When I first followed football, almost every club had at
least one winger. For example, Mike Summerbee, George Armstrong, Charlie Cooke,
Willie Morgan, Ralph Coates and Len Glover were all masters of their craft, and
there would always be a selection to be enjoyed each week on Match of the Day or The Big Match.
My pleasure at witnessing a winger in action is not simply
triggered by the ability to produce mazy runs at speed. Superb dribblers and
finishers like George Best, Ronaldinho, Cristiano Ronaldo or Eden Hazard are,
of course, incredibly exciting, but I’m treasuring the delights of the winger
as provider. Sadly, it’s a dying art. With the modern ball designed to swerve
violently, there’s no longer any need to beat your man before whipping in that
cross; all you need is a yard of space and bend it like Beckham. Arguably, the winger
himself has been rendered redundant, usurped by the new breed of wing-back: the
Milners, Alonsos and Trippiers of this world.
Therefore, while I am happy to proffer three cheers for the pacey
charges of contemporary wide men like Theo Walcott, Riyadh Mahrez and Wilfried
Zaha, this is more of a lament for the traditional numbers seven and eleven
with which I grew up. They could all cut in and shoot for goal, or even be at
the receiving end of a cross as well as being the giver, but here are some of
my most memorable wingers.
In the early Seventies, just about all the top clubs boasted
at least one speed merchant, ever willing to launch an attack by haring down
the flank and doing whatever was needed to get the ball to the more central
forwards. Eddie Gray’s coat-hanger shoulders and razor-sharp
swivel were so vital to Leeds, and he must surely have been Man of the Match in
that magnificent 1970 FA Cup Final against Chelsea. On his day, he was almost
as good as Best which is praise indeed.
A contemporary, Alan Hinton, was a key figure in
Derby County’s two League titles in ’72 and ’75. He was a double-figure scorer,
a regular penalty taker, but could fire in fierce crosses from the left with
either foot. I don’t know whether it was his blond mop or toothless smile, but
he was one of my favourites from that era. Another blondie, Clive Woods of
Ipswich, was also popular in our household.
Tommy Docherty’s youthful Man United side of the
mid-Seventies sparkled with not one but two entertaining wingers, Steve Coppell and Gordon Hill.
Aged 19 and 22, respectively, they had swept United to the 1976 Cup Final only
to succumb to Southampton. They had better luck the following May against
Arsenal. Coppell went on to the greater success as both player and manager but
for a few years Hill was one of the most popular young stars in the country.
Graham Taylor’s Eighties Watford side also boasted twin
wingers. With Nigel Callaghan on the right and John Barnes on the left, Luther
Blissett could expect crosses or passes from either side. A future Liverpool
and England legend, Barnes gradually became less of an out-and-out winger but
at least in the 1990 Englandneworder number one hit, his rap clearly espoused
the winger’s philosophy: “There's only
one way to beat them; get round the back”. So there!
Scot John Robertson is perhaps one of the more
under-rated left-wingers of my lifetime. Maybe it’s because his boss at Nottingham
Forest once called him “a very unattractive young man” and “scruffy, unfit,
…waste of time”. However, Cloughie recognised a talent when he saw it. For an
unfit waste of time the stocky Robbo did OK, making 243 consecutive matches in
a four-year period, in that time creating and scoring winning goals in two
European Cup Finals.
In subsequent decades, I’ve been treated to cult heroes like
Coventry’s Peter Ndlovu, Norwich’s Ruel Fox, Newcastle’s Nobby Solano,
Arsenal’s Anders Limpar and the Man U and Everton whizz, Andrei Kanchelskis to name but a few, but for
me the top wingers in my time, George Best excepted, are Ryan Giggs and Steve
Heighway. Giggs’ record at Man United is of course, exceptional. But for all his club
appearances, goals and curiously timed ‘groin strains’ when Wales played
friendlies, what I will always remember is his ability as a youngster to cross
at full speed and his deliciously whipped corners, delivered with both feet off
the ground.
What appealed somewhat less is the fact he played for
Ferguson’s Man U. I’m no Liverpool fan either, but Steve Heighway could have played for a
Margaret Thatcher XI for all I cared. As a nine year-old, I was mesmerised by
his spindly-legged runs, skipping over the raised boots of befuddled bruisers
to reach the by-line and set up chance after chance for Keegan, Toshack and co.
His basin cut and moustache completed the look and I cheered heartily when,
from another left-flank dribble, he scored the cheeky opener against Arsenal in
the 1971 Final. Perhaps perversely, he sported the number nine on his shirt
but, unlike Giggs, Heighway was two-footed and could crop up on either side of
the pitch. Thus for me he was the greatest pure winger I ever watched.
You didn’t have to play in the top flight to be a winger, of
course. While at university, I often attended Exeter City’s home games. The
Grecians usually played Peter Rogers on the right, and he epitomised the
winger’s role in fans’ affections. He wasn’t actually much good but, if he
actually beat a full-back just once a match, we’d erupt in raptures, forgiving
him all his previous failures. That was the true value of a winger: to bring
the crowd to its feet in anticipation of a weaving run and pin-point cross.
Rogers was no Giggs or Heighway but he did at least try, and we loved him for
it. His was the position we all coveted as boys, so we doffed our caps to those
who actually filled it for a living.
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