ALAN BALL: MEMORIES AND AFFECTION NEVER FADE
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

Alan Ball was one of the rarest type of great footballers. He not only had the undying affection of his club supporters, he generated the same feelings for him amongst most other players, fans and even the media. He was universally liked because he had joie de vivre, enthusiasm, humour and sheer enjoyment of the moment. He didn’t appear to have a miserable bone in his body, not even at moments of great personal and footballing trial. Alan was a giver, not a taker. Evertonians know him only as “Bally.”

He was engraved into the country’s sports memory in the victorious World Cup final of 1966 when the TV commentator said, “And here’s Ball, running himself daft.” At 21 he became an unforgettable red-haired, tireless icon. Which prompted the great Everton manager Harry Catterick to pay a record fee and bring him to Goodison Park. He was an instant hit with the fans, scored on his debut at Fulham, scored twice in a home derby game a few weeks later, scored the winner in THE definitive derby match – a fifth round FA Cup tie at Goodison in March 1967, formed a deadly if short lived combination with Alex Young, inspired a very young side to the FA Cup final of 1968 and the semi-final the following year, and was central to Catterick’s team building which produced what for many Evertonians was the greatest pure football team the club has ever produced: the championship team of 1969-70. A wonderful side revolved around the dazzling midfield talents of Colin Harvey, Alan Ball and Howard Kendall. Nobody who saw them will ever forget them. Bally was the dynamo that made it all work at club and national team level. With him in your side you knew there was always a chance, that he at least would never spare himself or anyone else in the same side. He was as merciless with his own person as he was with those around him.

Opponents, of course, got both the best and worst of him. Reputations meant nothing to Alan at any level. He got stuck in from first to last. I recall one of the finest football matches I have ever witnessed, a home European Cup tie against a magnificent Borussia Moenchengladbach team containing the great Gunter Netzer and Berti Vogts. Throughout the game Bally made their lives a living nightmare of tackling, harassment, passing them to death and barracking. He never laid off Gunter throughout the game because he knew very well (as did everyone) the great man was capable of world class brilliance at any moment. At one point Borussia got a free kick right in front of the old Bullens Road paddock where our group of fanatics stood. Netzer was bent over, carefully positioning the ball, when nearby Bally called over to him, “Ey Gunter!” and when he looked up Bally threw him a wanker gesture. Even the normally expressionless Aryan genius broke into a grin with that one. At the end of the game with Everton victorious and mayhem everywhere the two of them came together in the middle of the park. They couldn’t have been more different: Netzer, a magnificent-looking athlete with long flowing blond hair and Bally, short, skinny and cropped red hair. For me the moment was as memorable as the famous post-match greeting between Bobby Moore and Pelé in the previous World Cup. Two great players acknowledged each other. At times like that you know why it is the greatest game in the world.

Of course his spirit was infectious, especially for talented young players making hesitant early steps in the sport. The right words at the right moments can make all the difference for a youngster in need of reassurance. Another memory: a home game when we were hit with a series of injuries and had four kids in the team and opponents full of hard nosed pros in trouble at the wrong end of the table. It was expected to be hard and it was. Bally combined with a young tyro named Alan Whittle down our left and came up against one of those craggy, grizzled full backs in the twilight of his career and in no mood to let anyone make an idiot of him. There was time for Bally to turn inside and make an easy pass; instead, he spoon fed young Whittle wide and yelled at him, “Take him on! Take him on!” Which he did, skillfully avoiding a slasher tackle that would have taken his head off at the knees, crossed a perfect one and we scored. No wonder the crowd adored him.

His departure to Arsenal for another record fee stunned all the fans. Appropriately, it signalled the final break up of the great 1969-70 team. We were never the same after Bally left. In my mind there’s no question he had his best years with us. Despite the fact that his play matured well I simply never got used to seeing him in another shirt. Somehow, it didn’t look right. By the time he left he had graduated to club captain, and though he sometimes looked ill at ease in the role – often impatient when his team urging didn’t quite work out – for most of us he was Mr. Everton. Once he was gone we had nobody to replace him. He was unique, a combination of everything.

I wasn’t too surprised when his management career didn’t quite work out. This is often the case with great players who can’t finally come to terms with the fact that urging a team on on the pitch isn’t the same kind of workable psychology for a manager. The difference is subtle but telling. Rightly or wrongly, I have the feeling that as a manager Alan’s lust for life was too large for everyone around him. This can be absorbed out on the pitch in the hurly burly of a game but management requires a much more reflective and stolid approach. He wasn’t nicknamed “Ball of Fire” for nothing. The very asset which got him through his playing career probably played against him as a manager.

Later still he became an accomplished after dinner speaker. Ever the character, he adopted local comedian Mickey Finn’s shtick of standing on a chair to make his delivery. All fans love the dressing room stories and personality descriptions and Bally was especially good and wicked with them. He particularly relished his demolition job on the urban mythic nonsense of why he left Goodison.

At the time of writing the media reports Bally died of a heart attack at home at the age of 61. If so, this is a tragic irony he would have appreciated. I remember at the peak of his playing career Bobby Moore was interviewed and asked how Bally could put so much non-stop effort into his play and Bobby said, “Perhaps it indicates an abnormally sized heart.” This was certainly metaphorically true. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was anatomically true too.

That’s the single word that sums up Little Curly Alan Ball: Heart. There was only ever one opponent who was going to best him.

For Evertonian football memories, nobody ever did. (28/04/05)

What Do You Think? e-mail info@bluekipper.com              M.B.E. INDEX