the time and there is a moment when he heads downfield from the halfway line, along that right wing where he had been ripping through everybody, and Bobby just pushes him this way, pushes him that way, the pair are one on one but Jairzinho ends up by the corner flag. In slides Bob, nicks the ball off him and he’s away up the field with it. You’ve never seen defending like it.
Bobby played with me at Seattle Sounders, along with Geoff Hurst. We had a great time together. He was one of the best playersin the North American Soccer League, obviously, and was picked to represent something called Team America in the Bicentennial Tournament against England and Italy. It was a representative XI, but a real good team of players, and they made Bobby captain. Team America played Brazil in Seattle and I remember there was this lad who used to play for Watford in the line-up. Keith Eddy. He wasn’t a big name in England but he’d cracked it in America with New York Cosmos, among all the superstars like Pelé and Carlos Alberto. This friendly against Brazil was the game of his life. He played at the back, did really well, and when the final whistle blew he ran halfway across the pitch to catch up with Rivelino. He was desperate to get his shirt. I was up in the stand with Sandra and Tina, Bobby’s wife, and the kids and saw Keith running really hard to catch the king of the stepover. But Rivelino was running, too. He was sprinting like the match was still on, he must have covered ninety yards, and just as Keith was tapping him on the shoulder to ask for his shirt, Rivelino was doing the same to Bobby Moore. Rivelino – the player who invented some of football’s greatest tricks and skills. He’d dribble with the ball and just as the defender thought he’d got a tackle in he’d go five yards in the opposite direction and have a shot. One of the greatest strikers of a ball that you’ll ever see. And there he was cuddling and swapping shirts with Bobby, having run the length of the pitch for that memento. Poor old Keith Eddy could only look on as they chatted and embraced. Never stood a chance, did he?
Everyone wanted to meet Bobby, everyone wanted a night out with him. And Bobby loved the social side of the game. He captained the England football team, but he would have captained an England drinking team, too, if we had one. (And Frank LampardSenior would have been his vice-captain, by the way.) Gin and tonic or lager were Bob’s drinks, and he could really put them away. We used to travel to away matches by train a lot in those days, and when we got on board after the game he would make a point of asking how many lagers they had in the buffet car. ‘We’ve got four cases, Mr Moore,’ he might be told. ‘Right,’ Bob would say, ‘bring them down here.’ And he’d roll off the cash needed for every drop of beer in the place and get stuck in. There was a little group of them – Frank, Brian Dear, Bobby Ferguson – and they’d go through the lot. About ten minutes from Euston, Bob would nip into the toilet, have a shave, change, put a new shirt on and reappear looking immaculate. Not a hair out of place. And then he’d go out drinking again for the rest of the night.
He wasn’t an angel – ‘win or lose: on the booze’, that was Bobby’s motto – but they were different times and football was not as professional in its outlook as it is these days. Even so, Bobby was probably the most diligent player in making amends for his sins the next day. He might have been out every Saturday, but he was in every Sunday morning, without fail, to run it off. He would get to the training ground at 9 a.m. in his old tracksuit, put on a plastic bin liner underneath it, and do a dozen laps to get a sweat going. He might have had a dozen lagers chased with ten gin and tonics the night before, but he never missed those Sunday sessions. The rest of us would still be in bed but Bob would be out, pounding around the field at Chadwell
Bobby played with me at Seattle Sounders, along with Geoff Hurst. We had a great time together. He was one of the best playersin the North American Soccer League, obviously, and was picked to represent something called Team America in the Bicentennial Tournament against England and Italy. It was a representative XI, but a real good team of players, and they made Bobby captain. Team America played Brazil in Seattle and I remember there was this lad who used to play for Watford in the line-up. Keith Eddy. He wasn’t a big name in England but he’d cracked it in America with New York Cosmos, among all the superstars like Pelé and Carlos Alberto. This friendly against Brazil was the game of his life. He played at the back, did really well, and when the final whistle blew he ran halfway across the pitch to catch up with Rivelino. He was desperate to get his shirt. I was up in the stand with Sandra and Tina, Bobby’s wife, and the kids and saw Keith running really hard to catch the king of the stepover. But Rivelino was running, too. He was sprinting like the match was still on, he must have covered ninety yards, and just as Keith was tapping him on the shoulder to ask for his shirt, Rivelino was doing the same to Bobby Moore. Rivelino – the player who invented some of football’s greatest tricks and skills. He’d dribble with the ball and just as the defender thought he’d got a tackle in he’d go five yards in the opposite direction and have a shot. One of the greatest strikers of a ball that you’ll ever see. And there he was cuddling and swapping shirts with Bobby, having run the length of the pitch for that memento. Poor old Keith Eddy could only look on as they chatted and embraced. Never stood a chance, did he?
Everyone wanted to meet Bobby, everyone wanted a night out with him. And Bobby loved the social side of the game. He captained the England football team, but he would have captained an England drinking team, too, if we had one. (And Frank LampardSenior would have been his vice-captain, by the way.) Gin and tonic or lager were Bob’s drinks, and he could really put them away. We used to travel to away matches by train a lot in those days, and when we got on board after the game he would make a point of asking how many lagers they had in the buffet car. ‘We’ve got four cases, Mr Moore,’ he might be told. ‘Right,’ Bob would say, ‘bring them down here.’ And he’d roll off the cash needed for every drop of beer in the place and get stuck in. There was a little group of them – Frank, Brian Dear, Bobby Ferguson – and they’d go through the lot. About ten minutes from Euston, Bob would nip into the toilet, have a shave, change, put a new shirt on and reappear looking immaculate. Not a hair out of place. And then he’d go out drinking again for the rest of the night.
He wasn’t an angel – ‘win or lose: on the booze’, that was Bobby’s motto – but they were different times and football was not as professional in its outlook as it is these days. Even so, Bobby was probably the most diligent player in making amends for his sins the next day. He might have been out every Saturday, but he was in every Sunday morning, without fail, to run it off. He would get to the training ground at 9 a.m. in his old tracksuit, put on a plastic bin liner underneath it, and do a dozen laps to get a sweat going. He might have had a dozen lagers chased with ten gin and tonics the night before, but he never missed those Sunday sessions. The rest of us would still be in bed but Bob would be out, pounding around the field at Chadwell
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