LABBY
By
Mickey Blue Eyes

How do you sum up a life? How can you describe the life of someone you never knew? The answer of course is that you can never hope to do it adequately. All you can do is trust your instincts and recount the impressions left to you. But you don’t have such problem with sadness, especially if it’s the type caused by the unexpected death of Brian Labone. You know it when you feel it and you know its depth, which is personal to each of us. We all deal with it differently and feel it at diverse levels. In my case I feel it quite keenly because I watched him as a professional player from when he joined the club to when he retired. More than that, he will be greatly missed for the man he was and his qualities as a human being.

I can’t say I “knew” Brian. I met him on a few occasions over the years and swapped some conversation with him, that’s all. And of course I watched and admired him right from the first time I saw him as a raw youngster fresh out of school in one of the old preseason Blues V Whites practice games at Goodison. Even then he had the physique of a man and was more than capable of holding his own. He had the looks to go with it too. As time went on and his play matured it became obvious he had something different from many other great players. He had the kind of straightforward, decent playing personality that led to Harry Catterick giving him the unforgettable title of “Last of the Corinthians.” But the thing is, almost everybody confirms it extended into his everyday dealing, his personal culture, his manners and the way he spoke. This isn’t to make him out as some sort of goody-goody, and he certainly never took any prisoners when he played. He was fully awake to the tricks of the game and could more than look after himself. What it means is that you felt all the better after you met him. You couldn’t imagine him being cynical, cold or malicious. He was a warm, friendly man who loved football and Everton Football Club. He had the kind of non-fanatical, simple loyalty that contemporary fans seemingly have enormous difficulty with.

My first short encounter with him was in an old Saturday night footballers’ club haunt named the Royal Tiger in Manchester Street, now long demolished. By then he was an established first team player. I was with my wife in a foursome with a pinkies-supporting friend and his wife and we were seated in the basement bar when Brian walked in with the beautiful young lady whom he later married. There was none of the arrogance you saw in many other players and certainly none of the “footballers’ wives” claptrap you see and hear now. They were simply out for a relaxing night and a few drinks when they sat down opposite us in one of those little subterranean alcoves you find in most old city centre basements.

The pinkies had a match the following week and we didn’t. My friend had a sharp sense of humour and couldn’t resist saying with a broad grin, “You coming next week………………..to watch?” Without batting an eyelid and entirely without pique Brian said, “Why? Have you got a practice match?” It was said in the kind of calm tone he seemed to use on the infrequent occasions I met him in later years. More to the point it deflated my friend to the point where he was completely won over. Within a few minutes we were all talking footy as though we had known each other for a long time. He had the natural gift of making you feel that way. There was nothing contrived or public-relations trained about it. His enthusiasm for the game shone through.

A few years later my car broke down and I tried to hitch a ride through the Mersey Tunnel. After a fruitless half hour trying, a car pulled up and I was offered a lift. To my astonishment, it was Brian. He didn’t recognise me of course. It was mere coincidence. But it didn’t make much difference to the way he indulged footy chat and told me to watch out for this kid named Alan Whittle who was going past people in training like they weren’t there, including himself. In the end he dropped me off at my front door after making a big detour from his own route. Later on Whittle got into the first team in sensational style and scored a crop of crucial goals during the Championship season of 69-70.

As time went on I bumped into him quite briefly at various functions and still he was completely unaffected by his elevation to international player and club captain. One of these events was a school gathering and it included a female friend who was a language teacher and distant pinky fan. She tried to make a sly chauvinist point by engaging him in French. After a few minutes she turned away in fake fury moaning, “The BASTARD! He speaks it perfectly.” There was only the faintest of satisfied smiles on his face.

In more recent years he and Gordon West were regular speakers at fans’ functions and never failed to entertain everybody with football stories and opinions. They really were a great double act. At one Blue Kipper event I remember someone asked Labby which player gave him most trouble and before he could say anything Westy piped up, “You were TERRIFIED of Andy Lochead.” (Lochead of Burnley was a big, strong Jock centre forward similar to Andy Gray, only twice as mean and dirty. He was so fractious the Street End used to call him “Fuckn Headlock.”) And though Brian denied it you could tell by the tone in his voice there was something to it. He got his own back though when he recounted how Gordon didn’t go to the 1970 World Cup because his then wife threatened to divorce him. And then divorced him anyway. It’s my guess Westy’s feeling the loss of Labby much more sharply than the rest of us.

Last season at Aston Villa we gave possibly our best performance of the season and won handsomely playing really good stuff. After one of the goals went in we were cavorting in celebration when a voice behind us said wearily, “Ah sit down will you.” And Terry took off his wooly hat and chucked it at the offender in annoyance. It was Brian. We immediately submerged Terry to shut him up. As he disappeared under a mound of bodies he protested, “…………I don’t give a shit WHO he is……………” as his hat was handed back to us carefully and thoughtfully. He did care of course. We all did.

His playing career speaks for itself, but really statistics and medals don’t tell half the story. He was respected at every ground I ever visited. I only once heard an opposing fan have a go at him. It was at Nottingham Forest when he badly mistimed a tackle on lightning-fast Joe Baker and felled him heavily. At the time Joe was in a run of brilliant form and few centre halves could get near him and Brian was no exception. A woman several terraces down immediately shouted, “Labone’s the dirtiest centre half in the league!” It was so stupid even the home fans laughed it off.

To see him at his peak you need to see the films of the 1970 World Cup when he was part of a magnificent England team, much better than the winners of 1966. He was absolutely superb and looked every inch the pride of England’s defence and capable of at least matching the wonderful array of international talent that unforgettable tournament produced. It was a fitting international swansong.

My memories of Brian will always be warm. Losing him is terribly sad because I was lucky enough to grow up in the same era, to meet him and to watch him develop as a great and successful player in a way we won’t see so frequently now or in the future. No, I can’t say I “knew” him. But I can say he was One of Us, a loyal Evertonian through and through who felt for the club the way most of us do, a man who didn’t appear to have a scrap of hatred in him. The world is a better place when men like Brian Labone are in it. And more than anything else that is the reason we miss him.

Put simply: He was a good man. (26/04/06)

O Captain my captain

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