EL TEL THE MAN TO END HIBS’ HELL

 BY ANDY RITCHIE

TERRY BUTCHER has been on missionary work in Inverness. Now it’s time for big Terry to mount a rescue mission at Hibs and restore under-fire chairman Rod Petrie’s credibility.

If Butcher is confirmed as successor to Pat Fenlon as manager the hacked-off Hibees fans will have cause to celebrate, for the former England captain is what’s needed to kick-start a revolution at Easter Road.

Let’s not pull any punches, Hibs have been in a mess for years and it’s high time the club achieved a level of stability so it can start moving forward for a change.

But Petrie must give Butcher a free hand similar to the one Kenny Cameron has allowed him at Inverness. Otherwise it won’t be long before there’s a clash of personalities.

I don’t agree that the Hibs job has become something of a poisoned challis because previous managers have had the board’s backing and enough time to make an impact.

However, the fact remains that Petrie’s track record when it comes to appointing managers doesn’t bear close scrutiny.

But he’s got it right his time. Butcher suffered a couple of bloody noses either side of his success at Motherwell but what a job he’s done for Inverness.

Everything was against him when he took over at Caledonian Stadium in January 2009 – Inverness’ geographical location and the fact that the club must have the smallest budget in the Premiership.

But after being relegated in his first season, Butcher turned the club round by taking everything back to basics.

He has built a squad on a shoe-string budget and moved players on at a profit. At the same time he has fashioned a team that plays an attractive style of football.

But he’s taken Inverness as far as he can. When I read the other week that Inverness’ League Cup quarter-final against Dundee United had attracted a crowd of only 2,600 – 750 of them visiting fans – I said to myself that it isn’t coaching work that’s needed up there, it’s missionary work!

So, in spite of the huge task he’ll face at Easter Road, it’s time for Butcher to move on when he’s at the peak of his achievements in the Highlands rather than hang off in case the Rangers job becomes available!

I imagine that Hibs have the second or third biggest budget in the Premiership so Butcher won’t have to go trawling the Conference and the lower leagues in England for players to the same extent, albeit that has worked very successfully for him at Inverness.

But it remains to be seen how long it will take him to sort out the mess he’ll inherit at Hibs.

On the plus side, Hibs have one of the best stadiums in the country and a state of the art training complex, second only to those of the Old Firm.

In fairness to Petrie, he has invested well on facilities and succeeded in keeping the club afloat while others are paddling against the tide.

The only black mark against him has been his choice of managers. He doesn’t seem very good at picking them although the law of average dictates that he’s bound to get it right eventually and Butcher fits the bill.

I don’t mind admitting that I’m a fan of the big man. He doesn’t complicate the game unnecessarily. He’s very good at what he does and he keeps it simple and gets people to play for him.

He doesn’t try to put square pegs in round holes and in Maurice Malpas he has a very astute assistant. The pair work well together and if the partnership remains intact, Hibs can look forward to more prosperous times.

Butcher’s coach Steve Marsella is also an important member of the team and by all accounts has earned himself quite a reputation as talent-spotter with an eye for a bargain, so I would imagine he’ll also be earmarked for a role at Easter Road.

I feel it’s also important for Butcher to get back to Scottish football’s heartland. I know he loves living in Inverness, but Glasgow and Edinburgh is the heart of the football community in Scotland.

He must also realise that he’s gone as far as he possibly can with Inverness, and if he can achieve success at Hibs it will mean much more.

It’s a tall order, but Petrie backed Fenlon when he reportedly sanctioned a fee of £200,000 for him to sign James Collins as a replacement for Leigh Griffiths and Butcher will know his budget before he starts.

There’s no doubting that a hell of a lot of hard work will need to be done to sort out the current squad before he can take the club forward to where Hibs and their fans would like to be.

I had a few run-ins with him in my role as an SPL delegate when he thought his team had suffered a refereeing injustice, but once he’s stopped raging he’s also capable of taking a balanced view of situations.

Butcher is a strong character with a big personality and he goes about management the right way - by keeping the game as simple as possible.

Cut the American Crap! What stricken Jinky told Rod Stewart

By Andy Ritchie

　

IF Fernando Ricksen wasn’t the most talented Dutch player I have ever seen, I would defy the most critical football fan to find fault with his commitment.

Fernando delivered all that he possessed and then some more. I remember seeing him on telly one night and it looked as if foam was going to fly out the side of his mouth.

Aye, he had spirit all right. A wild man at times, yeah, but in a good Rangers team at the time, he gave them something that was required: he went and got the ball and gave it to players who could do something with it.

He had a temper and a big dollop of attitude in those days. And now, as he admitted on that Dutch television show, he has Motor Neurone Disease. To fight this dirty and terrible illness, he’s going to need every bit of attitude that God gave him.

The Ricksen revelation, inevitably, conjures up memories of an old friend - Jimmy Johnstone. The Wee Man was claimed by the same disease back in 2006, but God gave him an attitude that was disproportionate to his size and he gave MND a helluva run for its money. That he lasted so long would be down to the character of the guy. He had been a battler all his life and he wasn’t going to bottle it with this one.

Each time I met him, he was always bright. You could see the deterioration in him - physically he wasn’t in great shape and he’d lost the power in his arms - but he was just Wee Jimmy: full of laughs and carry on.

I met him one day and he says to me: ‘Go into ma pocket. I’ve got money here. Get yersel a drink.’ He couldn’t lift anything up, so he had to drink through a straw. But you still saw the wee sparkle in his eyes. He always had that. That sparkle caused me to think of better days…

I had my first meeting with him when I joined the ground staff at Celtic Park. I was 14. He took an immediate interest in me because I was from Bellshill and he was from Viewpark. When I went full-time, me and Tommy O’Hara, another likely lad from Viewpark, used to get picked up by Jimmy.

Wee Jimmy had a big Jaguar, with two cushions on the driving seat so that he could see over the steering wheel. He was always going to get us outside Dominic’s shop at twenty-five past nine. We were supposed to start at ten. Needless to say, that hour would come and go. The half-hour would come and go. And so on. I’m thinking to myself: ‘Jesus, I’m only in the place and here’s me - late!’

Eventually, Jimmy would pitch up and we’d be driving past the training pitch at Barrowfield as the players were running up to it. When it happened once, we got a bit of a chinwag for it. It happened twice and Big Jock Stein was going off his nut. That’s when we got a tug. ‘Listen,’ says Jock, 'you let the Wee Man come in on his ain. You get the bus!’

Twenty odd years on we were playing for Dukla Pumpherston at Baillieston. At that time, he’d been body swerving the booze for weeks. I gave him a ring and asked if he’d play for us. There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation. Forget the Jaguar days - he was bang on time and his wee face was daisy fresh.

It was just a joy to be on the park with him: he was jinking around, trying all the wee bits and flicks. Bailleston had left beers in the dressing room and we were going to their social club afterwards. These two guys - booted and suited - walked into the dressing room as Jimmy was getting his gear off. They sat on either side of him.

I thought they were polis. I asked them if they were supposed to be in this hallowed place. They said they were. I tried again. ‘Are you polis?’

‘Naw,’ they replied, ‘we’re from Alcoholics’ Anonymous ! And we’re here to make sure Jimmy goes straight hame!’ They just huckled him out of the door, with the Wee Man still shouting: ‘Thanks, boys!’

‘He was thanking us! Listen, when Jimmy was on form like that, he was an absolute joy to be around. That wee guy could lighten up the darkest day. And I suppose there were a whole lot of darkest days ahead for him. Not that you would know.

Hey, I didn’t see a lot of him when the disease took hold of him, but when I did, it was never mentioned. I’d ask him how he was feeling and his responses was: ‘Aye, I’m dynamite!’ You never sat down and had a half-hour’s conversation with Jimmy Johnstone about Motor Neurone Disease.

Not long before he died, I was out walking my dog when I met Jimmy’s wife Agnes. She told me that Rod Stewart had come out to visit him. It was just at the time that Rod had brought out his album with all the standards. Wee Jimmy apparently shouts: ‘Come here, Big Man. See all that American classic shite - the punters don’t want that! Don’t give them all that old man’s stuff hinging over a microphone - gie them Maggie Mae!’

Agnes told me she was mortified. But that was Wee Jimmy. When he had something to say, it had to come out. Never mind the consequences. As I said earlier, I didn’t see a lot of him but, any time I did, he was trying to be himself. And that’s how it should have been.

Jimmy Johnstone was exceptionally strong, not just mentally but physically. I used to say to people that he could have been a classy full back, or a tremendous midfield player, a right half in the mould of Billy Bremner. He could have played in goal as well. In fact, if he’d really wanted, he could have been a centre-half. Hey, I remember him beating an England defender (I think it was Roy McFarland) for a header at the back post at Hampden.

He was just a bundle of energy, somebody who just wanted to play fitba, to entertain, play passes, beat people, score goals. The game was his life and he was never happier than when he was playing it.

And when that was all over and the doctors gave him the worst possible news, he took the guts and determination that he’d been famous for and applied it to the reality of life.

My suspicion is that Fernando Ricksen possesses the same kind of character. My thoughts - and those of all real football fans - are with him.

Muhammad Ali: An icon for all seasons - by Jim Black

BY JIM BLACK

FEW of us are fortunate enough to get the opportunity to meet our heroes.

I have been blessed these past 40 years in my job as a sportswriter to meet many of those others can only admire from afar.

But if I had to pick just one from the many it has been my privilege to encounter up close and personal - from Pele to Palmer, Baxter to Best, Nicklaus and Watson and their Duel in the Sun - it’s no contest.

It was 20 years ago and Muhammad Ali had come to Glasgow to promote the publication of a pictorial history of his career.

HowardBingham’s “A Thirty Year Journey” charts Ali’s rise from Olympic gold medallist at the Rome Games of 1960 to his status as a three-time world heavyweight champion, the only man to achieve the remarkable feat.

Ali declared himself to be “The Greatest.” Others will argue a case for Jack Dempsey, Joe Louis, Rocky Marciano or Mike Tyson et al. But, for me, Ali was the Greatest and always will be.

Not only was Ali the most famous sportsman on the planet, he was arguably also the most famous human being of his generation.

Ali transcended Presidents and Prime Ministers. They knew his name in the deepest jungles of Africa and the wilds of the Australian outback.

He is also a controversial and charismatic figure who has polarized opinion. But it has never mattered to me that he changed his name from Cassius Marcellus Clay, converted to Islam, and refused to be conscripted into the U.S Military.

I idolised Ali and still do, so having the opportunity to meet the man face-to-face in October 1993 represented one of the most memorable experiences of my life.

I can still recall the butterflies in my stomach and the dry mouth as I approached the King of the World that Friday afternoon for a brief audience lasting no more than five minutes.

In truth, there was never any hope of conducting an in-depth interview, not least because the hellish disease which has ravaged his body and mind had already taken hold.

Ali sat behind a small desk next to his close friend Bingham. His facial features appeared unchanged. Still handsome and clean-cut, Ali was smartly suited and booted and exuded a presence that permeated the entire bookstore.

I could think of nothing better to stammer than “Muhammad, can I shake the hand that shook the world?”

He nodded, rose slowly and offered his right hand. I took it and I swear had he been wearing a ring of papal proportions I would have kissed it. Instead, I settled for a simple handshake.

I cannot recall for exactly how long I held the hand that “shook the world” but I do remember telling him what he meant to me and when I had finished my wholly inadequate delivery, he replied in a barely audible voice hardly above a whisper, “Thank you.”

I think I wanted to burst into tears at that point. Here was my all-time hero, a victim of Parkinson’s syndrome, thanking me when all I wanted to do was stand and soak in every moment of an experience that will stay with me for the rest of my life and one that I doubt will ever be surpassed.

I can still picture clearly in my mind as if it were only yesterday the fine-boned fingers of hands that had inflicted such terrible damage in the ring and yet appeared to belong to a concert pianist.

Ali hid those hands from view most of the time due to a developing tremor and the book signing consisted of Bingham pasting down labels bearing Muhammad’s signature in the flysheets of his splendid book.

Having secured my own copy and been photographed with my hero, I slowly and reluctantly left the stage for others to savour their moment in the company of true greatness.

Of course the cynicism that has grown in me over the years, dealing with the inflated egos of much lesser mortals, was not nearly so prevalent back then. But even if it had been it wouldn’t have made a scrap of difference.

I am not sure how long I remained on a high, but, suffice to say, when I entered my local that evening I was already partially drunk on adrenalin.

And, like a boy with a new toy, I proudly showed off my signed copy, explaining in detail to all those who were willing to listen that I had achieved a lifetime’s ambition.

One of the assembled drinkers, a Glasgow businessman offered me £1,000 for my prized possession. He would still have been wasting his time had he tried to tempt me with ten times as much.

Some years ago, someone asked me if I had really wanted to meet my hero when he was no longer perfect.

You bet I did, for whenever I catch sight of Ali in his wheelchair I don’t see a figure with a broken body.

I still see only the Adonis who transformed boxing and who transcended all other sportsmen of his or any other generation.

Ali has enriched the lives of so many, so why should he now be shut away in his twilight years?

Sir Alex feels the calm before a Snow storm

By Bryan Cooney

　

AS far as this armchair pundit could discern, Sir Alex Ferguson demonstrated in his recent London press conference that he might not be so resistant to restraint after all.

For once adopting an air that correlated with his status as a benevolent grand-dad, he downloaded his reasons for writing that book.

This was, remember, his ninth and perhaps most significant tome. It was the one that contained a farrago of trenchant observations about those who served him at Manchester United (think Keane, Beckham, Rooney, etc); the one which spectacularly punctured a myth he helped create - that all things controversial should be confined to the dressing room.

There was little evidence of the infamous Fergie intensity on this day; certainly no finger-jabbing, no stares that would have unhinged anyone other than Roy Keane, no minatory threats and, blissfully, no language of an unsatisfactory nature.

I would venture, however, that his triumph became in many ways the Fourth Estate’s humiliation. The so-called cream of Britain’s sports journalism ensured that this was not so much a major media event as the deification of a football legend.

To use a boxing colloquialism, they rarely laid a glove on him, let alone a finger. Oh, there were a couple of questions that led to a tightening of the lips and the head lowering in desk-studying mode - especially the one concerning the intriguing and apparently never to be sufficiently explained Rock of Gibraltar affair.

But, in general, the atmosphere was heavy with sycophancy and it seemed Ferguson was luxuriating in the deodorant.

As a former sports editor who once encouraged investigative reporting into football’s more intriguing issues, I’m sometimes alarmed by these events. Particularly so when they feature a collection of rampant egos who normally can’t wait to thrust their faces onto television screens and declare their insider knowledge to the world. I’m talking about some members of my own profession hereabouts.

Well, this was their big day, their Cup Final if you wish to use that clichéd analogy, and I’m afraid history will state that most of them - although not all - lost badly.

So, what went wrong? Why did the majority of Fleet Street’s finest turn into fruit flies? Were they intimidated by the man and his towering status on such an auspicious occasion? Were they simply wearied by all the bollockings and bans that had been levied upon them in earlier years? Or did they simply want to forge friendships with Fergie, now that he claims to have mellowed?

I’ve heard it said they were frustrated in that their time was consumed by the amount of foreign journalists asking banal questions. Sorry, I’m unable to buy that one. There were enough unnerving silences during proceedings to suggest that people had forfeited their nerve.

Look, if there’s any mitigation out there, I’ll concede it’s scarcely appealing to enter a public confrontation with a behemoth, and even less so if that behemoth is named Ferguson. There is more than a chance that you’ll lose.

But as John McEnroe used to proclaim: ‘You don’t ask, you don’t get!’ If you want to retain credibility and your objectivity as a journalist, certain occasions demand you have to start standing on toes, and big ones at that.

Where were all the questions that the public - especially a (£25) book-buying public - were entitled to demand of a man who has gone through life occasionally occupying the role of rogue elephant?

One of the memorable lines featured Roy Keane. Fergie said: ‘His eyes narrowed to wee black beads. It was frightening - and I’m from Glasgow!’ Hey, I can appreciate such apprehension, but what do they say about what goes around comes around?

Might someone not have pointed out that this was sheer hypocrisy and that he (Ferguson) had been attempting to intimidate people all his life? Yeah, even those who liked and admired him.

Hereabouts, you should absorb the words of the late Aberdeen vice chairman Chris Anderson, once Fergie’s mentor. He once privately confessed to television reporter Frank Gilfeather: ‘He virtually runs Pittodrie. Every area of the club and the media, he wants an element of control. He needs to know everything that’s going on. But, then, you’ve got to realise that he’s a megalomaniac.’

Gilfeather asked why they tolerated such a figure. ‘Because he’s a winner!’ was the immediate response.

So, on November 6 1986, Manchester United and Martin Edwards, the often derided former chairman, quite legitimately sourced this winner (and alleged megalomaniac), and, after an initially tortuous few years, found themselves taking the road to untrammelled success.

Incredibly, the journey would last nigh on 27 years. Ferguson is responsible for that and we should never forget it. Thus, he is entitled to take every plaudit that’s going, enjoy both his retirement and the handsomely remunerated globe-travelling role that has been awarded him by a grateful football club. Bloody good luck to him. God knows, there is little gratitude in this game.

But equally there are matters that still require at least a little explanation. Why, for someone so proud of his legacy, did he leave Manchester United with a team that was beginning to groan with age and required refurbishment?

And why, considering his insistence at keeping things in-house, did he break the issue of Wayne Rooney’s disaffection with the club and therefore saddle David Moyes with a problem of gargantuan proportions?

Mind you, those reporters had company in their ineptitude. At this juncture, the formidable form of Adrian Chiles takes centre stage. He’s the man, armed not only with a big fat, ITV contract but also a rather destabilising accent; you imagine he could fit into the next series of the BBC Two drama, Peaky Blinders, without anyone noticing. I loved Peaky Blinders. Not so sure the love extends to the big fella, though.

On Tuesday evening, he was hosting coverage of Arsenal’s Champions League match against Borussia Dortmund. And with Roy Keane being one of the resident pundits, Chiles might have been expected to play a blinder, if you’ll pardon the expression.

But here, apparently overwhelmed by the importance of the moment, he said something jokey about Keane not being too popular with Ferguson. The Irishman, displaying the nerve of a man who has been playing stud poker all his life, claimed he wasn’t upset by this, but then questioned Fergie’s regard for loyalty.

In reality, the question was a cop-out. Keane should have been asked about his propensity for instilling fear not only among his Manchester United players but also his former manager. It was another golden opportunity lost.

But, before I dismiss Tuesday, October 22, as a bleak day for journalism, let me tell you about the rescue act that presented itself in the slender shape of Jon Snow. Anyone tuning in to the Channel 4, demanding objectivity and journalism at its finest, was rewarded with a bravura performance from the 66-year-old.

Sir Alex, so benign, so self-assured, so omnipotent facing friendly fire earlier in the day, suddenly was presented with an authentic hoop to jump through. There were times the physical feat looked beyond him. I’ll give you a flavour..

Snow: The interesting thing about you is you brought on all these incredible young players. But you fell out with all of them?

Ferguson: You have to deal with issues as they are at the time. The important thing is don’t lose your control. Manchester United cannot afford players to run the club.

Snow: So control is all?

Ferguson: Not all, but it’s really, really important. If you want to stay in a job, you need to have that.

Snow: It sounds a bit Stalinist?

There was much more. Snow put it that Ferguson had been weak in his handling of the media; that his banning of people suggested he ‘couldn’t take the rough with the smooth. You banned a lot of people; you loved to chuck them out of your press conferences.’

Ferguson’s answer failed to convince, stressing that there was no recourse with the press. If Snow was impressed, it didn’t inhibit his next line of attack. ‘You seem to demonstrate a very thin skin. And yet you’re a God head. People know who you are.’

Ferguson attempted to raise the siege by claiming that he never held grudges. Snow despatched that statement through the covers for a four, emphasising that the Scot had banned BBC for seven years over a documentary about his son, Jason. It had been a very poor documentary, claimed Sir Alex, again unconvincingly.

Towards the end of the 11-minute one-to-one, Ferguson looked as if a cold shower might be appropriate. But there was one final question: would he be writing another book?

I might be mistaken in my analysis here, but his whole demeanour suggested that a 10^th book would never be an option. Ever.