A personal tribute to Wolves legend Frank Munro

John Lalley pays tribute to Wolves legend Frank Munro who has died at the age of 63.

I visited Frank Munro for the final time just last month at the care home in Wednesfield where he spent the last few years of his life battling without a word of self-pity against the cruel disablement that had for too long, so blighted his existence.

It was always a bitter-sweet experience sharing his always ebullient company; a delight to chat with a Wolves hero but at the same time, heartbreaking to see this colossus of a player prematurely deprived of his considerable physical stature.

He appeared noticeably frailer than the last time I had enjoyed his company, but as ever he had a welter of football tales and reminiscences to impart, his enthusiasm for the game undiminished to the end.

He loved Wolves, spoke with admiration and affection about his playing colleagues and rued the day that he left Molineux for Celtic, an experience that remarkably he recalled 'I hated.' One thing did rankle; he remained exasperated that he was never awarded a testimonial by the club. 'All the others got one, I didn't.' He had left Molineux just before completing the statutory ten years of service and given his exceptional circumstances, he felt protocol should have been set aside.

Just the same, he barely missed a match at Molineux in recent years and listening to his perceptive and fair-minded views about the current Wolves team was an education.

He wasn't the type to insist that everything was better in his day; he didn't much care for Wolves playing only one up front, but he of all people recognised skill when he saw it and he enthused animatedly over the likes of Kevin Doyle and Steven Fletcher. He did however draw the line with comparisons of Matt Jarvis and Dave Wagstaffe; his great pal Waggy was the tops, end of story; 'a fabulous player,' in Frank's view.

It was a regular feature at half-time to see Frank with a small Wolves flag fluttering from the back of his wheelchair making the journey around the perimeter of the stadium.

Pockets of spontaneous applause broke out from older fans who recognised him. He waved his acknowledgement and smiled in recognition. It brought a lump to the throat and a recollection of so many marvellous days when he graced the pitch in front of him.

He loved his visitors to pore over a meticulously preserved scrapbook of press cuttings beginning with his exploits as a junior player right through to his success with Aberdeen.

It always amused me that many of the Scottish papers back then referred to Frank as 'Francie.' Trust me, I wouldn't have dared to call him that to his face! He never tired of telling the story of as a mere kid at Chelsea, his first club down south, manager Tommy Docherty generously gave Frank forty quid to celebrate hogmanay back home in Scotland. Prior to catching the train north, Frank purchased a copy of 'Playboy' to savour on the trip.

Not wanting his brother who was waiting to pick him up at journey's end to see the offending magazine in his possession, Frank opened the carriage window in the precincts of Dundee and hurled the offensive material into the winter gloom. The trouble was that he inadvertently chucked out the four tenners the Doc had given to him in London!

Initially, life at Molineux had not proved easy. Signed as an attacking midfielder by manager Ronnie Allen, a guy who Frank retained a glowing respect for, he struggled to tie down a regular first team place.

Moving into the pivotal role in the back four transformed his career. For a couple of seasons around 1973-74, he was absolutely peerless; as good as any centre half in the country.

He was magnificent on the ball, classy and assured almost to the point of arrogance such was his mastery. His elegance and his storming attacking runs from the depths of defence thrilled the Molineux masses and he became an absolute hero. But he was a hard nut too; if any forward wanted to 'mix it,' Frank was more than happy to oblige. He was belligerent and he had a short fuse when he was riled. Such was his confidence that he always insisted that he was baffled as to why Manchester City were considered favourites prior to the League Cup Final in 1974. 'We had the better players; I couldn't fathom why we weren't favourites to win.'

A Wembley cup final stage was an ideal setting for Munro then operating at the absolute pinnacle of his powers. On the day he was brilliant; he marshalled a magnificent defensive show to snuff out the galaxy City forward line and conducted his post match celebrations wearing the City shirt worn in the match by a player Munro idolised, Denis Law.

Soon afterwards knee trouble severely restricted his ability to train regularly and an already strained relationship with Bill McGarry deteriorated further. During one particularly volatile row with McGarry, Frank revealed that he grabbed the manager by the lapels and all hell almost let loose!

After Sammy Chung replaced McGarry, Frank admitted that much as he admired Sammy as an absolute gentleman, he took liberties and against his better judgement, took the ill-fated move to Celtic.

So many happy memories; sitting with him in his flat before he moved into care and watching the video of the fabulous Wolves versus Aberdeen American final in Los Angeles where Frank scored a hat trick against Wolves and in so doing, clinched a move to Molineux.

Absolutely priceless; hearing him repeat the same story a thousand times about Billy Bremner in the infamous 'fixed' match against Leeds in 1972. 'After I scored, Bremner called me a Scottish bastard. That's a laugh, he was more Scottish than I'll ever be!' I could never work that one out! After thirty years plus in the Midlands, Frank never lost the thick Scottish lilt. Many a time, I had to ask him to repeat himself as I still struggled to catch his drift!

He really did carry his burden with immense courage and dignity and deeply appreciated the chance to enjoy the company of friends and former team mates who visited him regularly.

At that final meeting he told me how much he was looking forward to travelling with his old colleagues to the Charlton Athletic ground as a guest of the London Wolves supporters who always made such a tremendous fuss of him.

Alas, he was simply not well enough to undertake a trip to London which saddened him deeply. My last words to him concerned the '74 Wembley final. 'It was a fabulous day wasn't it Frank?' I said. ' It was wonderful,' he replied.

So it was and that's how I and thousands of other Wolves fans with remember him now that the final whistle has blown. No more suffering. Frank, you were an absolute champion; a fabulous player and a Wolves man to the end.