Hero In Red Who Achieved Gold And Black Immortality
Cometh the hour, cometh the man….Gary Pierce, then still 22, pictured at Wolves’ pre-Wembley hideaway.
With Gary Pierce’s funeral taking place in Bury next Friday, John Lalley looks back at one of the most astonishing individual performances in Wolves’ trophy-winning history and counts his blessings that he was there to savour it.
He wasn’t much involved in the preparation for a cup final but hugely instrumental in the winning of it.
The opportunity was as daunting as it was exciting for Gary Pierce, who remarkably triumphed over anonymity to produce a legacy that has been lasting and unforgettable.
He was the wild-card who played the decisive hand. Fifty years on, but still sharp in the mind’s eye, it was quite a performance.
One Saturday afternoon in 1974, coincidently on his 23rd birthday, a late arrival sporting an incongruous red jersey annexed his own version of gold and black immortality.
The official Wolves brochure to commemorate them reaching the League Cup final featured 17 player profiles. The last one listed was Gary Pierce, simply because he was seen to have no prospect of playing.
In answer to the question about what his professional ambition might be, Pierce had stated: “To play at Wembley.” Chance would be a fine thing! Well, he made it and it was a pleasure to witness every scintillating minute of it.
A modest and unassuming guy who, with endearing post-match self-deprecation, referred to himself as ‘a bloody big nobody from Bury,’ took centre stage at Wembley and, wholly undaunted, entrenched his name into Molineux folklore.
There was a delightful audacity about the performance given that Pierce was almost an imposter on the stage. He was parachuted in not on merit but through expediency given the injury suffered by the luckless Phil Parkes, whose name it was that featured in the text of the match programme.
No matter. From the first whistle, Pierce imprinted his own indelible mark, displaying not a trace of inhibition or, still less, any inferiority. His initial touch was to handle a simple back pass from Frank Munro as goalkeepers were allowed to do in those days. Nobody could have known it but that sure opening contribution served as a microcosm for the remainder of the game.
Any trepidation among Wolves’ fans evaporated midway through the first half. Any doubts surrounding this guy with barely a dozen matches for the club behind him were about to be positively assuaged.
Awarded a free-kick within shooting range, Manchester City worked an unlikely routine with Rodney Marsh and Colin Bell feigning a dispute about who should take the shot, before Marsh sauntered up and curved a wicked drive towards the top corner. Pierce flew athletically to his left and superbly tipped the ball to safety.
He really could do no wrong that day….
His adrenaline ignited and confidence soaring, Pierce wasn’t underselling himself for anybody. The fall guy? No, thank-you very much. Any neurotic apprehensions twisting in the insides of Wolves’ fans were anathema to Pierce. Instead, he displayed a diamond nerve, allowing him to act on his judgements with utter decisiveness. His mind-set was abundantly clear: no introspection, no hesitancy. Instead, simply a priceless opportunity he intended exploiting to the maximum of his potential.
After saving the Marsh set-piece, Pierce was relatively untroubled for the rest of the first period. Such was the defensive authority of Munro and his central partner, John McAlle, that he wasn’t unduly tested. Just once, he flapped unconvincingly at a Mike Summerbee cross but no danger ensued.
Francis Lee deliberately clattered him in a challenge for a lofted ball but Pierce stood firm, unconcerned by the physicality. Wolves had excelled and their slender lead was no more than they merited. But this match had not yet taken the full toll of our nerves.
After half-time, the City barrage we all feared and expected gradually accelerated into overdrive. Undaunted, Pierce simply responded in kind. He handled flawlessly, leaving his line at every opportunity to bolster the confidence of colleagues who were struggling to stem an incessant tide of pressure.
His positional sense was impeccable. It was truly inspirational how he seemed to thwart every City attack and we fans sensed we were witnessing something special, appreciating a player attaining heights we never thought he could reach.
It was decades later, as I watched yet another recording of the game, that I noticed for the first time a lovely intervention from the great Denis Law – one of the finest players ever produced from these islands. After another Pierce heroic with the restart delayed, a smiling Law gave his opponent a brief word of recognition. Pierce was so busy shouting instructions to his defenders and, by then, immersed in an impenetrable mental zone, that I don’t think the compliment or the stature of the man delivering the appreciation even registered. But it was high praise indeed.
City continued to lay siege. We fidgeted uneasily and no optimistic amount of clock-watching could bring the final whistle a second nearer. Pierce appeared unbeatable until an unfortunate deflection from the magnificent McAlle left Colin Bell unimpeded and able to rifle home an equaliser.
Hearts sank. There was a huge sense of pessimistic inevitability now about the outcome. For Wolves, it was a perilous situation but, for Pierce, it was only the prelude to the climax.
His defiance never wavered. Wolves appeared certain to cave in but he stood firm, stemming every wave of attack that City could muster. It was a relentless onslaught. Wolves, bereft of an attacking threat, looked spent but Pierce refused to submit and, during this brutish period, he played his most significant role.
Back-pedalling twice in rapid succession, he diverted over the bar testing efforts from Lee and Bell. Marsh tried placement rather than power from close range. Pierce read the forward’s intentions perfectly and gathered the ball cleanly. But, above everything else, he became a rock of dependability by leaving the goal-line and catching so effortlessly the welter of crosses pumped into the penalty area. Time and again, his decisiveness gave his defenders the leeway to find their breath and regroup.
The most enduring of happy images….the 1974 League Cup winners, with their keeper in the background for a few moments.
His anticipation was nigh on perfect. The difference this made was incalculable to the final outcome. Such a performance merited a share of good fortune and Geoff Palmer cleared off the line and, crucially, Bell rattled the crossbar with Pierce beaten.
After that escape, we optimistically pondered that maybe destiny was sitting favourably on our keeper’s shoulders. Pierce simply carried on regardless and his indomitable spirit eventually turned the tide. City, frustrated beyond measure, had nothing left to offer.
Wolves regained their composure, reasserted control and remarkably found a winner. Pierce, by now vindicated at every level, pirouetted around his penalty area in delight.
One last desperate City attack saw Tommy Booth head wide with the keeper again perfectly positioned. And, suddenly, the strains that had been mounting mercilessly, simply faded away.
At the final whistle, Pierce sat on his haunches in bemusement with a slight smile on his face, struggling to clarify in his mind exactly what he had just achieved. Regaining his feet, he was met by an ecstatic Bill McGarry. The manager by-passed all others as he sprinted manically from the touchline, his outsized sheepskin coat flapping in his slipstream.
Frantic with excitement, he proffered Pierce a thunderous handshake and followed up with an all-encompassing bear hug of congratulation. Bill certainly wasn’t given to outward displays of enlightened bonhomie; it took this mesmeric performance from Pierce to shed his inhibitions and who could blame him?
Amid relief in abundance, the Wolves’ support followed the manager’s lead and went bananas. Pierce mounted the steps to the royal box, received his winner’s tankard from The Duchess of Kent and mimed an imaginary pub hand-pull to fill his trophy with the beer that no doubt flowed to excess later that evening.
As he cavorted on a lap of honour, he somehow purloined a gold and black flat cap from a supporter. Wearing it so proudly seemed to show that he remained essentially unspoilt, totally unaffected; just a decent guy who had achieved something pretty special.
What it was all about…..the photo, with silverware, that was shown on Molineux’s giant screens during the minute’s applause there last month.
The injured Phil Parkes joined the post-match on-pitch revelry and the two keepers bonded, congratulation and commiseration shared mutually. It was a poignant moment, hard for ‘Lofty’ but, as always, he fronted up with characteristic good grace. He had mixed emotions, no doubt, but he was as pleased as the rest of us and typically unstinting in his praise of his colleague.
Gradually, the celebrations drew to their conclusion, the flags, banners and scarves all seemingly exhausted. The evening panned out with riotous inevitability before more sober reflections of the entire experience took hold. And central to the deliberations was Gary Pierce. So it remains to this day.
The memories will never fade: truly the stuff dreams are made of. All on one Saturday afternoon. No affectation, no pretentiousness, just genuine humility proving that nice guys don’t always finish last, even bloody big nobodies from Bury. Rest easy and well saved, mate!