Eamon’s trouble was that he had an opinion on everything and almost always expressed it. There are at least some things I think which I like to keep to myself, but not him. What he believed he could not hold back and this led to further confrontation with Wilf McGuinness. Worse, it led me into confrontation with Wilf McGuinness. He and I must have had four fights, and each time they had nothing to do with the combatants and everything to do with Eamon Dunphy. It was always a case of him sending McGuinness, who was a tough guy, smashing into the advertising boards around the five-a-side pitch or uttering some obscenity in his direction. I would go in to sort out the ensuing altercation and it would go up between the two innocent parties. It got to a stage where McGuinness said: ‘I want to see you, Fry. Upstairs.’ Off we went, just the two of us, and we proceeded to batter hell out of each other. When it was over we wondered where it had all started in the first place. We both said that neither of us had a problem with the other, determined that Dunphy was the root cause and shook hands at the very moment that we espied the culprit walking over the bridge with his arm around a tasty-looking bird.
Myself and Wilf, a great character who had the misfortune to suffer one of the worst broken legs the game has ever seen, became mates. He was another with a real passion for the club.
Saddled with the problem of being housed for my second season, I became aware that Dunphy had been as ignorant as I and was in the same situation. Joe Armstrong said that Bobby Charlton, who lived in Stretford, was getting married and was leaving his digs with Mr and Mrs Jim Davenport. I would take his place there in a fortnight’s time but, meanwhile, was to share temporary accommodation with Dunphy next door to another Irish lad, Hugh Curran. At the Davenports I was joined by Ken Morton, who had played for England schoolboys, and Denis Walker, an older pro who knew everything. They were good days. I had my first car from Jim, who worked on the railways and who I always called ‘The Governor’. Now we were within five minutes’ walking distance of Old Trafford, just down the back alley and over the bridge. You didn’t have to get up so early. I had had lots of driving lessons and the day dawned when Jim came to change his car for a better one. He said that he wasn’t getting much from the garage for his, a cream Hillman Hunter, and that I could buy it if I fancied it. We did a deal on the never-never and he was so kind that I don’t think I ever paid for the car and he never mentioned it. I passed my driving test – at just the ninth attempt. Every time I failed it was for a different reason and I could never understand it. I hadn’t killed anybody; nobody had even suffered a life-threatening injury. I drove the car to Bedford and back many times without incident and, in those pre-motorway days, it would take ages all the way down the A6. Mrs Davenport took a keen interest in my progress and every time the car pulled up outside her house after a test she would look out of the window and question whether I had passed by means of a thumb’s up and an expectant look on her beaming face. I would return the thumb’s up sign and slowly turn it into a thumb’s down and she would say: ‘Oh no, not again. Why this time?’ She would be more disappointed than I was.
As the time was approaching when I would take my test for the sixth time I was very anxious and I asked the lads for some general tips and hints. Bobby Charlton came up with what sounded like a bright idea. ‘You know what you should do Baz,’ he said, ‘you should wear your Manchester United blazer.’ To impress the examiner further, I even put on my club tie. There was no way I could fail. I drove well and after 20 minutes we pulled into a layby and I was oozing confidence when he began asking questions about the Highway Code. I felt that I had got them all right and was crestfallen when he uttered those immortal words: ‘Mr Fry, I am afraid that you have failed to reach the required standard.’ With that, he got out of the car and as he was closing the door he bent down and added: ‘By the way, I’m a Manchester City supporter.’ It caused a riot of laughter when I related this at The Cliff training ground the following day with Bobby saying to me, ‘Barry, you must be the unluckiest guy walking.’
In the early hours of one morning I was awakened by a severe bout of coughing followed by a heavy thud. Mrs Davenport was on the floor, covered in blood, and she could not be attended by Jim, who was working a night shift. I called the doctor and her daughter, Sylvia, and she was diagnosed as having cancer. Her death soon afterwards was the first I had to cope with and it was very difficult. You become very close to those with whom you live and while Sylvia was kind enough to offer alternative accommodation to Ken Morton and myself, I did not like leaving The Governor on his own. Some time later I read that he had been killed, hit by a train on the railway for which he had worked for over 40 years.
It has been a lifetime regret that, as a footballer, I never fulfilled my promise – the has-been that never was. Although I had this great ability and started at the top with England schoolboys and Manchester United, I did not have a career. As soon as I signed professional forms, I went the wrong way. Those trips to the racecourse would be followed by a meal, then an outing to one of the local dog tracks at Salford, White City and Belle Vue. I was bitten deeply by the gambling bug and a further distraction was the Manchester night life. The next port of call after the greyhounds would be one of the night clubs and life became a merry-go-round of these glamorous playgrounds.
Noel Cantwell, who had joined Manchester United from West Ham in time for the 1963 FA Cup Final, arrived as the kind of philosopher and deep thinker about the game which was the trademark of players brought up in the Upton Park academy. He could not believe how off-the-cuff things were at Old Trafford. The essence, and often the sum total, of Matt Busby’s team talks would be: ‘We are better than them, go and express yourselves,’ whereas Noel had been accustomed to long tactical debates. United went into this Wembley final against Leicester City, with Cantwell the captain, as underdogs, yet emerged emphatic 3–1 winners. I was with the party, enjoying the sumptuous five-star hotel treatment before the game, and the atmosphere on the return train journey to Manchester was electric. A big card school was soon convened by Maurice Setters and others and my penchant for gambling, which by now was almost compulsive, was very much to the fore. We were playing brag, a game in which money is won and lost in the blink of an eye, and my stake was a fiver blind. Anybody who knows the game will tell you that it takes either nerves of steel or a suicidal tendency to strike so big a wager in that fashion. It was neither to me. I was 18 and had plenty of money with nothing to spend it on. I had saved everything for a couple of years, my digs were paid for, I never went out. For two years I dedicated myself to becoming a professional footballer; for the next two years I came dangerously close to careering off the rails. The warning signs were there. Instead of reading the national newspaper back pages and all the football coverage as I had so far done, I began taking the Sporting Life every day instead. It was not long before I was interested not only in what was running that day but what was running the following day as well. You don’t realise it at the time, but it soon becomes an obsession. At The Cliff you only had to look over the wall and you could see the horses at Manchester racecourse. One of the problems as a professional footballer is that you have too much time on your hands and you have to do something. I did gambling. At the time it was something I enjoyed greatly. I had no responsibilities and it didn’t matter if I did my bollocks. There would be two carloads of players going to the races and from there the rest would go home whereas I would head for the dogs, perhaps seeing Alan Ball, who was a regular at the Salford track.
One day I was waiting at the bus stop outside Old Trafford and Matt Busby drew up in his car. He asked me where I was going and when I told him that my destination was Manchester races he said: ‘Jump in.’ I had been having treatment for an injury and the other lads had gone on ahead of me.
‘Do you like racing?’ he asked me.
I told him I loved it.
‘Listen, son,’ he said, ‘it’s like women and it’s like drink. It is fine in moderation, but don’t ever let it get to grips with you.’
It was the best bit of advice anyone had ever given to me … and I took no notice whatsoever.
Since then I have seen so many players who have been paid millions of pounds end up without a pot to piss in. I never had a million pounds to start with, but all through my life gambling has cost me to some extent. Gus Demmy was the top bookmaker in Manchester and I would see him at all the various meetings. I got to know him quite well and in the end he gave