David Lacey - chief football writer of the Guardian dies at 83.

 David Lacey- chief football writer dies at 83.

David Lacey, who died yesterday at the age of 83, was one of the foremost authorities on British football. He covered an era when football boots had proper studs, the ball was a hard, medicine type that some of us can still feel today and football supporters would huddle together on the terraces in their 60,000 and 70,000 throngs. He came from a time when Charlton Athletic's old Valley ground once held the best part of 70,000 and fathers passed their sons over the shoulders of fans below them. Lacey though was the most stylish of writers, a man with a sardonic sense of humour and a natural gift for the opening paragraph.

In an age when sports writers were almost revered for who they were rather than the purple prose they were so capable of turning out, Lacey was renowned for the sharp turn of phrase, the breathless analogy, the witty metaphor and a liberal sprinkling of quotes from the history books. The truth is that although a hard working, jobbing journalist for the Guardian newspaper, Lacey was never afraid to express his own set of forthright views about a manager who'd wound him up or a player who looked as though they'd just got out of bed. 

For Lacey the greatest footballer he'd ever seen was the incomparable Pele and for that he was absolutely right. He could have chosen the liquid artistry of a Johan Cruyff or Johan Neeskens. He may have opted for the now sadly missed Maradona but Lacey knew instinctive genius when he saw it and wasn't about to change his mind. Pele, according to Lacey, was the personification of footballing brilliance, a sculptor of goals rather than a workmanlike player who downed his tools at 5.00 on a Saturday afternoon and went for a pint with his colleagues. 

After completing National Service, Lacey, a loyal Brighton fan, came to London in search of work. He had plied his trade on the local newspapers of Sussex and then discovered that the Guardian were looking for a replacement for Albert Barham who had so successfully written for the paper. Then Lacey met the glorious Frank Keating, a word wizard, a man with very much the poetic licence to write as descriptively as he wished. There were no barriers here and Keating wrote like a dream. Lacey, in complete contrast, just wanted to write about football and did so with much distinction, wit and flair. 

The Monday match reports in the Guardian were Lacey's natural domain. His opening paragraphs were deceptively simple and yet immensely clever. They were neat, compact and very much to the point. Sometimes fairly long but all the same very detailed and often amusing, Lacey would string his words together like pearls. Then towards the end of one of his memorable commentaries he would spice up the piece with wonderful references to John Wayne or James Stewart, Harold Pinter or General Custer. 

Lacey loved the old time Hollywood stars, historical battles, the people who made him laugh both in book and film form. There was a humorous, conversational slant in all of his post match analyses. The one example that comes to mind is Lacey's reference to Everton's Henry Newton after Everton had played Arsenal at Highbury from many decades back. Lacey described Newton's performance as Newton's theory of relativity. It was apt, succinct and accurately summed up the Lacey mindset. 

But it was in the 1970 World Cup in Mexico where Lacey truly came into his own. He'd always admired the Brazilians as most of us had at the time. When Lacey set eyes on Pele he couldn't take them away from him. Here was a player who had everything; world class skills, a natural aptitude for making the impossible look so easy and the kind of delicious ball control that had most of us besotted and infatuated. 

According to Lacey Pele's football reminded him of the great Australian batsman Sir Donald Bradman. Pele could destroy the opposition with a flick of the foot, a mesmeric drop of the shoulder that would take out at least three defenders, an outrageous repertoire of shots from the half way line and dummies that left most defenders tied in knots. Here was a constantly creative brain that was always functioning minutes ahead of everybody else. Lacey knew this and conveyed that joy it brought to him before his attentive readers.

Lacey covered umpteen FA Cup Finals, League Cup Finals, European Championship and World Cups for the Guardian and never strayed from the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. There was an honesty and sincerity about him which accompanied all of those clear thinking and intelligently written articles.

David Lacey retired in 2002 but he leaves a valuable volume of work which goes right back to that fabled day in 1966 when England won the World Cup and Britain danced in Trafalgar Square fountains. Lacey was in the press box that unforgettable day and although just a spellbound observer that late July afternoon, knew that Geoff Hurst had won the Alamo, Bobby Moore was a Roman emperor and Alan Ball was that happy go lucky kid in the playground who always wanted to play up front in the school team. Of course Ball was the mature and adolescent player who just wanted to play until it was dark and his parents were still calling him in for dinner. Lacey may have mistaken him for Just William or maybe not.