I’m 33 years old.
Like most people my age I look back with amnesic nostalgia at being 23 or, on bad days, 13. And there are very few reasons to want to be any older, but there is one.
If I were 43 then I would have seen my first Town game in 1977, not 1987. I would have been at Wembley the year after, and maybe even in Amsterdam as teenager. I would have drunk heartily from the cup of triumph as my not-so-little football club taught Europe a few things about style, substance and dignity.
But as it was I was chasing a blue balloon around the living room when Roger Osborne won us the FA Cup and by the time Mick Mills lifted the UEFA Cup I had long since been asleep, dreaming of action men, Tonka toys and Neapolitan ice-cream.
And so I never saw an Ipswich side managed by Sir Bobby. I fell in love with them, certainly, but via a massive transistor radio and not through the sounds, smells and air crunching atmosphere of a swaying Portman Road. Were I 43, then I would have the pictures in my head to sketch and colour again and again for my children and grand-children. As it is, the only Sir Bobby sides I ever saw live were wearing the white of England or the indisputable stripes of Newcastle United.
So I never met the man (although I nearly did, but that’s another story) and I never saw a single second of his tenure as Ipswich manager. And yet, when the news of his passing spread across the news wires last week I was first numbed and then deeply, deeply saddened. I’ve been thinking about why…
In the modern world we are bombarded by the importance and indulgence of celebrity. The lives of these special few are highlighted by how different they are from us – how their cars, holidays, parties and palaces make our achievements wilt and wither in their shade. Yet with Sir Bobby it was different. We adored Sir Bobby not because of what made him different, but from what made us the same. We had the same dreams, the same morals, the same expectations and the same beliefs. We shared a belief in things being done a certain way and, most importantly of all, we shared a mutual love for this small, globally insignificant corner of England where we came together as one of the final bastions of a fast-fading type of community.
We treated Sir Bobby as one of our own – and rightly so. But if he couldn’t have been from Martlesham, Stowmarket, Bury or even Haverhill then I’m glad he was a Geordie. They know a hero up there, and they know how to worship.
People say we won’t see the likes of him again and maybe they’re right. Football people are increasingly being driven and influenced by the commercial priorities of modern life. The game we grew up with is passing from the passionate to the paymaster and the road we’re on is littered with computer games and beach soccer tournaments.
There is therefore more to mourn this summer than one single man. Sir Bobby stood for all those great footballing traditions we so want to retain – the man management, the charisma, the sporting imperative and the honest humility of good people doing the right things for the right reasons.
But perhaps we shouldn’t think too much about what dies with Sir Bobby – now may not be the time to face the hornet’s nest that is Twenty-First Century Football. Now is the time to remember and salute the Geordie Gent that arrived as our gamble – and left as our Godfather.
My Dad once told me how sad he was that I never got to meet his father, who died in the 1950s.
“You’d have loved him”, he said. “He was a lovely man”.
Hearing him say that has always stuck in my mind and in my throat. And maybe it goes some way to explaining why I feel the loss of Sir Bobby so tangibly. It was not just what he meant to me, but what he meant to other people as well. I may never have been personally touched by his simple, human magnificence, but I have been surrounded by it every moment of my life. All 33 years of it.
Like most people my age I look back with amnesic nostalgia at being 23 or, on bad days, 13. And there are very few reasons to want to be any older, but there is one.
If I were 43 then I would have seen my first Town game in 1977, not 1987. I would have been at Wembley the year after, and maybe even in Amsterdam as teenager. I would have drunk heartily from the cup of triumph as my not-so-little football club taught Europe a few things about style, substance and dignity.
But as it was I was chasing a blue balloon around the living room when Roger Osborne won us the FA Cup and by the time Mick Mills lifted the UEFA Cup I had long since been asleep, dreaming of action men, Tonka toys and Neapolitan ice-cream.
And so I never saw an Ipswich side managed by Sir Bobby. I fell in love with them, certainly, but via a massive transistor radio and not through the sounds, smells and air crunching atmosphere of a swaying Portman Road. Were I 43, then I would have the pictures in my head to sketch and colour again and again for my children and grand-children. As it is, the only Sir Bobby sides I ever saw live were wearing the white of England or the indisputable stripes of Newcastle United.
So I never met the man (although I nearly did, but that’s another story) and I never saw a single second of his tenure as Ipswich manager. And yet, when the news of his passing spread across the news wires last week I was first numbed and then deeply, deeply saddened. I’ve been thinking about why…
In the modern world we are bombarded by the importance and indulgence of celebrity. The lives of these special few are highlighted by how different they are from us – how their cars, holidays, parties and palaces make our achievements wilt and wither in their shade. Yet with Sir Bobby it was different. We adored Sir Bobby not because of what made him different, but from what made us the same. We had the same dreams, the same morals, the same expectations and the same beliefs. We shared a belief in things being done a certain way and, most importantly of all, we shared a mutual love for this small, globally insignificant corner of England where we came together as one of the final bastions of a fast-fading type of community.
We treated Sir Bobby as one of our own – and rightly so. But if he couldn’t have been from Martlesham, Stowmarket, Bury or even Haverhill then I’m glad he was a Geordie. They know a hero up there, and they know how to worship.
People say we won’t see the likes of him again and maybe they’re right. Football people are increasingly being driven and influenced by the commercial priorities of modern life. The game we grew up with is passing from the passionate to the paymaster and the road we’re on is littered with computer games and beach soccer tournaments.
There is therefore more to mourn this summer than one single man. Sir Bobby stood for all those great footballing traditions we so want to retain – the man management, the charisma, the sporting imperative and the honest humility of good people doing the right things for the right reasons.
But perhaps we shouldn’t think too much about what dies with Sir Bobby – now may not be the time to face the hornet’s nest that is Twenty-First Century Football. Now is the time to remember and salute the Geordie Gent that arrived as our gamble – and left as our Godfather.
My Dad once told me how sad he was that I never got to meet his father, who died in the 1950s.
“You’d have loved him”, he said. “He was a lovely man”.
Hearing him say that has always stuck in my mind and in my throat. And maybe it goes some way to explaining why I feel the loss of Sir Bobby so tangibly. It was not just what he meant to me, but what he meant to other people as well. I may never have been personally touched by his simple, human magnificence, but I have been surrounded by it every moment of my life. All 33 years of it.
Goodnight Sir Bobby. Thanks for everything…and don’t worry, we promise to take care of your ‘beloved Ipswich…’
