Hitting the fan with United (Part II.I): Getting a Kick out of Eric Cantona

In Part I of ‘Hitting the fan with United’ I revealed that I had been an eye-witness to both of the most serious match-day assaults perpetrated by players on spectators in Manchester United history, jaw-dropping events which happened 35 years apart.

The first and now less-remembered incident happened in April 1960 and involved Harry Gregg, not only one of the greatest goalkeepers ever to play for United but also a genuine hero for his bravery at the time of the Munich Air Crash two years before, when 23 people were killed including 8 ‘Busby Babes’. At the end of a well-deserved 3-2 victory over relegation-threatened Luton Town at Kenilworth Road, a number of supporters pushed onto the field and one kept obstructing Harry as he tried to shake hands with the Luton winger Billy Bingham, an old friend and a Northern Ireland team-mate. Eventually, after unsuccessfully trying to side-step the man, and fearing he was himself about to be attacked, Harry lashed out, punching him in the face. Even from long distance on the terraces at the far end of the ground I could see the man had taken a mighty whack as he toppled over backwards. Everyone was hastily hustled off the pitch and the injured spectator was taken to hospital with severe facial bruises.

In the end it was accepted that Harry was acting in self-defence after great provocation and no action was taken by the police or the FA. That was in stark contrast to the reaction of the authorities towards Eric Cantona after his legendary kung-fu kick at Crystal Palace 35 years later in January 1995, when I had an even closer view of what happened.

The King at the Palace

At the time of the infamous night-time Premiership match between Crystal Palace and United on Wednesday 25 January 1995 I was head of a small television documentary department at the BBC and it was a relief to get away from the then relentless stresses of working life, much though I loved the job and the people I worked with. At that time the introduction of an increasingly bizarre Thatcherite ‘internal market’ was destroying jobs at the BBC and casting onto the scrapheap people who’d given their lives to public service broadcasting. Only the day before it had been announced that the whole scenic construction department was to be disbanded, much to my sorrow because I walked through their workshop most days and could see the skill and ingenuity that was about to be tossed aside. I’d often get into a bit of banter about football with the guys, some of whom were of an age when they’d probably never work again. I remember a sign around that time daubed up on a photo by one of the painters, declaring with brute simplicity that the BBC Director General was ‘A Cunt’.

As I left the office I was glad to escape all that, eagerly looking forward to seeing record-signing Andy Cole in the flesh for the first time in what would be only his second game for United since his transfer from Kevin Keegan’s Newcastle United for £7 million. Over the years I’d seen United several times at Palace, and had seen the best and worst of the Reds on display there. I was naturally hoping the new striker would deliver a hat-trick like Denis Law in 1971 (see my The Best Goal I Saw Denis Law Score) rather than plumb the depths of mediocrity like poor old Nikki Jovanovic in the shockingly bad 1-0 defeat of 1980. More pertinently, I still had glowing memories of the 2-0 victory nearly two years before, in April 1993, which virtually sealed United’s first championship title for 26 years, a victory like so many others that season orchestrated by Eric Cantona. Even then he was fast becoming well-ensconced as one of my favourite players of all time. There was a touch of majesty about him that night, and now he was back at the Palace, I couldn’t wait for the game to start. Already in my mind I could see him be-striding the field like a Colossos, chest puffed out, master of time and space and perhaps even the Universe, displaying the full range of his passing, the flick, the through ball, the lay-off , the sumptuous volley, and maybe a crashing header or two, like the one he’d scored from a venomously spinning cross whipped in by Ryan Giggs only three days before to defeat title rivals Blackburn Rovers. I’d only seen that one on TV, but what a classic. Oh boy, let’s have more of that.

The build-up

I got to Selhurst Park far earlier than expected, walking to the stadium from the station through wet, poorly lit and grimy South London streets. There were the usual little stalls in the rain selling T-shirts, scarves and badges plus street-sellers offering fanzines and programmes. Back in Harry Gregg’s day you could get the occasional badge or photo, but nothing compared to the massive expansion of United goods available in modern times, official or otherwise, and fanzines like Red Issue or United We Stand were but distant gleams in someone’s future bedroom. Now I gleefully added to my ever-expanding collection of little metal badges, tucking them out of sight with child-like furtiveness, so as not to reveal my allegience to those I’d be sitting next to in the stand. I’d got the ticket from a Palace season-ticket holder and journalist who’d be in the press box and he’d given it on the understanding that I wouldn’t reveal who I support. Palace fans tend to be quite bitter on matters like that. Indeed, they tend to be quite bitter full-stop.

To kill time I went round to see United arriving in their luxury coach, the players’ faces spectrally illuminated in the damp wintry gloom – Giggs, Sharpe, Pallister, Ince, and of course Cantona – sights to lift the spirits, with such strength, skill and flair in all areas. I wandered round for something decent to eat, knowing from experience how impossible that is at Palace, and settled for the usual soggily greasy fish & chips, giving me the inevitable queasy stomach, a condition that was to return later that evening, but for somewhat different reasons. As I stood on the windy pavement a black youth rushed up behind me and grabbed one of my chips. There was a loud chortle and I turned round to see an amiably grinning Andy, no, not that one but Andy from finance in my department, a good lad and a fellow Red. As usual I laughingly refused to make a prediction about the result but I wished him luck as he set off in search of a tout. I went into the small, compact stadium, where the pitch is claustrophobically close to the stands, itching to get on with the game. The sense of anticipation never leaves me, the same now as in 1960. That night it was intense because there was the very real prospect in 1995 of winning the Premiership for the third season running, to add to the ’94 Double. Times were better for United supporters than they had been for almost 30 years, and for that we all knew how much was owed to Eric, the new King of the Stretford End, the PFA’s Player of the Year and already scorer of 14 goals in just 22 domestic matches .

My seat was below the press box, 15 rows from the front, close to the halfway line, a perfect view for what was to unfold.The United players were warming up on the pitch and as I watched Andy Cole closely I felt he looked a little awkward and somewhat isolated, which was troubling in a player who’d scored over 30 goals for the Toons the previous season.Surely he didn’t feel he still had something to prove? But then, you can be playing at the top for ten years and still have something to prove, never more than when coming to United. Some top players wilt in the glare of scrutiny at Old Trafford, as everyone knows. If in television you’re only as good as your last programme, think how much tougher it is to be a striker joining the Premiership Champions and Double Winners.

Tight at the back

The game began at a frantic pace in an electric atmosphere, with Palace fans greeting every little achievement with roars of triumph, every time United were played offside, or a Palace pass reached its target (not that often), or, best of all, when United lost the ball.United were not at their best and Cole was a little out of it, not really dove-tailing with Cantona as playmaker.The nervous new signing was barracked for every clumsy mis-control by Eagles fans with a distinct lack of wit or originality, ‘What a load of rubbish!’, ‘What a waste of money!’, to which the considerable Red contingent hit back, ‘At least we can afford him!’ The Palace fans were not as hate-filled as some I’ve seen, but they were desperate to put one over the Champs and directed a constant barrage of hostility at United who were playing in their fearsome all-black kit, which always seems to raise the aggression levels, not least among the wearers themselves.

At half-time it remained 0-0, with United just about on top, although I was already somewhat troubled by the performance of referee Alan Wilkie who not only gave minimal protection to players of skill like Cantona, he seemed to take positive pleasure in waving aside claims for fouls or protests at the sly little hacks Palace defenders were dishing out, especially Richard Shaw, a strong but limited player. Even the Palace fans didn’t seem impressed by Wilkie who appeared to like being at the centre of attention. He was to get his wish soon enough.

United came steaming out for the second half and I was now a bit more confident they’d surely get the vital three points to overtake Blackburn Rovers at the top of the table.But then it all kicked-off.

Early Bath Time

The match erupted in the most astonishing way after about an hour, creating headlines all round the world wherever there’s the slightest interest in football in a feeding frenzy of hype and journalistic excess. It all began when Wilkie sent Cantona off after yet another on-field clash. I didn’t get a clear view of the incident, my line of sight being obscured by a big metal post holding up the somewhat primitive 1920s Old Stand, but the people around me said it was for off-the-ball retaliation on Shaw after another foul which hadn’t gone his way. It was no surprise to me, as Eric had been getting kicked all night. One clattering from behind had left him writhing on the ground (and not with Cristiano Ronaldo theatricality), needing attention. Eric had been showing increasing irritation at Wilkie for the way he let Palace players get away with the crudest and most blatant fouls. To show how bad it had got, even the eternally mild and well-mannered Dennis Irwin (what a great player) had joined in the protests. I was increasingly incensed, not only on Eric’s behalf, but for all the more skillful players as the ref in his wisdom seemed determined to create a level playing field by eliminating the possibility of talent prevailing over rough-house determination.

The Selhurst faithful went crazy with delight as Eric slowly navigated the long walk back in disgrace to the dressing rooms,obliged to proceed via the narrow pitch-side track and run the gauntlet of abuse and derision for over half the length of the playing area. As he passed where I was seated his face had an odd expression, a mixture of barely contained indignation and a simmering sense of injustice after an hour’s worth of provocation, but also a hint of something darker and more elemental.I’d seen him sent off before but I’d never seen him quite like that.He paused and looked across at manager Alex Ferguson as if seeking sympathy, understanding and absolution from a parent for losing his temper at an important family gathering, but Fergie completely blanked him, I assumed through annoyance at this latest in a lengthening list of Cantona red cards. Part of me shared that frustration because every time it happened it deprived United of their most inspirational player, leaving the team weakened on the day and in the inevitable period of suspension that followed. But seeing the gladiatorial look on his face this time, I instinctively thought, for Christ’s sake, Fergie, get someone over to him, get an arm round his shoulder, escort him off, for his sake, for the team, for United, this is not going to end well. And indeed it didn’t.

Ooh-ah, Oh dear…The Kung-fu Moment

I could see Fergie angrily gesticulating at the ref and linesman, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Eric stop, somewhat to the right of me, still on the narrow strip between the pitch and the fencing in front of the first row in the stand. He appeared to be responding to some movement in the already inflamed and abusive crowd, what it was I couldn’t see, but it seemed to start a few rows below my level (I now know it had started in Row 11). Suddenly, shockingly, I could see Cantona launch himself over the fence at a fan in a kung-fu-style jump kick, both feet up hitting a man full on at chest height. A scuffle and melee immediately ensued, with punches being thrown, players rushing over from both teams adding to the mayhem. United goalkeeper Peter Schmeichel had the presence of mind to pull Eric away but Paul Ince looked more up for a fight alongside his buddy. Someone threw some liquid at someone and it all looked like getting completely out of control, yet – amazingly- within seconds it was all over and Eric was safely tucked away in the dressing room.

Play resumed as if nothing had happened, adding an almost surreal quality to the rest of the match, which actually improved in quality, surprisingly enough. Centre back David May, working towards his later tag of ‘Superstar’ (‘got more medals than Shear-ah’) scored from an excellent cross from Ryan Giggs -who else?- the only United player still active today in the first team, nearly 15 years later. For a while it looked as if the 10-man United would get the 3 points, but Palace equalised, and the game subsided into a draw, as if the passions of the extraordinary event had finally drained all concerned on that chill and damp night under the lights.

I was stunned by what I’d seen and full of foreboding, convinced I’d just seen United’s chance of winning the league again go down the pan. I could see the FA ‘throwing the book ‘ at United and a long suspension for Eric would be inevitable. I also felt angry at the ref, very angry. I thought he’d been dreadful and had played a significant role in what had happened, not just through errors of judgement, which can happen to any ref, but through a wilful determination to show Eric who was boss, turning down every legitimate appeal for a foul with a ostentatious flourish as if determined to inflame him. Was it a dislike of foreigners? Or a personality clash with Eric, a famously anti-authoritarian rebel? Or did he see cash-registers ringing for the sales of an autobiography with tales of how he had to deal with ‘trouble-makers’ like Eric Cantona? All these thoughts crossed my mind, but alongside the criticisms I levelled at the ref in my head, and later to anyone who would listen, I was also angry with Eric. It was the same as when Harry Gregg hit the fan at Luton in 1960, this was not the sort of thing a United player should do. I don’t believe in violence and this was going to damage the reputation of the club, and feed those who attack the players for ‘arrogance’ and ‘indiscipline’. The whole episode could de-rail United’s historic chance of the third successive Premiership title, which would be infuriating after so many years ‘in the wilderness’. On top of all these possible consequences for United there was the very real risk that Cantona would face criminal prosecution for assault.

After the Final Whistle

Straight after the final whistle I headed for the hospitality lounge in a state of apprehension.I found my journalist friend with his daughter and Swiss girlfriend. The whole place was a-buzz and Nick told me that Cantona had been questioned by the police and so had Ince. They were to be charged with ‘causing a riot’. There was a TV set in the bar and we watched the endless replays and Eric’s flying kick was clearly ‘indefensible’, yet I found myself doing just that, defending him.There were reports that a coin had been thrown at Cantona and there had certainly been Palace supporters trying to get at him, hurling insults and screaming abuse, causing the commotion I’d seen from Row 15 which had stopped Eric in his tracks. There was provocation, certainly, but enough to justify what Eric had done?

Based on the way it was already being reported I couldn’t see how United could come out of this unscathed, and I feared I’d just witnessed Eric Cantona’s last game for United, given his reputation for constantly moving on, usually in the wake of some new controversy. At his best his genius made him one of the most exciting players I’d ever seen with United, but there did also seem to be a nasty, undisciplined side to him that could undermine team and team-mates. But even as I thought the worse of Reckless Eric, I thought again about the appalling refereeing we’d seen that night.

At that point I suddenly saw Wilkie in the bar surrounded by his mates and hangers on. As I looked at the balding little git with his bristling little moustache I felt he was positively exulting in what he’d done , preening himself for having precipitated what was already being reported as one of the worst incidents in British football history. I felt he was basking in the certain knowledge that all the tabloids would be on his side as it was already being claimed that what Cantona had done was ‘unprecedented’. I looked at the glow in Wilkie’s face and suspected he was taking pleasure in what he’d done. By now the sick feeling in my stomach had nothing to do with the crap fish & chips I’d eaten what seemed a lifetime away.

Nick dropped me off at the station long after the crowds had melted into the night and I got into conversation with a couple of Irish United supporters. We all felt very chastened and dismayed, but I was also happy to find allies with whom I could close ranks. United against the world, again. Got home to find that my daughter had had a bad day at school, just to complete what had been a bad day for me.So much for football being a release from the pressures of the world.

Written by Giles Oakley. Part II.II will be published on Friday.