How John Giles lived the dream
And a thoroughly enjoyable occasion it was too, with the formalities soon giving way to something akin to ‘The X Factor For Men Of A Certain Age’, as Eamon Dunphy kicked the sing-song off with ‘Send In The Clowns’ before the man of the hour eventually brought proceedings to a close with his own take on ‘Memories’.
As a friend remarked, you’d have to assume that the launch party for Ashley Cole’s autobiography was a bit different. But then, as football biographies go, John Giles’ book is a bit different too.
For example, here are some things you won’t find in John Giles’ autobiography:
A list of the Miss Worlds he has bedded.
A list of the charities to which he has subscribed.
A list of the television personalities with whom he has played golf.
The revelation that all the players at Leeds were doped up to their eyeballs.
The admission that he was actually born in Genoa not Dublin and therefore never qualified to play for Ireland.
Settling of scores with people whose names he has kept all his life in a little black book.
A coming out as, at the age of 70, he feels he has finally come to terms with his sexuality.
A chapter beginning: “The cold light of dawn was seeping through the window when Pelé and I woke up on the floor. As we came to our senses, I noticed that he was holding a fishing rod and he noticed that I was cradling a roast chicken. Just then the door burst up and in rushed Oliver Reed…”
No, you won’t find any of those things in John Giles’ autobiography. You will, though, find a fair sprinkling of Eamon Dunphy, and his mere presence, you would think, should sate the appetites of all those with a taste for the kind of headline-grabbing sensation without which no celebrity biography these days is deemed to be complete. But far from giving in to the temptation of inflating the saga so that it becomes the lurid centre-piece of his book, Giles actually dispenses with Saipan, Keane, Dunphy and The Great Schism in a few pithy paragraphs in the prologue. It’s the warm-up rather than the match itself, if you like.
Time eventually did the healing, says Giles, before he offers his last words on the subject : “Eamon and I were actually together in RTÉ when we heard the stunning news that Keane was joining Quinn — or Mother Teresa as he had called him — as Sunderland’s new manager. ‘’Imagine we fell out over those guys,’ I said.”
And with that, Giles moves on to the really important stuff: the distinction between good players and great players, a recurring theme of – no such distinction required here – a great book about football. And if you think that the subject matter by definition limits the book’s scope, well, you’ve obviously stumbled into the wrong section of this newspaper. And, also, you’re quite mad.
John Giles’ ‘A Football Man’ – the clue is in the title, see? – proves that a sports book doesn’t have to be eye-popping to be eye-opening. As you would expect of Giles, here be enough pleasing anecdote, keen insight and plentiful helpings of that sense which is anything but common to make it an absorbing and illuminating read for anyone with an interest in the game. But while Giles doesn’t do scandal, that doesn’t mean he shirks a tackle either (as if he would). His reservations about the great Manchester United manager Matt Busby are sobering, for example, while his devastating critique of ‘The Damned United’ – the book and film version of Brian Clough’s brief tenure as Leeds manager – should give pause for thought to all of us who are reluctant to question the dearly-held concept of art as a higher expression of truth.
But my favourite section of the book gets to the very essence of the man and his story. With Giles’ memories rendered in engaging prose by my old mucker Declan Lynch, it’s a wonderfully vivid account of the day in 1959 when, as an 18-year-old making his international debut, Giles scored for Ireland in a 3-2 win against Sweden at Dalymount Park.
You’re right there with him on the bus in from the Navan Road, sharing “the lovely wave of excitement” as he carries his boots in a brown paper bag, bound for the Gresham Hotel – a place whose threshold he had never crossed before – for the pre-match team meeting with god-like figures like Noel Cantwell and Charlie Hurley, his team mates now but men he still felt the urge to address as ‘Mister’. Then by bus to Dalyer, passing St Peter’s Church and recalling how as a schoolboy he’d wait there anxiously for his father Dickie – a character worthy of a book in his own right, by the way – to arrive and bring him into the holy ground.
And now here he is in the dressing room, pulling on the green jersey, walking out onto the pitch, standing to attention for the national anthem. And, in due course, comes what he calls “the moment that changed everything”, as he catches a bouncing ball perfectly on the sweet spot, 30 yards out, and his shot screams high into the net. His mother was listening on the radio at home but, says Giles, when the Dalymount Roar went up, the noise travelled all the way up the Navan Road. “She heard it.”
“The dream was football…” it says on the dust jacket of this book, superimposed on a picture of Giles in his Leeds prime. Many millions have shared that dream, a very few have been chosen. For one outstanding football man, this is the story of how that dream came true.
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