- George Switzer?
- Speaking.
- We're calling from the Norwegian newspaper Dagbladet..
Click.
The line goes dead. It has taken us 18 phone calls, 12 e-mails, five days and a lenghty chase into the English working class community to track him down.
Now that George Switzer was finally here, he slipped away.
His teammates went on to become multi-millionaires, to buy villas and mansions with swimming pools and neverending gardens in posh neighbouroods and they got Bentleys in subterranean garages and skinny model girlfriends and they won everything there was to win and they became internationals and one of them even became the most famous person in the world. [The prose is actually every bit as rambling in the original.]
We study a photo of what many people consider the best youth team in the history of football.
Nobody comes close to United’s class of ’92. In the photo we see David Beckham and Nicky Butt with slender boyish faces. And a feeble Gary Neville. Keith Gillespie. Paul Scholes. Robbie Savage. Ben Thornley. And there’s Ryan Giggs.
Ten out of eleven in this team will go on to become stars. In the picture there’s one man we fail to recognize. He’s a head shorter than most. At first glance you could mistake him for Paul Scholes. It’s an illusion, probably the striking red hair.
He is not Paul Scholes. He is George Switzer.
There were reports he was now to be found in the reserves of the non-league outfit Irlam FC. Others mentioned Charlestown CYC, a team that only get together on Sundays. But the latest information suggests he’s playing for Monton Amateurs, deep, deep inside the Schwarzwald of football.
George Switzer went on to become nothing. That is, our research also uncovers that Switzer, after having worked with making exhaust pipes for cars, is currently working as a delivery man in Manchester.
We give it another go. There’s an answer.
- You see, I’m out delivering goods. There’s a hellova lot to do. How can I help you?
- George, you once played for Manchester United. We’re fascinated by your story. Wonder if you can find time to meet us?
- Sure, mate. I’m just sitting here. But you’re not writing one of those hero to zero stories, are you?
- No, well…
- But don’t come this week, because I’m going to Benidorm with the lads. feck, that’ll be one hell of a trip. But how about next weekend? I’ve got a game with my team on Saturday. I’ll grab a pint or five afterwards, see my little boy off to practice on Sunday morning, have a few pints watching the United game in the pub and then it’s Monday. Then I’m having a few pints with the lads after work, as usual. What the hell, just come.
TWO WEEKS LATER. In an uncommonly charmless street, a broken washing machine and three bags of garbage are lying about.
He locks himself into his home in Belmont Street, Salford, South Manchester. George Switzer lives behind a green door in a exceptionally modest, reddish brown brick terrace house.
The first things you’ll notice in Switzer’s small living room are two big holes in the door. They look like the work of two fists going in with full force.
- I came home from work one day and … well, I … in a bad moment I punched right through it.
George Switzer enters the kitchen. Opens the fridge.
- Beer?
The fridge holds four cans of Fosters and some food. Clothes are scattered throughout the kitchen. Children’s drawings on the wall. He lives here with his girlfriend, their two-year-old daughter and her daughter of five. He’s the only one home at the moment.
His face is heavy, its features rugged. His disappears to the attic. He’s fetching the video tape he’s been talking about for so long. The one from 1992. The Final. He points to the cover.
- There, in the middle, that’s me.
George Switzer is the happiest of the lot, he’s holding the lid of the trophy over his head. And there’s Butt, there’s Beckham, there’s Giggs, there’s Neville… He has watched the game countless times.
Not to mention Class of 92, the documentary on United’s legendary youth team. He reads from the back:
«A profile of the incredible Man United youth team of 1991/92. The team was a phenomenon, the likes of which will never happen again. This extraordinary video follows the careers of the players and includes archive footage of the historic team and updates on what they are doing now.»
Geogre Switzer goes down on all fours. He pushes the tv, gives it a few light blows. It’s black.
- What the feck! I should have bought a new set a long time ago. It’s fecking dead.
He tries again, but no. George Switser shrugs his shoulders, resigns, takes another sip of the beer. He’ll never get to show us his greatest moment.
- You should have seen the second goal. I’m in the left back position. I advance 20 yards, 30, nobody’s closing me down, it’s like I’m running in my own little world, I pass to Davies. Who scores! I almost scored myself as well… The shot was really powerful. And…
He tells us that every time his eight-year-old son comes to visit, they’ll sit in the couch and watch this vidoe together.
- He always wants to watch it. He knows the whole game by heart. There’s no commentary, so he does it himself.
«Neville to Daddy, Daddy to Giggs.»
- I have two plastic bags stuffed with programmes, newspaper cuttings, pictures from my United days. This bloke showed up at my door one day. Wanted to buy everything I had. Talked about a museum. I could have gotten a few hundred pounds for it, but I thought… Some memories I’ve just got to hang on to. Keep it to yourself, George.
His living room is eight square meters. A couch and a tv, that’s it. He kisses the ring on his finger, and touches a picture on the wall.
- The picture of mum. It’ll be there until the house comes down. She’s always with me.
THE PREVIOUS DAY
The sky over Manchester is blue. Saturday morning.
We are to pick him up here, and take him to the game with his team, Monton Amateurs. On our way we’re thinking Machester has a lot to answer for. We drive by rows of gloomy houses, a Manchester United flag hanging from the balcony of one of them.
He comes out of his house.
- Fock, my daughter kept me up all night. I’m a wreck. Fockin' madhouse.
He’s sitting in the back seat of our car.
- How was Benidorm, by the way?
- Ah. It was fockin the best trip I've had with the lads.
