Farewell, Sir Bobby
Thunderous shooting that transcended his era.
Maybe you have to be a certain age.
When they announced it during the match
the crowd of six hundred
barely reacted. No gasps or murmurs.
My son shrugged, apologetic.
I was thirteen in 1966, watching every game
I could on TV, filling in the wall charts.
Never thought we could beat Eusebio’s Portugal,
the team of the tournament. But two goals
from the Munich survivor, the Busby Babe,
kept our Jules Rimet dreams alive.
The opposite of Best in so many ways:
trying to hide his baldness, too worried
to be a hero. No pin-up, no tantrums.
Where were you when you heard the news?
Me, just a few miles from Ashington,
watching Blyth Spartans lose.
Didn’t expect it to hit me this hard.
R A Porter
Sat 28th Oct 2023 17:23
Thank you Greg. I was in the kitchen. When I heard, I looked at my wife and involuntarily said “Not Bobby?” before tears started to form. Living in Manchester with two older brothers who supported United (apologies all,but in Manchester there really is only one), one of whom was at Wembley for the ‘68 European Cup Final, I grew up immersed in the romance of the club of that era. The Busby Babes were present in my life from a very early age and, because my brothers told me, I knew that Duncan Edwards was the greatest of all time. The names “Charlton, Law and Best” were scrawled on pencil cases and school exercise book covers. My first red football shirt had a white number 7 on the back and in my imagination I was always Georgie Best, dribbling between plant pots and hammering in shots from impossible angles. I idolised Bobby too, but his image as the quiet, modest, balding genius didn’t have quite the same appeal as George. Family holidays as a kid were spent driving between camp sites around Europe in my Dad’s less-than-reliable 1963 Singer Vogue. The 1967 trip was an epic odyssey, crossing the Alps in Austria and eventually reaching Yugoslavia. Wherever we travelled and whoever we met along the way from shopkeepers to Police officers (usually when the car broke down) the word “Manchester” would elicit smiles and the responses “Manchester United!” and “Bobby Charlton!” Even aged 6 it made me proud. Proud of where I came from, proud of who I supported - and proud of Bobby. Twenty years on, when I worked with him on a project for the Bobby Charlton Soccer School it was an absolute privilege although I was completely tongue-tied. Understated, shy, polite, but with a flash of steel in those blue eyes that was a testament to his inner strength and that astonishing life. I loved him. Thank you Bobby, Rest In Peace.