Lost Worlds

I phoned Mum last night and she was in good spirits, recording yet another big win at bingo: fifty quid, no less. We also touched upon the recent anniversary of the Munich air crash which destroyed the Busby Babes and talked about May Whalley. For years I’d heard the name of this lady simply as someone Mum ran across when playing bowls, the crown green variety. It was odd to discover, and I’m not quite sure how I did, that May had been married to a certain Bert Whalley, who had occupied the seat next to Matt Busby himself on the fated flight. Bert had been one of the coaches for the legendary team and was occupying the seat that should have gone to assistant manager Jimmy Murphy, himself a legend in Manchester for his part in the rebuilding of the shattered team. Small world. And that world was, small and local and good.

You grew up with the Munich story as a standard part of a Manchester boyhood. Teams were local teams. Men wore hats. Priests mentioned match results on Sunday morning. Duncan Edwards would have been greater than Pele. You stood on cold bleak terraces to support United and marveled when they built the covered stand. The reserves would top the Central League and most would end up playing for the first team because that was the way things were done.

Things change. Men stopped wearing hats, and put Dad and most of Denton, based on the hatting industry if you can imagine such a thing, out of a job. Most, then all, of the ground was covered. It’s difficult to find anyone to talk to who actually watched Duncan Edwards play. And they haven’t heard of him in Singapore.

Things got better and a world was lost.