“Quiet down you daft beggars, I have summat to tell thee! I’m stepping down as trainer o’ the England football team wi’ immediate effect!”
Charlie “Buster” Harris’ announcement was met by stunned silence from the small group of reporters who had gathered around him to get his thoughts on the game which had just concluded. The heavens seemed keen to offer an opinion as the low rumbling of thunder could be heard from the grey skies overhead, heavy with thick clouds that were gathering over the King Alberto Navarro Stadium. England had just played Uruguay in the semi-finals of the 1920 Olympics football tournament held in Madrid and lost a thrilling encounter by 2 goals to 1 thanks to a last minute goal by the brilliant Uruguayan winger Miguel Barroso. Harris’ resignation was made all the more mind-boggling by the fact that this defeat meant that England would take on the other losing semi-finalist Austria in the 3rd place play-off in 2 days time at the same venue without a coach.
“England has done well under your watch gaffer and has had a good tournament despite the defeat…why throw in the towel now especially with an important game on Friday?” challenged Times reporter Godwin Hunt who was the first to recover from the initial shock of Harris’ proclamation.
“A good tournament?” retorted Harris with obvious disgust.
“A good tournament is one which you win, love! A good loser is ultimately still a loser! The belief that we had a good tournament is a myth just like the myth o’ the superiority o’ the English game. We English are creatures o’ habit and our instinctive conservatism has meant that we ‘ave stood still while football progresses. We gave football to the world but South America is now years ahead o’ us and Uruguay has just demonstrated that.”
“We only lost by a single goal gaffer!?” Daily Athletic scribe Peter Cromwell.
“Aye, we lost by a single goal but the harsh truth is Uruguay could ‘ave beaten us by four or five if it wasn’t for our lad in goal. It’s time we woke up to the fact that there are wonderful teams and players outside our shores!”
“So are you saying England is no longer the leading footballing nation of the world?” Hunt hardly broke stride as he continued furiously scribbling in his notebook.
“Just so! Don’t get me wrong, our problem isn’t talent; From one to eleven we ‘ave footballers capable o’ competin’ against the very best the world has to offer. Our problem runs deeper than that. I’ve been sayin’ for years that we need to change the way football is run in our country in order to compete wi’ other nations. That change will not happen as long as the current Football Union is in power. They are a toothless bulldog who’s sole purpose is to stymie progress.”
“But isn’t that’s why they hired you gaffer, to shake things up?” countered Cromwell in his croaky baritone.
“I thought I could drive change from the inside but the futility o’ this task has just been laid bare to me today after this defeat. It’s been such a struggle for me to get the team to this stage. The fact o’ the matter is that meaningful change can only come from the top.”
The crowd of reporters, press photographers and interested onlookers had swelled considerably as word of Harris’ resignation spread around the stadium. It began to drizzle as Harris was inundated by a volley of follow up questions.
“What do you mean by struggle? What will you do now? By resigning aren’t you taking the easy way out? Aren’t you afraid of getting sued by the Football Union?”
“Nay more questions you wee gomerals!” shouted Harris’ trusted assistant, Archie Boyd, as he shepherded Harris towards the relative safety of the dressing rooms where he hoped he could drum some sense into his exasperating friend, away from the glare of the world’s press.
Charlie Harris had a history of making questionable decisions during his managerial career. However, what could never be questioned was his footballing nous. A balding Yorkshire clergyman of Irish descent with wispy brown hair and a gap tooth smile, he began his professional footballing career in 1890 as a goalie for The Ramblers before controversially joining their West Yorkshire rivals The Swifts after falling out with the Ramblers secretary-manager. While at the Ramblers he had already begun to exhibit signs of his aptitude for spotting footballing talent by scouting young Scottish forward Archie Boyd who went on to become the Ramblers’ record scorer. Unfortunately his playing career was cut short by an injury to his lungs sustained during a gas attack in the Great War of 1900 which meant he could no longer play professionally. He then went into coaching taking charge of The Swifts’ youth team. He had further spells in charge of the Eton Knights and Oxford Rovers before experiencing his first taste of managerial success by taking an unfashionable Devonshire United side from the bottom of the Southern League to Division 1 in the space of 5 short years. However, it was at the London Hellenics where he really made his name, winning an unprecedented two consecutive league and cup doubles in 1910/11 and 1911/12 having taken them out of Division 2. By this time he had convinced the retired Archie Boyd to join him as his right-hand man and their success was built on tactical brilliance allied with astute recruitment. They developed the W-M tactical formation in 1908 to take advantage of the changing of the offside law, while taking relative unknowns from non-league football such as brick-layer George Hogan and turning them into household names. Harris was, at least in England, the first modern manager, the first man to have complete control over the running of a football club, from signings to selection to tactics to arranging for gramophone records to be played over the public-address system to keep the crowd entertained before the game and during half-time. However, the truth of the matter was that he couldn’t stand being told what to do so he preferred having a free reign over club affairs without having to answer to “idiot” chairmen.
When it seemed that Charlie Harris could do no wrong, the cracks began to appear in the veneer of his perfection and his growing popularity meant that the flaws in his character were more readily exposed. After many publicised run-ins with the London Hellenics chairman Nick Beasant, he unceremoniously resigned from his post in 1914. A lucrative post at Birmingham Rovers soon followed but things quickly turned sour there. The team was relegated on his watch during a disastrous spell in which he fell out with the players, the fans, the board, the groundsman, the kit-man, the tea-ladies and the club mascot which happened to be a goat. He was relieved of his duties and struggled to get another managerial gig in the top division having been blackballed by the Football Union due to his very public criticisms of how the organisation was run. He wouldn’t countenance dropping to the lower divisions and was eventually contracted in an advisory capacity by the Swiss FA among who’s board was an Englishman and staunch Hellenics supporter Hugh Crutchley. However, he still remained a hugely popular figure back home in England and his ostracism by the English Football Union was short lived. He was eventually appointed the English national team head trainer in 1917 following a public outcry after England had been thrashed 7-2 at home by the 1916 Olympic football champions Russia. He had famously been quoted as saying the game between England and Russia, at which he had been in attendance, had been “like cart-horses playing race-horses”. This witty remark brought him back into the public consciousness and soon the Football Union was swamped by letters and telegrams requesting that he be appointed to lead the national team which was at its lowest ebb. His tenure at the helm of the England national team had been hugely successful and England were on a long unbeaten run coming into the 1920 Olympic football tournament which they were favourites to win. The Olympics were effectively the world football championship at the time as the World Championship was only to come into existence two years later in Italy in 1922. England began the Olympics like a house on fire, claiming the notable scalps of France (4-2) and tournament hosts Spain (3-2) on their march to the semi-finals where they eventually came a’ cropper against the slick Uruguayans. Harris had only been in charge of the England national team for 3 years when he dropped his resignation bombshell on the Iberian plains of Madrid.
Harris’ eccentricity had won him many admirers and detractors in equal measure. Among those detractors was the chairman of the English Football Union, Stan Hodge, whose Spanish hotel room Harris had been summoned to in the immediate aftermath of his resignation.
“Dammit all Buster, what the devil are you playing at? I’m sick and tired of your shenanigans. How can you spring this on me so soon after a defeat – as if I don’t have enough on my plate already?”
Without waiting for a response Hodge pressed on.
“I need you to go out there and retract your statement then we can forget any of this ever happened – Now there’s a good man!”
The two men stared at each other across the huge gulf in their backgrounds and upbringings. Hodge – tall, thin, suave, Eton educated, cultured and refined – was the very definition of a Football Union “company man”. Harris was his direct opposite, brought up in a working class neighbourhood by a penurious parson and educated by the church. He would ordinarily have never even got a look in for the England trainer’s job but for the Football Union’s utter desperation and lack of a viable alternative in the aftermath of England’s humiliation at the hands of the mighty Russians. There certainly was no love lost between the two men as Harris had long been a thorn in Hodge’s side from his early days of broadsides targeted at the English Football Union while he was managing the London Hellenics. However, they had agreed to put aside their personal enmities for the good of the country when Harris was appointed England trainer and by in large had managed to stick to that pledge by keeping out of each other’s way. There was always personal loathing bubbling beneath the surface on the rare occasions that they interacted and that particular volcano was now on the verge of erupting.
“It’s no good Stan love, my mind is made up,” responded Harris in his broad Yorkshire accent.
The highly excitable Hodge, whose complexion was in the process of turning a darker shade of red, made a concerted effort to keep his temper in check.
‘Look Charlie (reverting to christian names to diffuse the tension), I know we don’t get along but we promised to keep our personal feelings out of it for the good of the team. We might have lost the game but we have had a good tournament all things being told. This loss isn’t the end of the world. Our team has a very bright future ahead with you at the helm, starting with Friday’s game against the Austrians. Perhaps after that we can look at changing a few things about how the team is managed. What do you say?”
Harris was not wholly without sympathy for his compatriot but he had already begun planning for life beyond the England national team. He saw no reason to beat about the bush.
“It’s no good Stan. This is goodbye.”
He put out a conciliatory hand so they could part civilly but turned to leave the hotel room when none was forthcoming from Hodge.
“If you go ahead with this I’ll destroy you, do you hear me Buster!?”
Harris closed the door of the hotel room with the echo of Stan Hodge’s final threat ringing in his ears. “SO HELP ME GOD, YOU’LL NEVER WORK IN ENGLAND AGAIN!”
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