'One of Wolves' finest captains' - a tribute to Mike Bailey

I have seen greater players at Molineux, not too many, mind you, but there is not a single one whom I respected and admired more than Mike Bailey.

He was a brilliant footballer, an exceptional midfield operator, powerful and dynamic, immensely strong, bitingly competitive and hugely influential.

His commitment was total; his resolute leadership carried a natural and immutable authority that made him one of the finest captains ever to grace the Wolves’ shirt.

The paradox is that to many Wolves’ fans, Bailey’s name is inextricably linked to captaincy alone almost to the exclusion of his prowess as a very special player.

Not unnaturally, Bailey himself could become slightly irked by this oversight and understandably so; he was first and foremost a player blessed with talent in abundance, supremely self-assured and a deftly skilled practitioner of his craft.

Wonderful memories; he graced Molineux for the better part of 11 seasons, playing 436 games driving forward from central midfield and distributing the ball superbly, invariably feeding winger Dave Wagstaffe with raking, diagonal passes of the highest quality.

He soon became the fulcrum of the team; the figurehead, a powerhouse of a player and an absolute delight to watch. And my word, could he tackle!

A forgotten art these days; running into Bailey must have resembled being hit by cement. His vigorous approach to the game never descended to anything unsavoury but nobody took any liberties on the field when opposing Mike Bailey.

His respected former coach and Wolves’ manager Sammy Chung eloquently reckoned that Mike ‘had a kind of majestic hostility’.

He did indeed lead by example but his captaincy didn’t lack for subtlety either; his colleague John Richards who believed that Bailey was ‘the best captain you could have,’ relates the story of Mike chipping away at the theatrically-inclined portly Pickwickian referee Roger Kirkpatrick who was giving Wolves a raw deal with characteristic swank and affectation.

Authority questioned and patience exhausted, an exasperated Kirkpatrick turned to Bailey to complain: “Who’s refereeing this game Mike, me or you?” Face deadpan, Bailey retorted: “Up to yet Roger, neither of us!”

Like so many of his colleagues, Bailey unfairly suffered comparisons with his predecessors of the fabulous Wolves’ team of the fifties.

When he arrived from Charlton Athletic in 1966, already a full England international player, Wolves were still hungover by relegation but installed as captain the following season, with immense panache, he led the team to promotion back to the First Division.

During that campaign, his form was sensational; for me, his contribution ranks as just about the most complete I have ever seen from a Wolves’ player over the duration of a single season.

The quality and the sheer consistency of performance were both remarkable, he appeared absolutely indestructible.

He missed just a solitary game that campaign; already promoted Wolves only needed a point to clinch the championship at Crystal Palace.

Instead, shorn of Bailey’s reassuring influence, a disorganised and erratic Wolves were hammered 4-1 and conceded the title to Coventry City.

Wolves didn’t find life easy on their return to the top division but Bailey helped steady what was a difficult transition. Gradually the team under Bill McGarry adapted and Bailey’s optimistic style of leadership thrived as the club reasserted itself to become an established First Division outfit once more.

After heart-breaking defeats in the semi-finals of both the F.A. and League Cups as well as a losing UEFA Cup Final in the early seventies, Bailey appeared destined to conclude his Wolves’ career without any discernible reward.

Mercifully, this travesty was to be gloriously sidestepped in 1974; for Bailey and his veteran colleagues Derek Dougan and Dave Wagstaffe, the League Cup final against Manchester City really was last chance saloon.

The all-consuming delight on Mike’s beaming face when he lifted the trophy towards the ecstatic throng of Wolves’ fans at Wembley will live in Molineux folklore on a permanent basis.

He really had virtually left the best for the last and no Wolves’ player before or since was ever more deserving. Late in the game, Bailey linked cleverly with Alan Sunderland to create the deciding goal for Richards.

The grateful striker commented: “Mike, Doog and Waggy had never won a domestic trophy; this made their careers. It certainly made Mike Bailey’s.

“You felt as if you owed Mike because of what he had done for your own career. He was a terrific player; an inspiration.”

Bailey remained at Molineux for two more seasons but the club failed to build on that Wembley triumph. Relegation ensued and Bailey, dominance fading with injury and age, was loathsomely barracked by a tiny minority of the Molineux crowd.

It was a despicable example of how not to treat one of the finest players we supporters had the privilege of watching.

He played briefly in America before returning to manage both Hereford and Brighton. He regularly travelled from his London base to functions in Wolverhampton for the former players’ association.

On one such occasion, I was sharing a conversation with former goalkeeper Phil Parkes when Mike arrived and jocularly said to Phil: “Come on Lofty, stop rattling and get me a drink!”

Lofty duly obliged and on his return from the bar he said to me: “I haven’t played with him for twenty years, but I’m still doing exactly as he tells me!”

Sadly, we have suffered the loss of these two Wolves giants in such painful short order. They both maintained an unshakable allegiance to the club and like Phil Parkes, Mike Bailey’s skill, courage and leadership will shimmer proudly in the memory.

Inducted into the Wolves Hall of Fame in 2010, there was never a more deserving recipient; he sits easily in some very exalted company. Yes, a leader on and off the field but oh, what a sublime player. Thanks for such treasured memories, Mike; Wolves man supreme.