Norman Hunter bites yer legs for the last time.

Norman Hunter bites yer legs for the last time.

It always seemed slightly unfair that Norman Hunter, who died a couple of days ago at the age of 76, should be always remembered for all the wrong reasons. Besides, Hunter, although as hard as nails if not harder, was quite possibly as soft as a kitten in his private life and always gave as good as he got on the football pitch. Very few of his contemporaries during the 1970s will ever be allowed to forget Hunter because he did leave his indelible legacy on more or less every bone in their bodies.

We all know that Hunter was one of those passionate, ruthless, no-nonsense defenders who sometimes allowed his aggressive approach on the pitch to get the better of him. This is not to imply that he was some bloodthirsty, bullish barbarian on a football pitch who kicked every player up into the air whenever he felt like it. Rather he was one of those old fashioned central defenders who quite literally took no prisoners and probably did eat red meat for breakfast.

Although he was born in the Geordie heartland of Gateshead, Hunter chose to join Leeds United as a youngster and never really looked back. Soon, Hunter had integrated himself into Don Revie's team of miracle workers, charmers and, some would say, scallywags. Leeds, initially, were regarded as the pantomime villains, a genuinely talented team but rather prone to violent outbursts and impetuous tantrums.

But when Hunter paired up with the now legendary likes of Jack Charlton, Paul Reaney and Paul Madeley, Leeds attracted more favourable reviews and responses from those whose scepticism had probably set in at a very early stage in Hunter's career. All the critics could see this was hulking, maybe cumbersome looking defender who only knew to hurt, kick, punch, maim and ultimately injure anybody who dared to cross him.

When Hunter was picked for Sir Alf Ramsey's original squad in the 1966 World Cup, he became no more than an on looker, a peripheral figure just there to soak up the historic atmosphere of the time. Hunter was simply a fringe member of Sir Alf''s golden boys. The Leeds centre half  was surrounded by the illustrious likes of Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters, Alan Ball, Nobby Stiles and Roger Hunt but was never daunted by more high profile figures determined to create their own history.

Four years later in Mexico during the 1970 World Cup Hunter did play a more prominent role throughout the tournament but was once again rarely used. But he did use Mexico as a sturdy stepping stone for greater club moments with his club Leeds United. It surely must have been something Alan Mullery must have said to him but Hunter returned to England with the knowledge that with Don Revie around he simply couldn't go wrong.

Now firmly ensconced at the heart of the Leeds United defence, Hunter became the arch destroyer, a notorious hard man who would shove and barge players out of the way, tackling tigerishly and of course illegally which may have done nothing to enhance his profile at the time but did endear himself to fans who just loved his devil may care, dastardly approach. Hunter was Leeds shield and crest of arms, a battering ram of a player whose often good natured nastiness and bullish belligerence aroused laughter and contempt in the same breath.

It was commonly assumed that most of those old First Division defenders must have been absolutely terrified, nay less petrified of Hunter since all they really wanted at heart was the quiet life. Hunter, it must have been felt, was just a playground bully who just wanted to end a player's career with the most brutal injury. But Hunter was never a psychopath, a hardened convict determined to make all of his opponents feel as if they were wasting their time by simply sharing the same pitch as him.

But for Hunter there were two incidents which seemed to tarnish an otherwise steadfast club career with Leeds. In retrospect they may seem to have overshadowed a career that did see Leeds win two old First Division championship trophies and an FA Cup winners medal with Leeds against Arsenal in 1972. Hunter was an admirable reader of the game and although his attitude did leave a good deal to be desired, his interceptions on the ground and a natural ability to carry the ball out of his defence with some ease and aplomb were redeeming features amid all the argy bargy.

Of course the central defender of 1970s vintage were invariably encouraged to thump the ball out of the defence as quickly and with as much alacrity as possible. But there was none of the grotesquerie about Hunter's football because Leeds could be exceptionally good and attractive on the ball when the mood suited them. The famous daisy chain passing movement which must have amounted to at least 35 passes, if not more, remains one of Leeds most unforgettable footballing moments. It is hard to know how many times Hunter was involved but when Leeds finally emerged with a 7-0 victory against Southampton, most of us were simply giddy with joy and no little euphoria.

And then there was the night when it all went calamitously wrong for the England football team. Unfortunately Norman Hunter would become a tortured figure and for a full house Wembley crowd just baying for blood against Poland in a crucial World Cup qualifying game in 1973, it was not a night to recall with any fondness. For the best part of 90 minutes England threw the kitchen sink, the washing machine, the dishwasher, several canteens of cutlery while not forgetting the oven and cooker at a Polish side who must have thought all their birthdays had come at once. Admittedly there were no dishwashers around at the time to throw but you do see the point.

For love nor money Sir Alf Ramsey's England couldn't break down a rugged Polish defence. Of course they were  totally committed, totally fired up and fully motivated, attacking and attacking the Polish goal with a relentless and merciless insistence and persistence. They tried everything from catapults to the cannonball to batter down a Polish goal that must have had several lucky charms attached to it. But now we were about to witness the most horrendous of all downfalls and unbearable blunders.

With the game still finely poised and not really going according to plan, the second half seemed to be ebbing away from England. Then it happened. A loose ball on the half way line lured Norman Hunter into a half baked, feeble tackle and the rest is one of those miserable footnotes in England's chequered football history. Hunter, stumbling and lunging almost embarrassingly at thin air, lost the tackle and Poland sprinted for goal with very little in the way of English resistance. Poland took the lead and although Hunter's Leeds team mate Alan Clarke tucked home an equalising penalty for England, the game was up. Sir Alf Ramsey trudged away inconsolably into obscurity, sacked almost immediately and England would not be attending the following summer's World Cup in West Germany.

But Hunter was no cowardly quitter and would continue to provide both Leeds and all football fans with his distinctively whole hearted, red blooded and abrasive style. The tackles could be heard in a number of English towns and villages, crunching and thudding their way into ankles, stomachs, necks and shoulders with some ferocity. Hunter was though hugely respected by not only his colleagues but managers and chairmen who recognised the sheer strength and presence of the man.

Sadly though there was one game where Norman Hunter quite obviously forgot where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. It almost seemed like a dress rehearsal for an act he'd worked on for ages, the culmination of all those years of pent up anger. Maybe it was a kind of microcosm of Hunter's playing career in one mad five minute moment.

Derby County, still in their marvellously free wheeling attacking pomp and Francis Lee at his very best, must have seen Hunter coming. It was an old First Division game at the old Baseball Ground between Derby and Leeds, Lee against Hunter, a recipe for a fight behind the proverbial bike sheds. What followed was the most farcical punch up and even now on reflection it was no more than handbags at five paces. Suddenly the fists were flying, Lee aimlessly flinging punches that never looked like connecting. Hunter, never averse to a childish dust up or a petty altercation with his opponents, delivered his very own rabbit punches.

As both Lee and Hunter seemed to have settled their differences, it all seemed to flare up again. Out of the corner of the referee's eyes, both men were launching both barrels, eyes and noses flaring, hands lashing wildly at each other in some soap opera free for all. Shortly, commonsense did resume full service but the personal grudge and vendetta had yet to subside. It's safe to say that both were not on each other's Christmas list and oh to be a fly on the wall of a Dave Mackay who once grabbed hold of Billy Bremner's shirt and was in no mood for pleasantries.

Oh for the memories that Norman Hunter has now left. The tragedy of course was that Hunter died as a result of Covid 19, the now rampant global coronavirus disease. There will of course never be another Norman Hunter, never a player who would try desperately to bite anybody's legs because that of course is a physical impossibility. Or maybe Hunter would have thought it amusingly probable. After a brief spell at Bristol City and a bold attempt at management with Rotherham the after dinner circuit beckoned for Hunter. We shall never forget you Norman Hunter and nor will the collective defenders who thought they had the measure of him. Thanks Norman.