He’s recently written a book Mike Summerbee ex – Manchester City F.C. ‘The Autobiography’
Okay, I’ll come clean right from the off. I’m a lapsed supporter. I’ve only been to Eastlands once! Maine Road was my second home for a long, long time. Through the dark days before the sun came up, and for some time after it set once more. I’ve paid my dues. True, much of it was in pounds, shillings and pence.
I started supporting City when I was nine years old, despite the best efforts of whoever bought me a red and white shirt in which to watch the 1958 Cup Final a year earlier…it might have been an act of Remembrance, given the events of the time. City were really poor and the sixties stuttered before they swung. I attended games regularly from the age of ten – usually on my own.
After the trauma of relegation in ‘63…and the false dawn offered by free scoring Alex Harley, Matt Gray and others the highlight of my junior years was Bert Trautman’s testimonial and seeing Stan Matthews weave his fifty year old legs to bamboozle Bert‘s benefactors.!
A season or two later, at the ripe old age of thirteen…sporting bob hat and rattle I took my place in the Platt Lane End one leaden afternoon. I perched myself on the hard wooden benches about seven rows from the front and wondered what the afternoon was going to throw at us this time. My view of the proceedings on the pitch was unhindered despite my diminutive stature. The few rows in front were empty. Splashed wet through with the steady, drifting drizzle of a Mancunian winter. Opposite, a couple of dozen die-hards gathered in the gloom, and sheltered under black umbrellas, there was something almost funereal about the scene. The Scoreboard end , which offered no shelter of course in those days had decamped en-masse (all two hundred of ’em) to the Kippax stand. Though the ‘Kippax’ had yet to establish itself as a collective noun for the chanting hordes who would find their voices so strongly in the coming years. The attraction was, it had a roof…and it was chucking it down. The gate for the game was to be a long lasting nadir, only 8,015 fans turned up. Still City’s most meagre attendance for a league game, it’s attained a level of notoriety since.
On the field there was little for them to cheer. City were being undone once more. A terrier like Swindon Town side went home with the points. One of their players registered with me. Their number nine Summerbee. An unusual name I’d thought, completely at odds with the afternoon, yes! I had such thoughts as a teenager. I’d spotted Mike’s moniker on perusing my somewhat soggy programme, and the player had been featured in one of my monthly ‘Football Star; magazines, which tended to concentrate on the lower divisions. The game ended: we’d been beaten again and I trudged back up Broadfield Road to board any one of a dozen red busses to trundle me homeward down Princess Parkway. sat on the long seat at the back no doubt the Conductor consoled me.
Events a few months later saw Summerbee sign for City. The arrival of the avuncular Joe Mercer – which I welcomed for no other reason than he was a famous name and looked a bit like my Dad – and his flamboyant sidekick big Mal. The combination meant the blues were at last on the up…about time, and perhaps in the nick of time too….a kid can only take so much. I’d been flirting with Stockport County!
With hair cropped unfashionably short above the temples and prominent nose, the young Mike Summerbee had an aerodynamic head! He was built for speed , short bursts of intimidating power and electrifying pace. Swift might be the adjective of choice. For a year or two I’d bemoaned the departure of a previous stalwart, Dave Wagstaffe. Out on the left wing , gripping his shirt cuffs tight ‘Waggy’ was a jinking dribbler. As a left flanker myself… of modest ability his place in my affections was guaranteed. But ’Waggy’ went to Wolves and nobody blamed him for that. He’d been the star in a mediocre sky. Only the magnificent new, floodlights shone brighter than Dave Wagstaffe….his transfer fee almost paid for them!
‘Buzzer’ as he soon became known , was something different. He could dribble, but he had a weapon up his long sleeve. Pace. He had purposeful thrust, and within weeks of the start of the 65-66 season his presence on the ball brought an anticipatory response from City’s success starved supporters. Even the ‘Main Stand’ seasoned-ticketers seemed to abandon their torpor. As jeers became cheers.
He was hard too, often getting his retaliation in first and he was always out to assert his authority on the flank. Float like a butterfly , sting like a Summerbee.
I’d ditched the rattle by now, it had flown off the handle after a Derek Kevan goal. Anyway, they had become a little passé . Annoyingly, the die-hard behind me , an elderly man in a plastic ‘Packamac’ (whatever the weather) and flat cap had taken to shouting ‘come on Summerfield’ He was obviously impressed with the new arrival but I longed to put him right on the name. Sadly, I was somewhat lacking in confidence back then.
A few more new arrivals and the emergence of some real quality home grown talent like Mike Doyle, Dave Connor and Alan Oakes meant the blues were on the march. Gates approached thirty thousand now ! The visits of fellow promotion contenders Norwich one cold night, and first division Blackpool , who were sent back to the seaside as we knocked ‘em out of the F.A. Cup in a replay at Maine Road. I was only mildly resentful at this emergence from the woodwork of the new throng, too swept up in the resurgence to worry about fickle fans.
Forty years and more later these recollections are still ingrained in a sepia tinted nostalgic corner of my head . Mike’s story is really well written and embellishes these indelible memories , enhancing the monochrome to glorious Technicolor and unlocking the behind the scenes details of the time when City were consuming my mind, and my entire outlook. Much to the chagrin of my school-teachers!
Mike Summerbee is a popular man, he’d forged a friendship with Bobby Moore before his arrival at Maine Road and soon he was the toast of the town with his best mate, Best Man in fact…. George Best. A couple of years down the road Mike married his own life’s love…George stayed single and look what happened.
If he’d hitched up with one of his ‘lookers’ the fifth Beatle’s life might have been very different.
The text is laced with generous praise of team mates and opponents alike. Some household names, and some more obscure. Mike takes time to express gratitude and acknowledgement to those who helped shape his life, and his career. Sometimes these acquaintances were fleeting yet they have clearly registered to produce a fund of fondness. He’s loyal, yet forthright when people didn’t cut the mustard with him.
This tome would make a handsome addition to the book shelves of any discerning football reader. Both those of a certain vintage, and younger fans curious to discover another age, when Championship winning footballers were paid £45 a week basic and didn’t retreat behind gated mansions after the match.
Just like in his playing days Summerbee doesn’t shirk a written tackle when it’s needed, or hide behind dull statistics which might turn off a younger reader with some blow by blow account of his four hundred plus appearances in a City shirt. Incidentally , shirts are important to ‘the Bee’ he fondly describes each of his teams colours and was a big fan, like myself, of the claret and blue of Burnley (whom he eventually joined) and Aston Villa., perhaps his first football love. He’d visit Villa Park on a day excursion from his childhood home in Cheltenham. Indeed, shirts have also provided his living for a lot of years now and he’s a purveyor of some repute to various film stars and high rollers.
The book starts with his career highlight. The first international cap against Scotland at Hampden Park. Uppity ‘Jocks’ were intent on giving him a shower before the game started! My own interpretation of this vile act was they were so used to English players taking the piss at that time they wanted to give some back.
I’ve been waiting for this book for a long time and hope you have too. Having devoured Colin Schindler’s ‘Fathers, Sons, and Football’ in no time at all, we now have the Mike Summerbee story from the horses mouth. If ‘Buzzer’ had been born a horse , he’d have been a thoroughbred Derby winner.
He’d run full-backs ragged , Donkeys left trailing in his wake as he surged past them on his touchline hugging raids. Later, when he moved inside, he was a revelation for a long, long time. The King of the lay-off, orchestrating a five cylinder forward line,. Colin Bell provided the fine tuning and Francis Lee the directness & power. Add Neil Young’s delicate finesse , Tony Coleman’s adept, surefooted urgency and for a season or three City had ‘no fear’ . Behind them a rock solid half back line and two of the best full backs England never capped! I’m not wearing rose tinted specs here, of course there were some dull matches but there was always commitment and the result usually went our way.
Buzzer’s book is reveals a man with family values, decency and not a little humour. There are several laugh out loud moments, like the time little Albert Alexander, the chairman brought his winning F.A. Cup semi-finalists down to earth with a crashing bump!
Peer through the window of City’s golden era, when characters abounded and players were approachable and only earned twice what your Dad did in a good week. When the only symbol on the shirt was a number on the back. If that number was 7 or 9 in the mid to late sixties or early seventies , and it was sky blue, or all maroon, maybe even red & black stripes the chances are it was worn being worn with pride and passion by Mike Summerbee.
‘A true city hero. ’ Most kids have them, I had eleven every match day & followed them all over the country for several years. At first we were a small group, but the numbers began to swell as our heroes delivered. The biggest hero of ‘em all for me was ‘The Bee‘ . I’m glad to have it confirmed that he was, and is a thoroughgoing decent bloke.
Thanks Buzzer
– time to stop methinks.