water, I’d take it.’

      He worked just as hard on the pitch, training rigorously five days a week and playing for both the youth and third teams. Sometimes, he would even turn out twice on the same day. Such was his enthusiasm that he was willing to act as linesman if the appointed official failed to show. The thirds provided a particularly tough learning environment, because they played in the Yorkshire League, which was basically a miners’ competition. ‘I was just 16, playing against hard, fully mature men, big strong buggers who clattered into you with no quarter asked or given.’ It was the hardest league he was ever to experience in his life, and Jack says it was the making of him.

      In his later years, Jack became well known for his relaxed approach to life, enjoying a pint and a cigarette most evenings. But in this mood of youthful determination, he shunned such indulgences. Living in a boarding house near Elland Road, run by Mary Crowther and her spinster daughter Laura, he ignored the nightlife of Leeds except for occasional visits to the local cinema. Astonishingly, in his first two years at the club, he went into the city centre just twice. He was good about money, too, sending home £1 out of his limited weekly earnings of just £4 10s a week. Jack was pleased to be living in digs, for it was the first time in his life that he had been able to sleep in a bed on his own. Yet he also found it odd that his mother had not asked either of her two brothers to put him up. After all, one of the supposed advantages of going to Leeds was the family connection, with Cissie having claimed that Jack ‘would be well looked after’ in Leeds.

      Jack’s increasingly impressive performances and hard work paid off. After years of mediocrity, he was developing fast as a player. In his second year at Leeds, he was given occasional appearances in the reserve team, while in a practice match he played at centre-half and was given the job of marking the giant John Charles, the awesome Welsh international who could play up front or at the back. Jack felt he dealt with Charles quite well that day. Meanwhile, the dictatorial and profane Major Buckley, aged 69, had retired from Leeds United, his place taken by Raich Carter, the former Sunderland, Derby and England striker, whose success as a manager never matched his prowess in front of goal. Carter now had Jack’s future in his hands, for League regulations stipulated that, at the age of 17, a member of the ground staff had either to be given a contract or released. Having heard nothing, Jack walked into the secretary’s office on 8 May 1952.

      ‘It’s my 17th birthday today. Are you going to sign me or not?’

      ‘I’m afraid the first team’s in Holland, and Mr Carter has left no instructions,’ replied Arthur Crowther. Jack was now worried, feeling that the dreaded journey back to Ashington now beckoned. But the next day, he was summoned to see Raich Carter. To his immense relief, Jack was offered terms as a professional, a £10 signing-on

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