can see him now. He would sit over in the corner, right out of the way, on these rotten old wooden benches that they used to have, and watch the match on his own.
This day I was sitting in E block next to Frank’s mum, Hilda, when from behind me I heard, ‘Harry.’ I turned around and it was Bobby. We were about fifteen minutes into the game. ‘Fancy a cup of tea at half-time?’ I said, and he gave me the thumbs-up. Next thing I knew, a steward was marching up the steps towards him. ‘Excuse me, Bob’ – he looked almost ashamed – ‘it’s not me, but the secretary wants to know if you’ve got a ticket.’ Bob said he hadn’t. ‘Then I’m afraid I’ve been told to ask you to leave.’ And he went. Bobby Moore. The Bobby Moore. Thrown out of a half-empty stand at West Ham because he didn’t have a ticket. Now he’s dead you can’t move for pictures of him around theplace. It disgusts me. I don’t think he ever went back after that. Not just to watch a game casually, anyway. If he had a ticket as a press man he would go, obviously, and sit in the press box with the writers, but I don’t think he returned to the club seats. What did they want him to do: queue up outside with the punters? Ring the club and ask them to do him a favour? They should have been phoning him to attend their matches. ‘Come and be our guest, Bob. Front row in the directors’ box every week, Bob.’ They should have treated him like he owned the place. Nothing should have been too good for Bobby.
Can you imagine if you were a promising young footballer and Bobby Moore, England’s only World Cup-winning captain, came around your house to persuade you to sign for West Ham? Game over. Arsenal and Tottenham wouldn’t have stood a chance. Even if the kid was just a baby when England won the World Cup, his dad would have been in awe. In the seventies what man wouldn’t have wanted to have a cup of tea, or a beer, and talk football with Bobby Moore? Instead, West Ham were turfing him out of the ground like a hooligan. It still upsets me to think about it.
Bobby was made an OBE after England won the World Cup, but that’s not as grand as it sounds. John Motson is an OBE. So is Des Lynam, Garth Crooks and Jimmy Hill. Craig Brown, the former manager of Scotland has a higher award, a CBE, as does Paul Elliott, the old Chelsea defender, and Pelé, who is Brazilian. And don’t get me started on those who have received knighthoods for running football. Sir Dave Richards, Sir Bert Millichip. Bobby might not have cared where his name went on any honours list – but I do. To me, it sums up the way he was shunned by the game in the years before his death. Sir Trevor Brooking is the FootballAssociation’s cup of tea. He’s their type of person. Bobby was a player’s player.
I first really got to know him when I was called up to West Ham’s first-team squad in 1965. I had signed for the club two years earlier and played in the team that won the FA Youth Cup in 1963. Bobby was 22 and had been made captain of England that year, but he always had time for the younger players, and I got on well with him. He was the captain of the club, a young captain, and we all looked up to him. To us, he was the governor. Everybody loved him, everybody who came into contact with him wanted Bobby as a friend. You couldn’t help it.
What a man. I mean it. What a man. The straightest, most honest bloke you could meet in your life. Not an ounce of aggression in him, not a hint of nastiness. Won the World Cup, and even the opposition loved him. Brazilians idolised him. Not just Pelé, but all of them: Jairzinho, Rivelino. People say the 1970 Brazil team was the greatest of all time, and Bob would have walked into it; in fact, I think he would have made the team of the tournament at any World Cup throughout history. I remember the game England played against Brazil that summer in Mexico. He was the best player on the field. Jairzinho was destroying everybody at
This day I was sitting in E block next to Frank’s mum, Hilda, when from behind me I heard, ‘Harry.’ I turned around and it was Bobby. We were about fifteen minutes into the game. ‘Fancy a cup of tea at half-time?’ I said, and he gave me the thumbs-up. Next thing I knew, a steward was marching up the steps towards him. ‘Excuse me, Bob’ – he looked almost ashamed – ‘it’s not me, but the secretary wants to know if you’ve got a ticket.’ Bob said he hadn’t. ‘Then I’m afraid I’ve been told to ask you to leave.’ And he went. Bobby Moore. The Bobby Moore. Thrown out of a half-empty stand at West Ham because he didn’t have a ticket. Now he’s dead you can’t move for pictures of him around theplace. It disgusts me. I don’t think he ever went back after that. Not just to watch a game casually, anyway. If he had a ticket as a press man he would go, obviously, and sit in the press box with the writers, but I don’t think he returned to the club seats. What did they want him to do: queue up outside with the punters? Ring the club and ask them to do him a favour? They should have been phoning him to attend their matches. ‘Come and be our guest, Bob. Front row in the directors’ box every week, Bob.’ They should have treated him like he owned the place. Nothing should have been too good for Bobby.
Can you imagine if you were a promising young footballer and Bobby Moore, England’s only World Cup-winning captain, came around your house to persuade you to sign for West Ham? Game over. Arsenal and Tottenham wouldn’t have stood a chance. Even if the kid was just a baby when England won the World Cup, his dad would have been in awe. In the seventies what man wouldn’t have wanted to have a cup of tea, or a beer, and talk football with Bobby Moore? Instead, West Ham were turfing him out of the ground like a hooligan. It still upsets me to think about it.
Bobby was made an OBE after England won the World Cup, but that’s not as grand as it sounds. John Motson is an OBE. So is Des Lynam, Garth Crooks and Jimmy Hill. Craig Brown, the former manager of Scotland has a higher award, a CBE, as does Paul Elliott, the old Chelsea defender, and Pelé, who is Brazilian. And don’t get me started on those who have received knighthoods for running football. Sir Dave Richards, Sir Bert Millichip. Bobby might not have cared where his name went on any honours list – but I do. To me, it sums up the way he was shunned by the game in the years before his death. Sir Trevor Brooking is the FootballAssociation’s cup of tea. He’s their type of person. Bobby was a player’s player.
I first really got to know him when I was called up to West Ham’s first-team squad in 1965. I had signed for the club two years earlier and played in the team that won the FA Youth Cup in 1963. Bobby was 22 and had been made captain of England that year, but he always had time for the younger players, and I got on well with him. He was the captain of the club, a young captain, and we all looked up to him. To us, he was the governor. Everybody loved him, everybody who came into contact with him wanted Bobby as a friend. You couldn’t help it.
What a man. I mean it. What a man. The straightest, most honest bloke you could meet in your life. Not an ounce of aggression in him, not a hint of nastiness. Won the World Cup, and even the opposition loved him. Brazilians idolised him. Not just Pelé, but all of them: Jairzinho, Rivelino. People say the 1970 Brazil team was the greatest of all time, and Bob would have walked into it; in fact, I think he would have made the team of the tournament at any World Cup throughout history. I remember the game England played against Brazil that summer in Mexico. He was the best player on the field. Jairzinho was destroying everybody at
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