Now that the dust has settled and the blood dried from West Ham’s now infamous Carling Cup clash with Millwall, it’s time to take our sensationalist hats off and get some perspective.
Perspective is not something easily found in the modern media’s toolbox. An ability to overreact is a far more important attribute, and most of the country’s hacks didn’t disappoint in the aftermath of last week’s crowd trouble.
“The worst football violence for 30 years” the headlines screamed, as sub-editors suffered an attack of collective memory loss. Others called the violence “sickening” whilst there were even suggestions that England’s bid to host the 2018 world cup lay in tatters as a direct result of the actions of the West Ham and Millwall’s most idiotic of supporters (I’m not sure why – are West Ham and Millwall likely to be drawn in group E with Argentina and the Ivory Coast?),. This was football returning to the bad old days – when colours couldn’t be worn and police escorts were needed for all visiting fans.
Make no mistake, the violence in and around Upton Park was bad, very bad in fact and West Ham, if not Millwall as well deserve to be punished. However stylish and romantic Danny Dyer et al try to make football hooliganism, there isn’t a place for it in our game, and there never was. But the truth is that Tuesday night was far from the worst football violence for 30 years.
Yes the scenes outside of the ground were deplorable, and no fan should ever have to go to a football match with the worry of getting stabbed on their mind. And yes, the sight of West Ham fans willing to hit their own stewards in order to get to the Millwall end was disgraceful. Even the three pitch invasions that followed West Ham’s goals were in excusable – even if looked at in isolation the perpetrators were merely a pathetic collection of track-bottomed teenage boys and barrel-bellied morons rather than hardcore hooligans.
The distinguishing factor of Tuesday night’s violence from that of the 80s I witnessed when starting out as a football fan though, was that there was virtually no fighting between fans inside the ground. That is the kind of violence that blighted our game for nigh on 30 years – making fathers afraid to bring their children to games and away fixtures the preserve of the hardcore.
We don’t see it in England anymore. Despite what you might have read over the past week, stadium violence is not a problem here – certainly not in the Premier League. All seater stadiums have made it more difficult for opposing fans to mix. The use of CCTV and banning orders has prevented the persistent offenders from even getting into the grounds, and less heavy-handed policing means supporters are no longer treated like animals and whipped into frenzy.
The game has become more of a family affair. Many will say it’s worse off for it and I for one must admit to cringing when certain new breed fans loudly (but always politely) ask for others to sit down or worse – be quiet. But if this is the price we have to pay to make football safe again, then it is probably worth every penny.
In fact, the money it costs to go to football now has also played a role in tackling the “English disease”. Not only does it mean that the younger supporter who in the past might have been attracted to violence cannot go to games anymore, it raises the expectations people have from their “experience” of a football match. Do people really want to pay £50 to spend two hours trying to rip seats from the stands and fight with the police?
We have made great strides in preventing football violence in this country, and shouldn’t let one night blot what we have achieved. What Tuesday night showed is that we cannot be complacent. We must make sure that the police are prepared for violence outside of the ground, and have the resources to deal with it. Inside the ground, stewards need to be supported by the police, and clubs need to ensure their segregation arrangements are suitable.
But we mustn’t forget that we are seen as a world leader in tackling hooliganism. The problem is still very real within Italian grounds, whilst other countries such as Turkey still have plenty of work to do as well.
Tuesday night shouldn’t and probably won’t ruin England’s chances of hosting the 2018 world cup and providing we continue to put the effort into curing the English disease that we have done – I can think of no better place for it to take place.
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Monday, 31 August 2009
Monday, 24 August 2009
Derby day blues once again
It’s derby match week this week – a fixture list anomaly that means my team plays its two deadliest rivals within the space of three days. The current score is one down, one to go.
In this case the one stands for defeat. For defeat is what I come to expect when it comes to local derbies. It’s an irrational pessimism, given that my team’s record against their rivals is no worse than anyone else’s. I’ve even enjoyed glorious victories over our rivals, both at home and away. We’ve ruined their season, they’ve ruined ours. It’s generally level pegging.
But something about local derbies makes me sick to the stomach. I get little or no enjoyment out of them until the final whistle blows and there can be no argument that my team has deservedly earned its victory. The build up is nervy, whilst the match itself is often agony.
Despite being 1-0 up against our deadly rivals on Sunday, my friend turned to me and said he felt sick. We were winning the game, playing well and all the signs were that we would go on to take the three points comfortably. Yet like my friend, my stomach is in knots and I’m beginning to sweat. Quite frankly, I’m petrified.
I’m already imagining the hundreds of ways they can score their equaliser. We look edgy at the back – maybe we’ll give a penalty away? The midfielder can hit a 30 yarder like no-one else – this looks like his day. Our keeper is playing far too well – surely he’s about to make a mistake soon? A thought which in the cold light of day, I know is laughable.
But like most fans, I’ve been scarred by a home defeat to our rivals before. Because it only takes that one defeat to ruin a lifetime of future derby days. Even if you have won 99 derbies before, the one defeat will stick in your throat more than any of those victories.
The eventual defeat on Sunday was almost a relief. It was what I was expecting, and it hurt far less than I imagined. I’d prepared myself for it, and now my pessimism was paying off by allowing me to get through the rest of the day without having to be moved away from sharp objects and deep water.
Maybe this is my coping mechanism? By expecting the defeat, victory will seem that bit sweeter when it does come along. Only the victories haven’t come along quite as often as I’d like in recent years. In fact, the novelty of predicting the correct result is wearing a little thin and there’s only so many times you can say “I told you so” without getting punched by your own friends.
Probably the most disappointing aspect of Sunday’s defeat was the lack of abuse I received from friends who support our rivals. It’s an unwritten law that the winners of derby day have the right to text, email and call their less fortunate friends with the most mocking of messages possible. Pretty much anything goes including spite, borrowed jokes and even bad jokes – who cares if your text is a feeble, playground standard effort? You’ve won the game so nothing they can say in response will make the slightest bit of difference to you.
As my team impotently attempted to salvage a point, I was gearing myself up for the abuse that was sure to come my way. I was imagining the comments and dreaming up the responses. I’d got to the point where I was willing the texts to come in. I was prepared this year. I wouldn’t reject the calls, ignore the texts and delete the emails without reading them. I had retorts that struck the balance between humour and spite, and would surely silence any and all goading.
Imagine my disappointment then when the only call I received from a rival fan was from a good friend who kindly agreed that it was an even game, and that it could have gone either way. He even commented on what a handful our centre forward was!
This is no way to treat a fan of a rival team you have just beaten. I’d sat there for 90 minutes, almost wanting his team to ruin my day so I could fire back just one of the responses I’d prepared. I wasn’t even granted that opportunity and although I didn't need reminding, it proved that even the smallest of pleasures are out of reach when you lose to your rivals.
In this case the one stands for defeat. For defeat is what I come to expect when it comes to local derbies. It’s an irrational pessimism, given that my team’s record against their rivals is no worse than anyone else’s. I’ve even enjoyed glorious victories over our rivals, both at home and away. We’ve ruined their season, they’ve ruined ours. It’s generally level pegging.
But something about local derbies makes me sick to the stomach. I get little or no enjoyment out of them until the final whistle blows and there can be no argument that my team has deservedly earned its victory. The build up is nervy, whilst the match itself is often agony.
Despite being 1-0 up against our deadly rivals on Sunday, my friend turned to me and said he felt sick. We were winning the game, playing well and all the signs were that we would go on to take the three points comfortably. Yet like my friend, my stomach is in knots and I’m beginning to sweat. Quite frankly, I’m petrified.
I’m already imagining the hundreds of ways they can score their equaliser. We look edgy at the back – maybe we’ll give a penalty away? The midfielder can hit a 30 yarder like no-one else – this looks like his day. Our keeper is playing far too well – surely he’s about to make a mistake soon? A thought which in the cold light of day, I know is laughable.
But like most fans, I’ve been scarred by a home defeat to our rivals before. Because it only takes that one defeat to ruin a lifetime of future derby days. Even if you have won 99 derbies before, the one defeat will stick in your throat more than any of those victories.
The eventual defeat on Sunday was almost a relief. It was what I was expecting, and it hurt far less than I imagined. I’d prepared myself for it, and now my pessimism was paying off by allowing me to get through the rest of the day without having to be moved away from sharp objects and deep water.
Maybe this is my coping mechanism? By expecting the defeat, victory will seem that bit sweeter when it does come along. Only the victories haven’t come along quite as often as I’d like in recent years. In fact, the novelty of predicting the correct result is wearing a little thin and there’s only so many times you can say “I told you so” without getting punched by your own friends.
Probably the most disappointing aspect of Sunday’s defeat was the lack of abuse I received from friends who support our rivals. It’s an unwritten law that the winners of derby day have the right to text, email and call their less fortunate friends with the most mocking of messages possible. Pretty much anything goes including spite, borrowed jokes and even bad jokes – who cares if your text is a feeble, playground standard effort? You’ve won the game so nothing they can say in response will make the slightest bit of difference to you.
As my team impotently attempted to salvage a point, I was gearing myself up for the abuse that was sure to come my way. I was imagining the comments and dreaming up the responses. I’d got to the point where I was willing the texts to come in. I was prepared this year. I wouldn’t reject the calls, ignore the texts and delete the emails without reading them. I had retorts that struck the balance between humour and spite, and would surely silence any and all goading.
Imagine my disappointment then when the only call I received from a rival fan was from a good friend who kindly agreed that it was an even game, and that it could have gone either way. He even commented on what a handful our centre forward was!
This is no way to treat a fan of a rival team you have just beaten. I’d sat there for 90 minutes, almost wanting his team to ruin my day so I could fire back just one of the responses I’d prepared. I wasn’t even granted that opportunity and although I didn't need reminding, it proved that even the smallest of pleasures are out of reach when you lose to your rivals.
Monday, 17 August 2009
Top four a step too far for City
Money talks – words uttered in many a gangster movie and even early 90s dance records, but now also in the world of football.
Money and football have always enjoyed a close relationship and contrary to the misty eyed recollections we so often hear, the days when players were only slightly better paid than the majority of the fans on the terraces are long gone. Even £100k a week wages no longer shock fans, whilst average players changes clubs for tens of millions of pounds.
The influx of money into the game has heralded many a false dawn. Jack Walker’s Blackburn spent their way to the title in 1995, only to be relegated shortly after his death and now find themselves annually kicking their way to survival under Sam Allardyce. Sergio Cragnotti managed to match Walker’s achievement by overseeing Lazio’s Scudetto triumph, but despite spending astronomical sums on the likes of Mendieta and Crespo, the dream turned sour and years of relative obscurity followed.
The latest club to join the nouveau riche of the game is Manchester City, and many feel they have a genuine chance of breaking into the Premier League’s top four, or even challenging for the title this year. They have spent the summer trailing some of the game’s top stars, as well as Joeleon Lescott, and now have one of the world’s most expensively assembled squads.
But does merely spending a lot of money guarantee success? City have brought in Emmanuel Adebayor, Kolo Toure, Gareth Barry and most controversially, Carlos Tevez. Undoubted Premier League talents but Barry aside, all considered surplus to requirements at their previous clubs.
Adebayor in particular had frustrated Arsenal fans throughout the duration of last season, whilst Toure had already effectively been replaced as a first choice centre half by new signing Thomas Vermaelen. And Tevez, despite earning cult status at Manchester United found himself further and further down the pecking order at Old Trafford the longer last season went on.
But in Gareth Barry, they may at least have found the defensive midfield shield they so badly need to provide balance to their top heavy squad. Barry has performed excellently for both England and Aston Villa over the last two or three seasons. Unspectacular but always reliable, he is as adept at ending opposition moves as he is at starting them for his own team. His positional sense and measured passing are attributes sadly lacking in most of today’s athletic footballers, and also from City’s whole team last term.
Apart from Barry, City’s most important players are arguably ones that were already there before the summer’s spending spree. Shay Given remains one of the league’s top goalkeepers and really should already be playing regular Champions League football, whilst Shaun Wright-Phillips is as popular with the sky blue fans as any of his more expensive colleagues.
And those fans will hope Stephen Ireland carries on where he left off last season. Uncharacteristically for a man who drives a pink trimmed Range Rover and was fined for dropping his shorts to his ankles during a match, Ireland went about his business quietly and professionally last season. He chipped in with some important goals, and his energy and pace troubled many a side – particularly those visiting Eastlands. He has matured and further improvement this year could mean City’s best chances of breaking the top four rests on the shoulders of a man who cost them absolutely nothing.
So will they do it? Can City break the monopoly of the Premier League’s top four? They’ve spent the money, have a big enough squad and are sure to have full houses at Eastlands every fortnight. But something tells me they will fall short.
Aston Villa and Everton have come close to doing it in recent years – mounting their challenges based on a team ethic and direct style crafted over a number of years. Piece by piece they have built a team to compete, but City are looking to move from the bottom half to the top four in just three years. At times last year, it was difficult to work out what their style of play was, or even their formation. Mark Hughes will take time to perfect his style, time he may not have if the current top four make the kind of starts expected of them.
Hughes and City will get there, but for the moment the wait continues.
Money and football have always enjoyed a close relationship and contrary to the misty eyed recollections we so often hear, the days when players were only slightly better paid than the majority of the fans on the terraces are long gone. Even £100k a week wages no longer shock fans, whilst average players changes clubs for tens of millions of pounds.
The influx of money into the game has heralded many a false dawn. Jack Walker’s Blackburn spent their way to the title in 1995, only to be relegated shortly after his death and now find themselves annually kicking their way to survival under Sam Allardyce. Sergio Cragnotti managed to match Walker’s achievement by overseeing Lazio’s Scudetto triumph, but despite spending astronomical sums on the likes of Mendieta and Crespo, the dream turned sour and years of relative obscurity followed.
The latest club to join the nouveau riche of the game is Manchester City, and many feel they have a genuine chance of breaking into the Premier League’s top four, or even challenging for the title this year. They have spent the summer trailing some of the game’s top stars, as well as Joeleon Lescott, and now have one of the world’s most expensively assembled squads.
But does merely spending a lot of money guarantee success? City have brought in Emmanuel Adebayor, Kolo Toure, Gareth Barry and most controversially, Carlos Tevez. Undoubted Premier League talents but Barry aside, all considered surplus to requirements at their previous clubs.
Adebayor in particular had frustrated Arsenal fans throughout the duration of last season, whilst Toure had already effectively been replaced as a first choice centre half by new signing Thomas Vermaelen. And Tevez, despite earning cult status at Manchester United found himself further and further down the pecking order at Old Trafford the longer last season went on.
But in Gareth Barry, they may at least have found the defensive midfield shield they so badly need to provide balance to their top heavy squad. Barry has performed excellently for both England and Aston Villa over the last two or three seasons. Unspectacular but always reliable, he is as adept at ending opposition moves as he is at starting them for his own team. His positional sense and measured passing are attributes sadly lacking in most of today’s athletic footballers, and also from City’s whole team last term.
Apart from Barry, City’s most important players are arguably ones that were already there before the summer’s spending spree. Shay Given remains one of the league’s top goalkeepers and really should already be playing regular Champions League football, whilst Shaun Wright-Phillips is as popular with the sky blue fans as any of his more expensive colleagues.
And those fans will hope Stephen Ireland carries on where he left off last season. Uncharacteristically for a man who drives a pink trimmed Range Rover and was fined for dropping his shorts to his ankles during a match, Ireland went about his business quietly and professionally last season. He chipped in with some important goals, and his energy and pace troubled many a side – particularly those visiting Eastlands. He has matured and further improvement this year could mean City’s best chances of breaking the top four rests on the shoulders of a man who cost them absolutely nothing.
So will they do it? Can City break the monopoly of the Premier League’s top four? They’ve spent the money, have a big enough squad and are sure to have full houses at Eastlands every fortnight. But something tells me they will fall short.
Aston Villa and Everton have come close to doing it in recent years – mounting their challenges based on a team ethic and direct style crafted over a number of years. Piece by piece they have built a team to compete, but City are looking to move from the bottom half to the top four in just three years. At times last year, it was difficult to work out what their style of play was, or even their formation. Mark Hughes will take time to perfect his style, time he may not have if the current top four make the kind of starts expected of them.
Hughes and City will get there, but for the moment the wait continues.
Monday, 10 August 2009
It’s not the hope…
First round of Football League fixtures complete? Check. Community Shield decided on penalties? Check. Ludicrously timed international friendly coming up? Check. After a three month hiatus, football is well and truly back.
The first week of the season is always exciting for any fan. For many, it means the end of a summer of Saturdays spent trawling round indoor shopping centres with their partners. Whilst others will don their new replica shirt and head to the first match, fully expecting another season of silverware and the bragging rights in the office.
But what excites all fans from the lowest rungs of the football ladder to the promised land of the Premier League’s top four, is the hope of the first week. A decent win on day one puts you top of the league. A run of three wins will be considered good at any time of the season, but in the early weeks it will be enough to make fans think this really is their year.
Newly relegated clubs meet recently promoted ones, both on a level playing field when just three months ago they were two divisions apart. Strikers score first day hat-tricks only to wait until the New Year for their next goals. Summer signings look like world beaters, new managers like even better Jose Mourinhos. The first week is full of hope. Anyone can win the cup, and anyone can win the league.
But just as the referee blows the whistle on the first 90 minutes of the 2009/2010 football season, some fans will already know they won’t win the cup, and they won’t win the league. Where their colleagues still have hope in their heart on Saturday night, they have despair.
One game down, and already bottom of the league. The new striker looks worse than the old one, and the manager still doesn’t have a clue. Even worse, the beer in the bar is flat and the Bovril lukewarm.
Fans of Norwich City will know this feeling only too well, having just seen their team beaten 7-1 at home by the mighty Colchester United on the first day of the season. Two fans reacted to the team’s dismal performance by storming onto the pitch and throwing their season tickets towards Norwich’s manager Bryan Gunn. Fittingly on a day when Norwich played almost as badly as is humanly possible, they missed.
Norwich fans must be thinking things can’t get any worse than that. The logical approach would be to assume that the result was a freak, and that the season’s low point has already passed. Things can only get better right?
Well football fans don’t really do logic. Norwich fans are much more likely to be thinking that this is just the start of a hopelessly miserable season.
They will do well to remember the old adage that a football season is a marathon and not a sprint though. There are 46 games in League 1, and Norwich fans will surely not endure such an embarrassing afternoon again before the season is out.
As fans we know only too well how quickly things can change in football. Whilst we start the season full of hope, we know despair is just around the corner. But twist and turns are what bring us back to our seats time and time again, and whoever tops the table this week is just as likely to prop it up come May. And of course, vice versa.
Whilst the despair won’t kill us, the hope just might…
The first week of the season is always exciting for any fan. For many, it means the end of a summer of Saturdays spent trawling round indoor shopping centres with their partners. Whilst others will don their new replica shirt and head to the first match, fully expecting another season of silverware and the bragging rights in the office.
But what excites all fans from the lowest rungs of the football ladder to the promised land of the Premier League’s top four, is the hope of the first week. A decent win on day one puts you top of the league. A run of three wins will be considered good at any time of the season, but in the early weeks it will be enough to make fans think this really is their year.
Newly relegated clubs meet recently promoted ones, both on a level playing field when just three months ago they were two divisions apart. Strikers score first day hat-tricks only to wait until the New Year for their next goals. Summer signings look like world beaters, new managers like even better Jose Mourinhos. The first week is full of hope. Anyone can win the cup, and anyone can win the league.
But just as the referee blows the whistle on the first 90 minutes of the 2009/2010 football season, some fans will already know they won’t win the cup, and they won’t win the league. Where their colleagues still have hope in their heart on Saturday night, they have despair.
One game down, and already bottom of the league. The new striker looks worse than the old one, and the manager still doesn’t have a clue. Even worse, the beer in the bar is flat and the Bovril lukewarm.
Fans of Norwich City will know this feeling only too well, having just seen their team beaten 7-1 at home by the mighty Colchester United on the first day of the season. Two fans reacted to the team’s dismal performance by storming onto the pitch and throwing their season tickets towards Norwich’s manager Bryan Gunn. Fittingly on a day when Norwich played almost as badly as is humanly possible, they missed.
Norwich fans must be thinking things can’t get any worse than that. The logical approach would be to assume that the result was a freak, and that the season’s low point has already passed. Things can only get better right?
Well football fans don’t really do logic. Norwich fans are much more likely to be thinking that this is just the start of a hopelessly miserable season.
They will do well to remember the old adage that a football season is a marathon and not a sprint though. There are 46 games in League 1, and Norwich fans will surely not endure such an embarrassing afternoon again before the season is out.
As fans we know only too well how quickly things can change in football. Whilst we start the season full of hope, we know despair is just around the corner. But twist and turns are what bring us back to our seats time and time again, and whoever tops the table this week is just as likely to prop it up come May. And of course, vice versa.
Whilst the despair won’t kill us, the hope just might…
Monday, 3 August 2009
RIP Sir Bobby
Thousands of words have already been written about the sad passing of Sir Bobby Robson on Friday, and it would be easy to think there is little more anyone else can say.
But for a man so universally loved, it would also seem something of an insult not to recognise his prodigious achievements and the affection with which he is held in this country.
For me, Sir Bobby Robson represents an age of innocence. I was just eight years old when Italia 90 took place but had already been bitten by the football bug. Whether it was through childish naivety or times really were different, it seemed that the country was willing England to give it their all and go as far as they can, rather than today’s expectation to win every competition they enter.
I remember wearing my England shirt whilst sitting on the arm of my parents’ sofa, nervously willing England to somehow find a goal against Belgium. When David Platt hooked in Paul Gascoigne’s late free kick, Bobby danced and so did we.
I remember watching Robson furiously pace up and down as the tournament’s surprise package Cameroon very nearly added England to their list of high profile scalps.
And I remember Robson consoling my hero, Paul Gascoigne, as England’s last great talent was booked and subsequently suspended from a potential world cup final. Shortly after, England lost to West Germany on penalties and Robson was there again to be the shoulder for countless grown men to cry on. But he was also there to congratulate Franz Beckenbaur. As ever, a gentleman in defeat as well as victory.
Italia 90 was my nadir as a football fan and still brings back vivid memories for me. I still feel the pain of that penalty shoot-out defeat, and still get misty eyed at the thought of Gazza’s outrageously talented performances and desire to entertain – on and off the pitch.
But after watching a documentary on Sir Bobby Robson that was made whilst he was still Newcastle manager, it was clear that he shares the same passion for the game as us fans. 15 years on, he was still agonising over how close England came to reaching their first world cup final since 1966. 15 years and five clubs later, he was still thinking what might have been – telling the show’s presenter Gary Lineker that he believed England would have won the final against Maradona’s Argentina. He believed, because when you are a football fan belief is often all you have. Sir Bobby remained a football fan right up until his dying day.
During the same documentary he enthused about the facilities Newcastle’s St James’ Park offered its visitors. He stroked oak doors and marvelled at the grandeur of the place. It was as if a fifteen year-old schoolboy had been given the run of his hometown club for the day. Robson was not a fifteen year old schoolboy, but he was still as passionate a fan of the club as anyone else filing through the stadium’s turnstiles.
And whilst Jose Mourinho, Sir Alex Ferguson and Arsene Wenger will all go down as greats of the English game, they will never be as universally adored as Sir Bobby Robson. Not because they have any less talent than Sir Bobby, nor because they don’t share his passion. It’s because no-one managed to be a player, manager and fan all at the same time, and still be the happiest man in the ground. No-one except Sir Bobby.
But for a man so universally loved, it would also seem something of an insult not to recognise his prodigious achievements and the affection with which he is held in this country.
For me, Sir Bobby Robson represents an age of innocence. I was just eight years old when Italia 90 took place but had already been bitten by the football bug. Whether it was through childish naivety or times really were different, it seemed that the country was willing England to give it their all and go as far as they can, rather than today’s expectation to win every competition they enter.
I remember wearing my England shirt whilst sitting on the arm of my parents’ sofa, nervously willing England to somehow find a goal against Belgium. When David Platt hooked in Paul Gascoigne’s late free kick, Bobby danced and so did we.
I remember watching Robson furiously pace up and down as the tournament’s surprise package Cameroon very nearly added England to their list of high profile scalps.
And I remember Robson consoling my hero, Paul Gascoigne, as England’s last great talent was booked and subsequently suspended from a potential world cup final. Shortly after, England lost to West Germany on penalties and Robson was there again to be the shoulder for countless grown men to cry on. But he was also there to congratulate Franz Beckenbaur. As ever, a gentleman in defeat as well as victory.
Italia 90 was my nadir as a football fan and still brings back vivid memories for me. I still feel the pain of that penalty shoot-out defeat, and still get misty eyed at the thought of Gazza’s outrageously talented performances and desire to entertain – on and off the pitch.
But after watching a documentary on Sir Bobby Robson that was made whilst he was still Newcastle manager, it was clear that he shares the same passion for the game as us fans. 15 years on, he was still agonising over how close England came to reaching their first world cup final since 1966. 15 years and five clubs later, he was still thinking what might have been – telling the show’s presenter Gary Lineker that he believed England would have won the final against Maradona’s Argentina. He believed, because when you are a football fan belief is often all you have. Sir Bobby remained a football fan right up until his dying day.
During the same documentary he enthused about the facilities Newcastle’s St James’ Park offered its visitors. He stroked oak doors and marvelled at the grandeur of the place. It was as if a fifteen year-old schoolboy had been given the run of his hometown club for the day. Robson was not a fifteen year old schoolboy, but he was still as passionate a fan of the club as anyone else filing through the stadium’s turnstiles.
And whilst Jose Mourinho, Sir Alex Ferguson and Arsene Wenger will all go down as greats of the English game, they will never be as universally adored as Sir Bobby Robson. Not because they have any less talent than Sir Bobby, nor because they don’t share his passion. It’s because no-one managed to be a player, manager and fan all at the same time, and still be the happiest man in the ground. No-one except Sir Bobby.
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