Ange Postecoglou the 'plastic' manager is perfect fit for a club at odds with its fans | Jonathan Wilson

There’s always been a tension between connection to place and the commercial reality – but it has never felt more acute

Charlie Hurley, the greatest player Sunderland ever had, died on Monday. He was tough, powerful and composed, captain of Alan Brown’s promotion side of 1963-64, which may have been the best of all postwar Sunderland teams. Certainly it was the side my dad talked about the most, far more than the FA Cup-winning team of nine years later. Montgomery, Irwin, Ashurst, Harvey, Hurley, McNab, Usher, Herd, Sharkey, Crossan, Mulhall: names that flitted through my childhood as legends of a greater age. Imagine if Brian Clough hadn’t done his knee.

George Mulhall, the Scottish outside-left, was his favourite, I think, but only because there was no point celebrating Hurley; everybody did that. Decades later, fans still sung Hurley’s name and bought No 5 shirts with his name on the back. His popularity at this remove is hard to explain. Other than promotion, Hurley won nothing. He wasn’t even local: born in Cork, he moved to Millwall at an early age and spoke with a pronounced London accent.

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from The Guardian https://ift.tt/o1EVcAu

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