The first time I saw Frank Swift was in March 1947 when my Dad and I were at our first City match after we'd moved from the east coast to Manchester. We were in the half-crown seats at the top of the main stand as Dad was never well after the war. As City ran out, I was immediately taken by the huge figure in a green woollen jersey towering over his City team-mates, his black hair slicked down with Brylcreem. As he went into his goal for the lick-around, he got this enormous ovation. It was hard all game for me to take my eyes off him.
     When Dad wasn't able to go to MR, I went by myself and stood right behind Swifty's goal. In those days (late 1940s), you could move all round the "popular side," so I and some others walked round and stood behind his goal in the second half too. He was great with the fans – he would wink at us, say things like "That OK?" after he made a save - and just filled the goalmouth with his presence. I heard him yelling at his defence, telling them what to do, where to move. I got his autograph, and had my hair ruffled by him, as I did by Bert Trautmann later. He was my first total sports idol, and I became a goalie because of Frank, bought his book Football From The Goalmouth, and almost knew it by heart, was awe-struck by his incredible saves, and charmed by his cheerfulness when he was playing.
     He was one of the first keepers to dominate his whole penalty area. In those days, of course, opponents were allowed to shoulder charge the goalie when he was holding the ball, and I saw one or two try it on Frank only to land on their arses. He'd laugh at them, and, in one case, helped pull the forward up, the ball still in his hands. He also revolutionized distribution, for, though he had a huge kick (this was a big man who could pick up a ball effortlessly with one hand), he used to throw it out to wingers or half-backs, who went to pre-arranged positions. Even with the old leather lace-up ball, he could reach the half-way line with ease, and start attacks. Most keepers then stayed mostly on their lines, but Swift ruled the whole area. He was a great force, of physical power and of personality, respected by all, and as nobody dared charge him, he'd pluck off crosses way out towards the 18 yard line. I have rarely, since, if ever (though Bert did too and was a slightly better catcher) see a goalie so completely dominant in his area, and that was done without screaming at defenders a la Schmeichel.
     For a big man, Swifty was agile and had great reflexes. Like so many great England players, the war ate up his prime years – Mannion, Carter, Lawton, Cullis, Steele and so many others. Frank's career with City – 1933 to 1949 - was clearly affected by the "loss" of those key years of 1939 to 1945, so I only saw him at the end of his career, but he was still England's automatic number one, and to captain England from goal was extraordinary. His personality was so huge that he was loved and respected by nearly all in Manchester. In those days, the two clubs, sharing Maine Rd., were huge rivals but there was no thuggery or violence (well, obviously a few drunken bar fights, but no hoolie stuff) and I knew United supporters who loved Frank Swift, even if all they'd say was maybe "He's a great character all right." He was, and I'm not being sentimental here, loved and admired everywhere he played and got huge ovations from fans of every team. No goalie coaches back then, and he wasn't as incredibly athletic as Trautmann, but he was a magnificent goalie, strong and confident, and you never knew what his good humour would lead to next. Once he picked up a young lad from just behind his goal, and, when City were attacking, brought him round the front and stood with him, pointing that he'd have one half of the goal and the kid would have the other. On another occasion, my trusted friend for 60 years tells me, though I didn't see it (flu probably in cold Manchester in the 40s), that, for some blood-rushing-to-the-head reason, Frank picked up the ball in his area from an attack  and proceeded to run right out to the half-way line bouncing it like a basketball and then handing it to the ref, who, as did all the other players on the field, cracked up. (City were winning handsomely, I believe.) Then sprinted back to his goal before the ref. decided to give a free-kick for hands!
     Everyone, supporter or not, knew the name Frank Swift. He was a huge Manchester character, and his name always brought a smile. There was great sadness when he hung up his boots, as they say, in favour of some unknown German ex-paratrooper, in 1949, and people were glad when he took up journalism, reporting on United as well as City.
     Larger than life is a daft cliché, but sums up Frank Swift. He was my first football idol, though I was developing an interest in cricket (watching Bradman, Lindwall, Miller, Barnes, Hutton, Washbrook, Statham, etc.) and tennis, and seeing Stirling Moss and   Fangio and Mike Hawthorne driving Formula One. But nobody ever shook my faith in and adoration for Frank Swift, for the first is always the most memorable, even if I only saw him when I was starting to watch and he in his last 2 seasons. I still smile when I remember his tatty green sweaters (hand-knitted, with no lycra then to keep the roll-neck and cuffs tight, and incredibly soggy, heavy and uncomfortable in the rain and mud), but most of all his photograph wearing the prize England yellow sweater representing my team. There were no squads then. Eleven players were picked for England, and Frank was the goalie.
      He was an amazing character. He took domination of the area and a quick accurate throw-out to new levels, to be carried on especially by Yashin and Trautmann, and he had a personality on the field bigger than you could imagine today. I mourn his loss deeply. He was only in his early 40s when he died, the lad who fainted at the end of City's win in the Cup Final, age 19, at Wembley in 1934. RIP Frank. You were unique. I'll never forget you.