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Almost twenty years since he died, struck down by
Motor Neurone disease – a cruel end, the spotlight
Elsewhere. Disowned as a traitor to England, his
Star fallen to breaking point. Yet once upon a time
In Yorkshire he created a club from nothing. But
Always a little brittle; superstition was his addiction.
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His men loyal to a fault, he was head of the Family,
A Leeder, a father, a guiding light as his boys came
Up short so many times. Second place too often to
Be just bad luck, maybe the Gods didn’t like them.
Or was it those rumours of corruption, of desperate
Measures – inbred insecurity, and a flawed paranoia.
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The team dressed in white, though they were never
Truly the brides. Hounded for their hardness, when
The football flowed it was ignored. No matter how
Much they tried to impress, affection remained in
Short supply. And that’s how it stayed, ever since.
For the manager, a tarnished epitaph. The Don, RIP.