Thousands of Newcastle United fans will have stronger memories of Kevin Keegan, more meaningful relationships with the great man and the teams he led, on and off the pitch.
I never met him, never attended the legendary training sessions of the 1990s, never saw him play in the black-and-white stripes, except on television. These are just my random reminiscences.
I didn’t witness at first hand his barely believable impact when he was signed by Arthur Cox in August 1982. At the time, I was working on the Southern Evening Echo in Southampton.
The football editor there knew something was up. When he told me Keegan was leaving, my first reaction was relief. No more frantic “hold the front page” yells on Saturday afternoons while the splash headline and intro were rewritten at breakneck speed to report another King Kev late goal.
When I heard the punchline, that he was joining the Magpies, relief turned to excitement. The team I had followed as a schoolboy, a team that had languished in the second tier since 1978, were recruiting a double ballon d’or winner, an England captain, a player whose trophy cabinet was chock full of glittering prizes.
Some of that success would surely work its magic on United, I believed. It did, as did the excitement. Keegan was front-page news, back-page news, big box office long before football was the subject of wall-to-wall, round-the-clock coverage.
He was 31 when we signed him and he had been a fans’ favourite with Scunthorpe United, Liverpool, Hamburg and the Saints. Nowhere, however, was he worshipped more than at St James’ Park.
Only a few footballers can transform humdrum days into unforgettable memories. King Kev, Special K, Mighty Mouse — he did it as a player and as a manager.
Photo by The Mag
Life got in the way of my football for too long but in the 1990s I returned as a spectator, soon after Kevin Keegan ended his eight-year break. The five years that followed his second coming at United in February 1992 were gloriously exciting. Anyone who says they ended in failure fundamentally misunderstands what is failure and what is success.
Time and money allowed me to watch the Mags under his stewardship. Selhurst Park in October 1994 stands out . . . and not just for a late, late winner scored by the inimitable Peter Beardsley. Crystal Palace gave us a hard time down our right flank. If Chris Armstrong had not missed a load of chances, we would have left empty-handed.
Never one to keep my counsel, I wrote to the manager a few days later, pointing out how vulnerable we had looked. KK was multitalented and clearly a good judge of character. He never replied, for which I am eternally grateful.
Eighteen months later, as the Nearly Season reached its denouement, I returned to St James’ Park for the first time in a long time. The old ground was almost impossible to recognise. The 56,000 capacity of my early teens was now only 36,000. No riotous assembly in the Leazes End, though the atmosphere was just as overwhelming.
Successive 1-0 wins against Aston Villa and Southampton in four days prolonged the title challenge. Much to the bemusement of my 12-year-old son, I was reduced to tears.
“Why are you crying, Dad?”
I struggled to explain, mumbling that things had changed a lot in the 20-odd years since I had been a regular, on and off the pitch. The stadium looked fantastic and the football was thrilling.
© 1993 The Mag. All rights reserved.
Yesterday I was weeping again, as so many Newcastle United fans were.
Thanks for the memories, Joseph Kevin Keegan.