The Lions' King - Bryan King
The Lions’ King is the boisterous warts-and-all autobiography of Millwall’s legendary record-breaking goalkeeper Bryan King. Called up for England by Sir Alf Ramsey, his was a career touched by a parade of greats such as Gordon Banks, Bobby Moore and Lev Yashin. But this wickedly funny tale is a brutally candid account of life at the sharp end of English football’s golden age in the 1960s and 70s. Hardback. 320 pages.
-78-p.jpg?v=4F7E2647-B40C-490D-A934-1EC05D3F7DD2)
“An insightful view from the heart of the game”
Henry Winter
“A brilliant goalkeeper, a Millwall hero...
and a very funny storyteller”
Rod Liddle
Maybe you lived through those days – or perhaps your dad or grandad has told you all about them with a twinkle in his eye.
Once upon a time, before millionaires in slippers played tiki-taka on lawns at 8.05pm on a Monday night, there was football. Proper football.
There was something in the air on a Saturday morning and the heart of red-brick Britain began beating faster as giddy crowds rolled up to sinister turnstiles in concrete walls until, at 3 o’clock, right across the country, the lid blew off tin-roof terraces.
They’d come to see ordinary men, flawed men, hard men – men just like them, men they might work or drink alongside – but who on a football pitch weaved magic in mud.
And from them arose champions.
This was the golden age of English football.
For two decades, this awesome brew of skilful, brutal, unabashed genius won us a World Cup and then dominated Europe.
But among this entire generation of players, Bryan King had the toughest gig of all…growing up in goal in front of the most notoriously blunt audience in history.
This is an insider’s story of the game we love at its most rebellious, riotous and raw; the good old days at their baddest.
The legends are all here. From Banks to Moore, from Clough to Cruyff, from Yashin to Eusébio: an A-Z of artistry carved into football folklore - and whose careers at one time or another crossed Bryan King’s path.
But it’s Millwall, it’s the 1970s and your skipper’s got a half-time fag tucked behind his ear…what could possibly go wrong?