Sir Bobby Charlton had just retired as a player when I first met him. He was trying his hand at management at Wigan and Preston North End. It didn’t last long. Genius is not a transferable commodity.
So we met and I can now admit that, as we shook hands, I blushed. I was even a little tongue-tied. You see, I was carrying with me the memories of his wonderful performances in the World Cup, the European Cup, those sensational goals, the thunderbolt shots taken with either foot, the familiar little jumps in the air by way of controlled celebration and the brushing back of his hair.
Then my mind was going back to the Munich air disaster when he escaped with hardly a scratch, while some of his team-mates and friends lost their lives. He found it difficult not to feel guilty for his survival.
All this was going through my mind as the unmistakable, athletic figure approached. I can tell you now that nothing much changed down the years. The fact is, of all the famous people I have had the good fortune to meet, Bobby, through no fault of his own, always made me feel shy. We once played a round of golf together at a charity tournament and I thought at last I would be able to hold my own with the great man, recover a little dignity, we played off similar handicaps. Wouldn’t you know it, my game, which had always exacted a terrible revenge for every bit of pleasure I had enjoyed from it, decided to let me down again and I found myself ruining by then Sir Bobby Charlton’s day as I dumped him into several impossible positions in what he had expected to be a relaxing foursomes.
The last time I met Bobby was at the funeral of another great British sporting hero, Henry Cooper. We shook hands and asked about each other’s health but we kept it brief, before being in the presence of the great man became too much for me again. After all I’m only human.
