ON MAY 19, 1997, the Monday morning after Eric Cantona's retirement from the game had been announced, the Manchester United manager flew into Belfast accompanied by a small media army. Although Old Trafford was still reeling from the departure of its French talisman, Alex Ferguson had more pressing business at hand. David Gillen, a member of the Carryduff branch of the United supporters' club, needed a new motorised wheelchair buying, and Ferguson was anxious to do his bit to help.
A few months earlier, Ferguson had committed himself to attending a day of fund-raising events organised by the Carryduff faithful, and even the sudden exodus of his most influential player wasn't going to impinge on that. During the day, he spoke at a sportsmen's lunch, ferried the Premiership trophy along to a street party, and attended a dinner. If the media were shocked by Ferguson's sense of duty, nobody at Carryduff would have expected any less. No Manchester United fan in Ireland would have either.
The unique relationship between United and Ireland gains varying expressions. In Simply Red and Green, a recent book on the subject, the Taoiseach, Bertie Ahern articulates his love for the club and Ken Doherty recalls the time he paraded his world snooker championship trophy on the pitch at half-time during a game. In the last few weeks, Dublin airport has opened a shop dedicated to hawking only Manchester United merchandise, and this Wednesday, close to 1,300 fans will file past it on their way to the Champions League tie with Bayern Munich.
There are other English clubs which have had fond and lengthy associations with Ireland, but none has endured and grown quite like this one. The first ever Irishman to play professional football was a Belfast-born left winger by the name of Jack Peden. A petulant type, he plied his trade in Manchester in the 1890s when the team that would be called United were still known as plain old Newton Heath. Seventy years later, another, even more gifted left winger boasting the same home town would encounter troubles of his own in Manchester.
In 1948, Johnny Carey captained United to FA Cup success and was perhaps the first genuine Irish footballing superstar. A consummate sportsman, he saw service in nine different positions for United. Half a century on, a young Waterford defender called John O'Shea has already made an impression midway through the first season of his apprenticeship at Old Trafford. From Peden to Best, from Carey to O'Shea, the line is drawn.
"When I was growing up in Cork in the Forties, boys dreamt of one day playing for Cork United," says Noel Cantwell, who himself captained Manchester United to their 1963 FA Cup victory. "But I only ever dreamt of playing for Manchester United. And that was because of Johnny Carey. Once I saw him captaining them, that was it. United were always the ambition."
That a preponderance of Irishmen have worn the United colours through the years only goes some way to explaining the attraction. While every fan has had his or her own personal epiphany, there are moments that remain landmarks for all. In February 1958, on the darkest night in Manchester United's history at Munich, three of their first-team squad were Irish, and one of them, Harry Gregg, was the hero of a dreadful hour. Ten years later, on the greatest night in their history, more than a quarter of the first XI was Irish, and one of them, George Best, was the hero of a better hour.
Supporters of a certain age have invested the demise of the Busby Babes with the same significance that others accord the assassination five years later of John F Kennedy. That Liam Whelan, one of their own, was among the dead, only added to the poignancy. The outpouring of grief during Whelan's funeral in Dublin was the defining moment for a pre-pubescent Bertie Ahern. After that, there could be no other club for him, and so many thousands more of a similar age.
If the powerful symbolism of a catastrophe like Munich and the magnetic lure of the victory over Benfica at Wembley easily explain how people were inexorably drawn to United, the relationship has been attended by some fanciful myth-making as well. In the years after the departures in quick succession of Stapleton, Moran, McGrath and Whiteside, before the arrival of Irwin and Keane, and perhaps crucially predating the amassing of so many trophies, a bizarre legend grew up that Alex Ferguson had something against the Irish.
Ignoring the obvious fact that Whiteside was a Protestant from east Belfast, the notion was predicated on Ferguson's own religion. In its way, it was as misguided as the belief in another era that Matt Busby's faith caused him to discriminate in favour of the Catholics in his charge. Busby's staunch personal Catholicism, and his closeness during his formative years to his maternal grandfather, an Irish immigrant by the name of Jimmy Greer, formed the unwieldy premise for that fallacy. In practice, Busby picked the best players, regardless of denomination.
"Matt loved Ireland and I think he felt that Manchester United should go over there at least once a year," says Paddy Crerand, like Busby, a Scot of Irish descent. "Our first game after winning the European Cup was a friendly in Dublin, a testimonial for Liam Whelan's brother. You have to remember that one in three people in Manchester claim some sort of Irishness. He was honorary president of the Irish club in Chorlton, and he didn't hold the position just for the sake of it. It often seems to me that Manchester United is the only thing that Ireland is united over."
While Carryduff is neither the biggest or the oldest branch of the supporters' club on this island, it can maybe lay claim to being the most progressive. Coming from the southern fringes of Belfast, a city riven by a sectarianism that spills over into sport in general, and football clubs in particular, their ecumenical approach backs up Crerand's view.
"When a bus carrying our supporters is heading to a United match, no member can get on board if he is wearing a Republic of Ireland jersey with Roy Keane's name on it or a David Beckham England jersey," says Carryduff secretary John White. "The only colours that we allow on the bus are Manchester United's and that means everbody, Catholic, Protestant or whatever, can feel comfortable joining us."
If the Carryduff spirit epitomises the way in which support for United crosses traditional boundaries, for scouting purposes, Busby used to divide the island along familiar lines; Northern Ireland was the preserve of Bob Bishop, the Republic the stomping ground of Billy Behan. While the names of Bishop and Behan always figure in the telling of the United story, their names are writ largest by the contributions of the many Irish boys that they and their successors have sent across.
If having so many Irish provided a lineage to which supporters could lovingly adhere, there is a sense of real comradeship between the Irish players themselves. In A Strange Kind of Glory, Eamon Dunphy recounts how Noel Cantwell once engaged him in conversation about the rudimentary nature of Busby's training sessions. Of the established pro talking to the young apprentice, Dunphy writes: "I was Irish. He could confide in me . . . "
There is too the impression of a kinship that traverses the different eras. Cantwell has met Roy Keane and Denis Irwin often enough to know that Irwin is a bit of a bandit at golf, and to desperately want Keane to lift a trophy for United. "After myself and Johnny Carey lifting the FA Cup," says Cantwell, "I would love to see Roy win something as captain."
Cantwell was there on the February afternoon in Cork 35 years ago, when Paddy Crerand made his debut for United in a friendly against Bolton at Flower Lodge. "I'm never allowed to forget that game," says Crerand. "Roy Keane's father Mossie claims he got sacked from his job for taking a half day to come and watch us in that game." Mossie Keane was a supporter then. His son is captain now. Every Irish fan has his dream.
