BS Summary: This article contains 28 faulty reasoning types, including Anecdotal, Halo Effect, and Post Hoc (False Cause), with Biased Writer Voice as the most egregious example at 42.2% saturation with 648 hits. Analysis detected 2,822 faulty-reasoning hits from 1,534 analyzed words, generating a BS Score of 67.3% and a BS Rank of 75% (5,078 of 19,839 articles). This article is worse (more manipulative) than 74.40% of the article peer group.
In the late afternoon of 16 February 1909, a terrifying explosion tore through the Burns Pit at West Stanley in County Durham.
Sheets of flame erupted from the pit shaft, while underground, 168 miners were either incinerated instantly or were choked to death by coal dust and carbon monoxide.
As was typical in mining disasters, there was no shortage of volunteers prepared to risk their own life and limb to look for survivors.
Among the first to brave the collapsed mine was a respected local union official called Frank Keegan.
Thanks to the efforts of Frank and his comrades, 26 miners were found in a pocket of clean air and safely brought to the surface.
A postcard published after the event shows the volunteers, including the dapper and diminutive Keegan smiling underneath a bowler hat and a mop of dark curly hair, above the caption, “local inspector to whom the 26 rescued men owe their lives.”
Frank’s grandson, Kevin, grew up hearing stories of the heroic acts from his father, Joe, but thought of them as merely exaggerated family lore.
The truth of what he had heard only dawned on him while playing for Newcastle United in the Eighties, when he was first shown photographs of his grandfather and his fellow rescuers.
And when he returned to Newcastle as the club’s manager in the Nineties, he proudly unveiled a memorial to the disaster.
Born in 1951, Keegan started his career at Scunthorpe United before playing for Liverpool and then Hamburg, where he was affectionately known as “Mighty Mouse”; he, certainly had the muscular physique of a miner, but perhaps courage and tenacity were inheritable too.
As one Stanley native explained to me: “Frank Keegan went back into the mine to rescue people.
He was a local hero.
It ran in the family.”
Those qualities defined Kevin’s football as much as his character.
He was never the tallest, strongest or most naturally gifted player on the pitch, yet he played every game as though it might be his last: harrying defenders, chasing lost causes, refusing to accept that any contest was beyond saving.
“In Keegan we saw a man who had the one thing we wanted, apart from his ability: his natural enthusiasm,” observed his great mentor, the Liverpool manager Bill Shankly.
Keegan hammers the Scots in 1979.
(Getty)
That enthusiasm proved infectious wherever he went.
At a time when few English footballers dared leave home, Keegan embraced the adventure of moving to Hamburg in 1977, immersing himself in a new language and culture with the same wholehearted commitment he brought to everything else.
The gamble transformed him into one of Europe’s finest players, winning consecutive Ballon d’Or awards, but just as important, it revealed an openness to new experiences that never left him.
Whether racing cyclists on the TV show Superstars , throwing himself into charity work, or embracing new challenges as player, manager and broadcaster, Keegan possessed a rare lust for life that inspired affection as much as admiration.
Nowhere was that more evident than on Tyneside, where he played between 1982 and 1984, helping them achieve promotion to the First Division.
But thanks to his father, a pitman who had headed south from Durham to the South Yorkshire coalfield, Keegan was always conscious of his Geordie roots.
Joe brought him up on tales of Hughie Gallacher and entered into correspondence with Jackie Milburn (Newcastle’s famous center forward from the Fifties) about his son’s burgeoning football career.
When Kev returned to Newcastle United as manager in 1992, the club was in a dire state — on the verge of relegation to the old Third Division for the first time in its history — and the city itself was reeling from the collapse of its traditional industries.
He leaned into all this: he set new standards at the club — even paying for Newcastle’s squalid and dilapidated training ground to be cleaned up over the weekend with his own money — and spoke with knowledge and affection about the great cup-winning Newcastle teams of the Fifties, assembling a team that played with the same attacking elan as Milburn, and his dazzling fellow forwards George Robledo and Bobby Mitchell.
More from this author The North East is too nostalgic
But he did far more than build an exciting football team.
He instilled confidence and a sense of possibility and gave an entire region permission to dream again.
Keegan’s swashbuckling and high-scoring team — known to many as “The Entertainers” — became one of the most beloved sides in the club’s history.
But football was only part of the story.
He persuaded supporters that hope was not naïve and convinced players they could achieve more than they imagined.
Les Ferdinand thought the gaffer was as charismatic as Muhammad Ali, while players as varied as the diligent fullback John Beresford and the dynamic Andy Cole, and countless others, have spoken of how Keegan’s greatest gift was making people believe in themselves.
So magnetic was his personality that on his return, the local press reached instinctively for biblical language.
Keegan was “the Messiah” and promotion to the Premier League was the “Promised Land”.
This was affectionate hyperbole, but it reflected real devotion.
The North East had once been notably devout in its Christian practice, especially in the coalfields, so maybe there was a Methodist folk memory here of the Israelites’ bondage in Egypt.
But Keegan was brought up a Catholic (indeed his first football coach at school in Doncaster was a nun called Sister Mary Oliver) and he seemed to believe in good works and not just faith alone.
Keegan autographs a helicopter named after him on HMS Newcastle.
(Julian Brannigan/Getty)
The stories that have emerged since his death are telling because so few of them concern famous goals or managerial triumphs.
Instead, fans always recalled his small acts of kindness and generosity.
There is the much-loved tale of Newcastle’s visit to Swan Hunter’s shipyard at Wallsend, when workers facing redundancy were astonished to see Keegan arrive unannounced at the gates declaring, “My name is Kevin Keegan.
I’ve brought the team down to cheer the lads up if that’s OK.”
There is the Manchester City tea lady who was mugged of her pension, only for Keegan to organize a whip-round among the players and personally deliver far more than had been stolen.
Others remember him pushing a disabled child around a charity fun run so the youngster could finish alongside everyone else, or simply taking time with supporters until the last autograph had been signed.
“Others remember him pushing a disabled child around a charity fun run so the youngster could finish alongside everyone else”
It’s hard to express just how much he was loved in the North East.
Maybe because, with the decline of organized religion, football clubs became the last institutions that could gather a congregation, and this invested certain footballers and managers with a sort of moral authority.
Especially figures like Keegan, who always played the game in the Corinthian spirit and who could be moved to righteous indignation by the dark arts of opponents like Alex Ferguson.
His famous tirade against Ferguson’s Manchester United who pipped Newcastle to the title — “I will love it, just love it if we beat them” — distilled the spirit of defiance in the face of adversity, and a refusal to surrender hope or emotion, that Newcastle fans recognized in themselves and their city.
Yesterday evening, I drove over to Barrack Road where supporters were laying flowers, scarves and bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale on the steps of St James’ Park.
There was grief, certainly, but also gratitude.
People weren’t simply mourning a footballer.
They were remembering the man who took their dreams seriously, who had carried their hopes with him as though they mattered as much as his own.
Mighty Mouse, right, with Bayern Munich’s Paul Breitner in 1979.
(Lutz Bongarts/Getty)
In the end, perhaps it was always his courage that defined him.
Frank Keegan’s courage was physical, descending into a poisoned mine in search of survivors.
Kevin’s was quieter but no less real.
Even after learning he had stage-4 cancer, he chose not to retreat from public life.
Instead, he appeared at Newcastle’s Tyne Theatre, speaking to a packed house with characteristic warmth, humor and honesty about his illness.
He joked about his treatment, reminisced about his extraordinary life and admitted that he hoped to return to St James’ Park one last time to thank the supporters who had given him so much.
Asked once more about the long-standing campaign for a statue in his honor, he gently brushed it aside.
“You will have to wait until I die, I’m afraid,” he smiled.
“My statue is the way you receive me.”
Few public figures have left behind a finer epitaph.
The affection that greeted Kevin Keegan wherever he went was only partly about football.
It was earned in the countless moments when he made other people feel that they mattered.
Frank Keegan emerged from the darkness beneath West Stanley carrying men back into the light.
More than a century later, his grandson spent a lifetime doing much the same.
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