Cloggers & Enforcers

I have mentioned before a stream of full-backs I have liked and respected, from Philippe Lahm to Clive Wilson, but I have tended to be antipathetic towards the big blokes in the middle. Perhaps it has something to do with the British obsession with lantern-jawed shouters, more adept at kicking opponents and hoofing it upfield than anything approaching creativity or finesse. Instead of so-called club legends such as Tony Adams, John Terry, Jack Charlton or Jamie Carragher, my preferred central defenders have been players in the image of Bobby Moore, Rio Ferdinand, Roy McFarland or Gerard Pique.

Like many people, I am not well versed in the mysterious art of defending. Therefore, my idea of a perfect defender is probably naïve and idealistic. Even Moore, Rio and the Barcelona and Spain footballer have resorted to trips, snide ankle taps and cowardly shirt tugs to thwart attacks. However, I have little time for the unapologetic cloggers, those employed as enforcers; task: stop the opposition by any means, fair or foul. Of course, they aren’t restricted to defence. Some of the dirtiest footballers in my lifetime have been midfielders. This section is dedicated to those I have least enjoyed watching, unless to cheer their every error, red card or missed sitter.

As a naïve nine year-old, I probably paid little heed to the most vicious tackles. I do recall George Best accidentally breaking Man City full-back Glyn Pardoe’s leg but usually it was Best on the receiving end, such as in this challenge by Ron ‘Chopper’ Harris, so named presumably because of his inclination to chop attackers’ legs on a whim. Soon afterwards, Jack Charlton faced FA disrepute charges for admitting jotting in a little black book names of opponents with which he swore to get even. I don’t recall that receiving much column space in Shoot! magazine!

Big Jack’s World Cup-winning colleague Nobby Stiles had been kicking lumps out of others’ limbs for years but only his Leeds team-mate Norman Hunter actually made a meal out of them. The 1972 Cup Final banner proclaiming affectionately “Norman Bites Yer Legs” has gone into folklore but Hunter was indeed well known for on-pitch physical assaults that would merit a lengthy suspension these days but then would barely receive a mild finger-wagging. In 1975 he was also involved in an hilarious bout of fisticuffs with the much smaller Francis Lee who even succeeded in knocking the leg-biter off balance. I do remember seeing that one on telly.

Most clubs employed a hard man either in, or in front of, the back four. Liverpool had Tommy Smith, Arsenal Peter Storey, and West Ham, Billy Bonds. His successor Julian Dicks was no shrinking violet either. Apparently he seemed such a nice man walking his dogs around my home town of Billericay, but at Upton Park he was a two-legged Rottweiler.

Many of us oldies ruminate nostalgically at the laissez-faire attitude of refs to vicious tackles back in the day. However, I don’t believe that today’s players are any less prone to violence than the Harrises or Hunters; it’s just that they are more likely to raise two arms and feign innocence – before getting their marching orders. ‘Chopper’ would have merely shrugged his shoulders and sauntered back to his position.

Of course, there was little danger of retrospective disciplinary action three or more decades ago. Nottingham Forest’s Kenny Burns could play up front or at the back; either way, he lived to head-butt opponents knowing there probably wouldn’t be any cameras around to capture his transgressions – apart, that is, from this cowardly assault. I bet he had got away with many more such tricks.

There was nothing subtle about Nottingham Forest and England’s Stuart Pearce, who wasn’t nicknamed ‘Psycho’ for no reason, and then there was Gazza’s legendary scrotum-grabber Vinnie Jones. A back-to-basics midfielder whose sole role at Wimbledon was to clatter rivals into submission early on so his more skilful mates could operate more freely. He was a nasty piece of work. His whole footballing career, like that of Neil ‘Razor’ Ruddock, read like a lengthy audition for his later parts in Guy Ritchie geezer gangster films.

Lee Bowyer was another Noughties international famed for his ability to self-combust. I’ll never forget laughing when, at Newcastle, he was sent off for fighting his own team-mate, Kieron Dyer! Robbie Savage was more of a pantomime villain than a genuine red card collector unlike, say Patrick Vieira, Phil Bardsley or Lee Cattermole. Then there’s Joey Barton, whom I couldn’t stand – let alone understand - until his wanderings took him to QPR in 2011. By this time he had become better known not as brawler and clumsy cigar-wielder but as inveterate gambler and eccentric Twitter user, even appearing on TV’s Question Time. However, his behaviour during the famous end-of-season Man City match in 2012 had me holding my head in despair.

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It’s not just Brits who have hogged the clogging down the years. In the early Eighties, Claudio Gentile was a notorious Italian defender who often took man-marking rather too literally and West German Uli Stielike was particularly steely. Italian centre-back Pietro Vierchowod was, in Gary Lineker’s own words, “absolutely brutal” but the ever-lovable Real Madrid and Spain nutter Sergio Ramos is just as bad as any foreign hard man I’ve ever seen. The bigger the game, the worse he acts, with several el Clasico red cards and that deliberate shoulder-dislocation of Salah in the 2018 Champions League final.

But for me, the worst of all was Roy Keane. Brought from Ireland by Brian Clough in 1990, and nabbed by Man United three years later to replace Bryan Robson, his propensity to commit crude fouls knew no bounds. His face as darkly blank as Mourinho’s, he became Fergie’s designated assassin, punching Vieira in the tunnel, stamping on Southgate on the touchline or, by his own confession, attempting to end Alf-Inge Haaland’s career with the crudest foul I’ve ever seen. Keane could even bring the entire genre of hard men into disrepute, and that's saying something!