Sadly, Dundee United's legendary winger Ralph Milne died this week. Dundee United fan and guest blogger Peter Clark wrote this for club fanzine The Final Hurdle more than twenty years ago, and felt the time was ripe to look it out again...
A long time ago, me and some other guys used to
meet every Sunday in Dawson Park, Broughty Ferry, stick some jerseys down for
posts, spend a couple of frenetic hours blowing away the remnants of our
teenage hangovers and living our our personal footballing fantasies. Fifty two
weeks a year, all weather stuff - even when there was six inches of snow on the
ground, a dozen of us still went up, and slagged off the girlies who hadn't
made it.
One Sunday, however, the Gods smiled upon us. Our
little runout was graced with the presence of one of the truly gifted, someone
born to grace Pele's "beautiful game", a name that was to reverberate
around Tannadice for the following six years and etch itself idelibly into the folklore of Dundee United one
afternoon in May '83, It was the summer of '78. The World Cup was over, but
Scotland’s disgrace was forgotten. Our role models for the time being were Ari
Ham, Johnny Rep, Leopoldo Luque, Daniel Passarella and, primarily, Mario Kempes.
We imagined ourselves to be true exponents of the continental style exhibited
by Holland and Argentina. Short passing, keeping it on the ground,
interchangeable positions a la "total football", immaculately curled
passes with instep and outside of boot, all culminating in thunderous thirty
yarders which were a common feature of the matches in Argentina. Well, that's
how I remember it . . . .
Anyway this extraordinary Sunday started much as
most others did. We claimed our normal patch, made the goals, picked sides and
got on with it. For some reason, we had a shitty ball, which obviously failed
to do justice to our extravagant abilities, but we could cope.
In the distance, two figures approached. They
were coming towards us. Occasionally, people would ask for a game, and these
guys were either going to do that, watch us, or try and nick something/beat us up (both fairly common
occurrences), It was when they got closer that someone recognised one of them.
"It's Ralph Milne!" he whispered
urgently, obviously not wanting to appear uncool. And it was.
They watched for a minute, flares gently flapping
in the breeze, then Ralph asked for a game. Who were we to refuse? Kempes was
suddenly history. Here was Ralphie. On the verge of the first team, definitely
a name for the future, but the genuine article, an honest-to-God pro.
Ralphie immediately took up station at centre
forward. Stuff this winger nonsense. The gulf between a pro and us seemed
improbably large. We wanted to see what one was really like in our environment.
How fast was he? How fit was he? Was his control much better? Could he read a
game instantly and thread passes into gaps which no one else saw? Would he
dance round our tackles as if we weren't there? Was he hard - not dirty, just
toughened by being a professional sportsman? Were his predatory instincts and
finishing skills on a different planet? Would he think we were a bunch of
hopeless wankers?
Given the strength of our anticipation, Ralphie‘s
performance over the next half hour left us somewhat bewildered.
Demanding the ball to feet at every opportunity,
his only contribution was to turn, run a few paces, and shoot from wherever he
was. And that meant anywhere. Handicapped by his flares (still the biggest pair
ever seen on a football pitch in the UK), and our crappy ball, this was a
predictably fruitless exercise. I can't remember if he did actually manage to
score — I think he did, as I have vague recollections of some wildely
extravagant celebrations when one of his efforts did manage to creep in.
Eventually, him and his mate (who had posted himself to the left wing, closely
marked by ten B&H) pissed off, Ralphie satiated by his daily soccer fix.
Afterwards, we attempted to analyse what we had
seen. Was this a young pro, so fed up with the level of coaching, control,
discipline and regimentation imposed on him, simply letting off steam a bit?
Was he giving rein to his instincts, experiencing the pure pleasure that the simplest
game in the World can offer, rediscovering his childhood enthusiasm? Had McLean's
draconian regime so stiffled him, that he was damned to wander Dawson Park of a
Sunday to try and remotivate himself for Monday morning training?
In fact, he was probably just pissing about. The
player I watched, once established in the first team, bore no resemblance to
the Dawson Park version. Because that version was crap. For half an hour one
afternoon, he looked like the park footballer, and we, the pros - well, not
quite, but you get the picture.
Just how integral he became to the United of the
early eighties can be gleaned from another look at "The Jim McLean
Years" video, where nearly every clip featuring a European cup tie showed
a further example of Milne virtuosity.
Still, I’m glad he wasn't on my side that day in
Dawson. And those flares . . .
Peter Clark saw Dundee United win the league at Dens in 1983. His wife suspects everything since has been a bit disappointing.
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