Sir Bobby Charlton: my footballing hero
I was a competent footballer at school. I didn’t make our school team, but my year at Bury Grammar School were National Independent Schools Six-a-Side Champions: a northern grammar school beating Eton was an especial delight. So I have a decent excuse for not being quite good enough. But I did play in the 1st team for my college at university.
When I got to Westminster as MP for Bury North, my footballing life took off, allowing me games and venues far above my station. The Westminster Wobblers, the MPs’ team, played at the old Wembley Stadium, raising funds for Children in Need, with commentary on the BBC by Jimmy Hill; at Crystal Palace for Live Aid, and a game in Berlin against the German Bundestag (Parliament). We won but — I kid you not — they had an equaliser in the last minutes chalked off by a brave linesman, as memories of 1966 filled all our minds.
But the best was to come, at Old Trafford in February 1992. Thanks to the efforts of Richard, now Lord Faulkner of Worcester, then of the Football Trust, he was able to persuade – heaven knows how — the fearsome Sir Alex Ferguson to allow a charity game to raise money for Bury Hospice, on the famous and sacrosanct pitch immediately after a League game. Not before, as the crowd were coming in, because the pitch in those days was just awful by February, and we would have messed it up. But many fans would stay on to watch and help raise money. The match was against TV All Stars, captained by Jasper Carrot, with Coronation Street and Brookside stars as amazed as we were to play at such a ground.
But the icing on the cake was that both Bobby Charlton and Paddy Crerand agreed to turn out for each side. How can I describe awestruck adequately? Both gentlemen watched the Man Utd v Crystal Palace fixture with us, as we waited to go on, happy to indulge our interpretation of what we were viewing with politeness and enthusiasm, when they as old pros must have been seeing quite a different game.
Then we were on. Sir Bobby Charlton, then aged 54, was everything you ever heard of — and more. Off the pitch he was the perfect ambassador for the Club, and towards us. On the pitch, he was a player wanting to win, not hogging the ball, but ensuring we all got a touch or a pass if it was going to get us somewhere, and not wasting a ball for the sake of it. After the game we got changed in the Club’s first team dressing rooms, with Bobby Charlton absolutely one of the lads with us, patiently answering our questions. As we had won 3-2, he was seemingly as thrilled as if he was a European Champion again, surrounded by MPs pinching themselves.
But I could barely speak, for he had given me my football moment for ever. At 2-1 up, we had a free kick. Bobby Charlton looked, saw me on the edge of the penalty area, and placed the ball perfectly. Courtesy of ropey thespian defending, I had time to take the ball on my thigh, dropping it nicely to my right foot, and moved into the box. The Coronation Street star Phil Middlemiss was in goal, bless him. He tracked my movement, but left a gap the size of the Mersey Tunnel to one side. I didn’t hesitate. I had been scoring goals since I was five years old. Instinct takes over, and in a moment, it was 3-1. Only then did it strike me that I had scored at Old Trafford, at the Scoreboard End, and that Bobby Charlton had set it up.
I ran up to him, as you do, and thanked him for the pass. He smiled at me and said: “You make so much noise, I wanted to see what you could do with the ball.”
I want that on my gravestone.
I had the pleasure of meeting him and Norma from time to time afterwards. The Club was generous with the occasional ticket for me to the Directors Box, and busy as he was with his duties for MUFC, he would always have a word. I was pleased to spend time with him when he visited the Foreign Office when I was Minister there. For my part, I was proud to support the work of his Foundation, which provides opportunities for youngsters in areas recovering from conflict overseas, often associated with the horrors of land mines, about which he was passionate but typically humble.
Last year I met Sir Alex and showed him the programme of the match thirty years before, in which the charity teams had been giving glowing mention by a kindly club. He smiled and gently pointed out the very essence of Sir Bobby’s modesty.
I am on the MPs’ team sheet, with our names in bold. Bobby Charlton, in smaller print, is named as a sub.
Some man. Some legend. Some memories.
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