Bobby Moore- the greatest central defender of all time.

Bobby Moore- the greatest central defender of all time.

In Matthew Lorenzo's superb film Bobby, the story of Bobby Moore, undoubtedly one of the greatest footballing central defenders of all time, we are given a guided tour around the only player from the 1960s generation who always left you speechless and dumbfounded at the sheer excellence of his passing, the calmness and composure with which he consistently conducted himself  and the alertness of his brain. Moore's impeccable manners, his unfailing courtesy and natural ability were just some of the many qualities which distinguished him from so many of his peers.

Moore was the complete gentleman, a man of honesty, exemplary fashion sense and a remarkable intuition on the pitch which led so many of us to believe that Moore was just the perfect role model. Moore could sense danger almost immediately, snuff it out without thinking about it and then carry the ball out of either a West Ham defence or, more pertinently, an England back four.

But Bobby the film was much more than a simple documentary about the life and times of Bobby Moore. It was a warts and all tale, often sharply truthful account and retrospective of a man who visibly and tragically  wilted away before falling into the darkest pit of  illness, obscurity and, sadly, death. This was no ordinary story because it was quite extraordinary. It is a story of criminal neglect, rejection to a large extent and above all ignorance. It is about that feeling of complete alienation we get when nobody wants to know us anymore.

Still, Bobby was uplifting and positive, happy-go-lucky and gently innocent at first. There was Moore's meeting with the Tina, the woman who would become his adoring wife. You could hardly fail to be enchanted by the warmth and intimacy that developed between the two. When Bobby met Tina at the Ilford Palais in the early 1960s, that whole period of early Motown and the Beatles summarised perfectly the contagious rhythms of England and its groovy manifestations.

Moore of course came rolling off the West Ham academy at a very young age and for a club that was renowned for producing its homegrown products at the time it seemed that everything was happening at the right time and the right place. After being roundly praised to the skies by Malcolm Allison, who once donned the claret and blue of West Ham, Moore made the most meteoric progression to the first team.

And so it was that a star was born. Moore became the most outstanding leader of men, a figure of immense authority, a model of assurance and re-assurance at the the back. He was an almost erudite reader of a game, a player of regal poise, imperturbable, unfazed by chaos and commotion, oblivious to the cares and troubles around him, very rarely affected by the stresses and anxieties that football could throw up from time to time and punctuality personified if indeed time was ever his foremost consideration.

Moore's first years of marriage to Tina now seem idyllic, the fairy tale love between a man and a woman who simply wanted to embrace the intensity of the feelings they quite obviously held for each other. Bobby shows the couple on holiday, holding each other's hands, seemingly dancing along the seaside promenade, Bobby showing off, pulling faces as he emerged from hotel swimming pools and smiling for the camera as he swept sea water from those golden blond locks of hair.

Now firmly ensconced in their new home in Chigwell, Essex, Bobby had everything he could possibly have wished for: comfortable domesticity, a wife he deeply loved, financial stability and above all personal contentment. He'd broken into the West Ham first team where he would meet the colleagues who would inspire him, galvanise him, thrill him and then provide him with the kind of companionship that never faded. They were on his side, faithful and loyal friends, men with football on their minds, glory on their minds and maybe even trophies.

In 1964 Moore would achieve one of his boyhood ambitions. With the able assistance of the likes of Brian Dear, Johnny Sissons, Ronnie Boyce, Martin Peters and Geoff Hurst, West Ham won what was at the time as their first meaningful trophy. In 1923 they had been denied by stampeding horses and the most ridiculous of football matches. But now Moore and West Ham had won the FA Cup and victory had been clinched by literally the last header of the game and the final kick of the game. West Ham beat Preston North End 3-2 and young Bobby was acclaimed as the all conquering hero in claret and blue.

The following year West Ham, now automatically elevated to the European Cup Winners Cup, were once again led by a hungrily ambitious Bobby Moore. At the end of the 1965 season West Ham made it to the European Cup Winners Cup where their opponents would be TSV Munich 1860. Wembley seemed the most suitable settings for Moore who by now must have been thinking of even grander stages. West Ham beat Munich that night and the world could hardly wait for future events to unfold.

It now seemed inevitable that 1966 was destined to be Moore's year of years. A hat-trick of footballing victories and trophies was almost fated to be. After the toils and struggles of the goal -less draw against Uruguay in their opening match, England discovered a higher gear against Mexico who were also beaten and beaten by a thunderous Bobby Charlton shot before shaking off France with a Gallic shrug.

Then in the quarter finals Moore and company would encounter one of the nastiest, illegal and physically intolerable opponents they would ever come up against in any World Cup. Argentina, a volatile, spiky, edgy almost anarchic international team, made their intentions abundantly clear. England and Argentina would play out one of the most horrendously brutal of World Cup matches.

Four years earlier in Chile, both Italy and Chile almost went to war. Players squared up to each other, punches were childishly thrown and the bad blood was only stemmed by the glorious referee Ken Aston, tall, no nonsense and the quietest of pacifists. In 1962 Moore was still young and wet behind the ears, still finding his feet. Little could he have known then that four years later in a 1966 World Cup quarter final against Argentina the same referee would be pulling apart Antonio Rattin before Rattin had had a chance to explode. Rattin, quite naturally, was sent off and Moore could sense that this was his time.

On a warm day at Wembley Moore and England did overcome Argentina and then a semi final against Portugal where the magical Eusebio followed hot on the heels of the Argentina fracas. That evening Moore gave every indication that nothing would ever get past him and that victory would be something that was now to be expected. Moore was handsome once again, supremely commanding and admirably self aware. He glided over the pitch nobly, aristocratically, artfully and patriotically. Nobody could ask for more. England beat Portugal 2-0, Eusebio wept openly but the skies didn't and England were through to the World Cup Final where they would face West Germany.

And yet Moore was privately suffering before the Final against West Germany. A swelling on his testicles had been diagnosed as testicular cancer but the rest of the world had no idea whatsoever. Behind the scenes Moore must have been terrified, fearful perhaps that not only his life was in jeopardy but also a burgeoning career that would culminate happily in Moore holding aloft the 1966 World Cup.

The day did though arrive and in one of the most dramatic and powerfully moving of World Cup Finals, Moore fulfilled all of the job specifications. The red England shirt was ironed thoroughly, the hair brushed to a kind of polite perfection and everything was ready. Walking out of the Wembley tunnel that famous day, Moore was the epitome of all that was pure and virtuous about the man. Moore looked trim, athletic, upright, upstanding, confident and absolutely convinced that England would win the World Cup. How right he was.

From the moment that he quickly looked up to find Geoff Hurst completely unmarked in the German penalty area for England's equalising goal, Moore was perceptive, treating the ball with the utmost respect and strategically picking out his man at the right moment. From that well flighted free kick Geoff Hurst's downward header levelled up the 1966 World Cup Final.

After West Ham colleague Martin Peters had joyfully thumped home England's second goal from a brief penalty area scramble, Moore and England were still in placid waters and heading inexorably towards their place in sporting history. Or seemingly so. Right at the end of the game the white shirts of West Germany streamed forward for one last throw of the dice. Another free kick plopped harmlessly into the English penalty area and as if the game had suddenly and deliberately slowed down West Germany broke our hearts, as they would often do in later years against England. It was now 2-2 but Moore stood next to his utterly impassive and emotionless manager Sir Alf Ramsey.

Moore, with all the bravery and heroism of a Horatio Nelson, rallied his troops, picking up drooping chins and sagging morale as his England team went for the West Germans again in extra time. Always pointing his fingers and gesticulating wildly for his colleagues to move forward, Moore was indeed a Colossus, a towering beacon, a lighthouse in dark, raging waters. But Moore would not be beaten, never surrendering and always on the front foot.

When Geoff Hurst scored that now almost mystical third goal, which still leaves many of us dithering and questioning, Moore settled all nerves, controlled the ball, trapped the ball on his chest and just chilled out as they say in the modern vernacular. With minutes to go and England clinging desperately onto their narrow lead, Moore did something that, under any other set of circumstances would have been regarded as a complete breach of protocol and utterly disgraceful.

Picking the ball up inside his own penalty areas and with German attackers surrounding him. Moore paused, considered and might just have analysed. Yards away Jack Charlton and George Cohen must have been horrified. What on earth do you think you're doing Bobby? Just get rid of the ball. Which Moore did but only after much persuasion.

Moore then raised his head, dwelt on the ball briefly and could see quite clearly that Geoff Hurst had the freedom of Wembley Stadium to explore. Moore lofted the ball beautifully over the top of a now invisible West German defence. Hurst ran and ran and ran, dragging the ball with him pleadingly as if desperate to finish off the job. A now bobbling ball would finally obey Hurst's commands and his shot rippled the West German net. The World Cup had now been won and Moore went up to collect the Cup from the Queen.

As was somehow typical of the man Moore never did things by half measures. What happened next was truly amazing. Walking up to Her Majesty the Queen, Moore momentarily stopped for a second or two, wiped his hands on the most purple of cloths and removed any residual dirt he might have thought still existed.

The sight of Bobby Moore being cradled by Martin Peters, Geoff Hurst, Alan Ball, Jack and Bobby Charlton as well as Gordon Banks is now firmly lodged in the memory bank. Then there was the seemingly endless lap of honour, Nobby Stiles jigging and skipping to his heart's content and then there was Bobby. The smile on Moore's face was as wide as the River Thames. It was the smile of a man who always knew, always believed and never doubted for a moment.

So it was that Moore was a World Cup winner. And yet everything that now followed descended into the most sour anti climax. For years afterwards he thought he'd done everything he could possibly do at West Ham. During the early 1970s Moore was wanted by Brian Clough at Derby and a whole host of suitors. But when that didn't materialise Moore seemed to lose his way, becoming almost stale and static.

When Moore was appallingly accused of having stolen a bracelet during the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, his reputation had been severely damaged and things would never be the same. In 1973 Moore's sloppy back pass to the England keeper in a World Cup qualifier led to a goal for Poland that left him deflated and disenchanted with the game.

A year later Moore was part of the England team that would be deprived of a World Cup appearance in the 1974 World Cup Finals to be held in West Germany. In quite the most bizarre of World Cup qualifying games in the return fixture against Poland at Wembley, England threw the kitchen sink at the Polish defence but could not break Polish resistance. England would not qualify for the 1974 World Cup.

The sight of Moore wrapping a sympathetic arm around the shoulders of Norman Hunter who'd done exactly the same thing as Moore in Poland, fixed itself properly in our consciousness. Moore's international career as well as Sir Alf's as manager were now effectively over. Moore had only a limited career left in his tank and Sir Alf, in a white raincoat, slumped forward dejectedly into the tunnel only to find himself sacked.

In 1975 Moore enjoyed one last footballing swansong. After fleeting interest from Graham Taylor's Watford, Moore joined Alan Mullery at Fulham. That year Fulham, most surprisingly, reached the FA Cup Final where Moore would be poignantly re-acquainted with his old West Ham team mates. West Ham beat Fulham 2-0 that day but Moore's old zest for football had dwindled away like a flickering flame. The fire in Moore's belly was no longer there and that special day in 1966 seemed like ancient history.

After an almost shamefully brief period at non League football at Oxford City and a final big pay day out in America, where English football had barely made itself known, Moore was now at a loose end. Several business ventures didn't quite work out for Moore in the way he would have liked and after that now celebrated appearance in the wartime film 'Escape to Victory' where he lined up with Sylvester Stallone and Sir Michael Caine, Moore disappeared from public view.

The fact that Moore was so unforgivably forgotten and neglected is in itself one of England's  many insoluble mysteries. Moore may well have become in time an England manager of the highest order, maybe even boss of his childhood club West Ham. But Bobby was left to his own devices, never utilised as a respected coach or manager at either club or international level.

In 1993, Bobby Moore was once again diagnosed with cancer and one of the most majestic skippers English football had ever produced passed away heartbreakingly. Moore was only 51 and the world of football mourned deeply because they knew that here was a man who should have been bestowed with much more that the game could offer.

Still, the voices of team mates such as Harry Redknapp, Brian Dear, Rob Jenkins, the physio, Martin Peters and Sir Geoff Hurst could be heard, waxing lyrical about Moore, awe stricken by the man, almost worshipping the ground he stood on. Bobby Moore was a man of humanity, civility, modest charm and a humbling humility that may never be seen again. Somehow the lad from Barking was meant to be immortalised on film, a knight of the realm quite certainly. Arise Sir Bobby. Now that would have sounded most fitting and right.