The Greatest Footballer You Never Saw - The Robin Friday Story Paul McGuigan and Paolo Hewitt
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The seventies were a golden age for football. Matches shown in colour on the telly, scarves tied around wrists and jumpers for goalposts no doubt. I say this with all the false confidence of someone who has precious little recollection of the times having been little more than a nipper at the time.
My key memories of the time though are of long hair, big sideburns and water logged footballs that would break your neck if you headed them. But that decade was about more than just that, the seventies was the age of the Hard Man. Proper Hard Men who had proper nicknames: Ron 'Chopper' Harris, Norman 'Bite your Legs' Hunter and Tommy 'Rip Your Head Off and Spit Down Your Neck' Smith. To be fair I'm guessing that last one as I can't remember if he had one or not, but if he did it would have been something along those lines. Anyway, most teams had their own Hard Man (except Spurs of course who were above such things and therefore got relegated and Leeds who had eleven of them) and it was their job to kick seven shades of sherbet out of any opposition player showing any hint of flair, bearing in mind that in those days flair players were those who could take two touches of the ball before losing it. These boys were heroes of the day and if they weren't too bothered about playing the ball, no one blamed them for it.
On the other side of the coin the seventies bred another kind of Hard Man. These were the genuinely skilful players who would take the punishment from the hackers and come back for more. They had the skill and the guts to keep going, they played their way and didn't take any crap from 'The Man'. They'd score spectacular goals, more often than not while smoking a cigarette and chatting up Fiona Richmond at the same time. These Hard Men were known as the Mavericks and were, if it's possible, even more loved by the fans. Again, every team had one (except Spurs once more, unless Alfie Conn counts). The Manchester boys had George Best and Rodney Marsh, QPR had Stan Bowles and around the country were Frank Worthington, Tony Currie and several more cruising the Kings Road. They were so good they didn't even need nicknames.
These guys were hugely famous at the time. Playing for big clubs they were part of the first footballing generation to truly benefit from the abolition of the maximum wage and they lived the celebrity life to the full. But it turns out that Mavericks weren't restricted to the First Division (as it was then, youngsters). The authors of this book claim to have unearthed a genuine Maverick from the Fourth Division. A player who never made it to the top, never received the recognition he deserved yet possessed spectacular skills as good as any of the elite Mavericks. Unfortunately he also possessed an equally spectacular self-destructive streak and this is the reason he never fulfilled his potential. His name was Robin Friday, and if you haven't heard of him - join the club. Before this book no one else had either.
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Born in 1952 in Acton, Friday spent his teenage years on the books of clubs such as Chelsea and QPR but he was never kept on for any length of time, lack of discipline usually put paid to things. After his sixteenth birthday he spent 18 months in Borstal for various drug and theft offences and at the age of twenty he suffered terrible injuries falling off scaffolding while working on a building site. He was therefore 21 before he began playing football at anything approaching professional standard. A brief stint with Walthamstow led to him joining Hayes in the Isthmian League. In 1974 a third round FA cup tie against Reading brought him the attention of Charlie Hurley, the Reading manager, who duly signed him and brought him, finally, to the professional game.
There followed two seasons that would prove to be the highpoint of Friday's career. A time when he won the hearts of the fans, the grudging respect of his team mates and the barely merited loyalty of his long suffering manager. As a person he was unreliable and irresponsible, he saw training as largely optional and was often late on match days. He would drink and party for days on end and was regularly banned from local bars and clubs for his outrageous behaviour. But once on the pitch he gave everything. Despite being the most talented player on view he was also the toughest and hardest working. When his skills brought retribution from opposition players he would pick himself up, wipe off the blood and carry on. Not that he couldn't look after himself. On several occasions as play drifted down field spectators would look back to see a centre half flat on his back and Friday jogging back to the half way line. In a crowded opposition box he would put himself about happily with nudges and elbows, not to mention the old trick of grabbing a defenders testicles - a trick he once tried with an aging Bobby Moore who was so angry he chased him the length of the pitch. Another favourite story concerns one of his goal celebrations. Having taken some severe stick from the opposition goal keeper, when he finally scored a newspaper photo captures him running past the prone keeper flicking him the 'V' sign. Not surprisingly, his outspoken personality and physical style brought him much attention from the referees and even in those wild days he received his share of bookings and suspensions to go with the frequent injuries inflicted upon him.
By popular consent he was held largely responsible for Reading's promotion in 1975, but that would prove as close to success as Friday would get. Throughout his time with Reading there was regular talk of bigger teams being interested in him, but none reached the point of an offer or a trial. All, it seemed, were put off by the unreliability and never ending trouble he found himself in away from the pitch. When a move did finally materialise, to Cardiff then in the old second division, it was little short of disastrous. While at Reading, his manager bent over backwards to accommodate him and kept him on as short a leash as he possibly could, insisting he move to the town and share digs with another senior player. Following the move to Cardiff his new chairman thought a stern word early on would suffice but this was never going to work. Friday didn't move to Cardiff, instead he would commute from home by train but the responsibility of taking that three hour journey was beyond him and he was often late or missing completely. Before his first ever training session he was even arrested en route for fare evasion and had to be collected by club officials from the local police station. His time with Cardiff was fragmented at best but he still did enough to be remembered with misty eyed fondness by those interviewed for the book.
As his spell with Cardiff fizzled out he drifted out and away from football, never particularly in the public eye he disappeared completely until his untimely death at the age of 38. By then any impact he'd had on the wider world was forgotten, no obituaries were written and his funeral was a quiet, family affair.
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So where does that leave us with this book? I first came across it when an extract was published in a magazine several years ago and was immediately taken by the romance of the story. Unfortunately, the book itself is something of a disappointment in comparison. While the article, which must have been specially written rather than extracted verbatim, was free flowing and entertaining, giving a potted history of Friday's life and retelling some of the more colourful stories, the book is a lot more stilted. Rather than freely written it is a collection of newspaper clippings and interviews, chronologically presented with virtually no commentary from the authors. The two authors have done commendably well to get time with so many people and to get so much out of them, their detective skills in tracking down the old match reports should also be applauded. But they are obviously under the impression that the story can then tell itself and the result is rather cold and clinical. Reading page after page of 100 word match reports quickly becomes a bit of a chore, no matter how effusive they are over the player's skills and goals.
You couldn't really ask for more from the contributors that are here, the book includes interviews with Friday's parents and twin brother as well as one of his ex-wives. Credibility is provided by the extensive contributions of his old manager and fellow pro's, in particular that of Eamon Dunphy, a fellow player at Reading and now a respected sports writer and broadcaster. But really, everything is very one-sided. In footballing terms this book is a 'homer'. When talking about a player or a team, calling them a 'homer' infers that they only play well at home and not away. When aimed at a referee it suggests that they will award decisions to the home team rather than antagonise the crowd. Either way it is mildly insulting, suggesting a degree of cowardice and this book cannot duck this charge. All the interviews are with either team mates or friends and family and all the newspaper clippings are from Reading's local papers, not the most independent of sources.
What this book cries out for is some balancing input, some independent contribution from opposing players, or fans, or indeed from anyone outside his circle. While it is acknowledged that there is, sadly, no film of him playing and he played at too low a level to attract the attention of the more neutral national press it is a shame that the authors didn't look to other sources. They quote freely from Reading's local papers but these are naturally biased and understandably focus on the home team heroes but not once do they look at the other side. For every home game they played they would obviously play an away game and not once are the match summaries from the opposition's local papers quoted. If those equally biased 'away' match reports mentioned this player in anyway glowing terms it would give the story so much more credibility.
This book could have gone in two directions. One way would have been to glorify his wild antics and recount the numerous stories and legends that surround him in full 'lad's mag' style. The other would have been to make a serious case for his talent, to present the evidence in a clear well-constructed way. It does neither of these.
This is an interesting story, if it had been written in a more engaging style it could have been very entertaining but in the end you have to feel that they haven't made their case. I never got the sense that this was a player who absolutely should have been one of the great Mavericks, up there with the Marsh's, the Bowles' or even the Worthington's. More it is a case of a player who had the potential, a player who could have been great but never made it and in sport that isn't especially rare.
If you want to find out more about Robin Friday, and you really should, your only option is to read this book so in that respect I'm pushed to recommend it. I just wish they'd presented it better.
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The Greatest Player You Never Saw is written by Paul McGuigan (ex Oasis bassist) and Paolo Hewitt; it is published by Mainstream Sport Publishing and is available in shops and on line at £5.99 new and from £2.00 second hand.
