Sir Bobby Charlton dies

 Sir Bobby Charlton dies

Sir Bobby Charlton, who yesterday died at the age of 86, typified the 1960s, its mannerisms, its affectations, its quirks and whimsicalities, its outlandish fashions, its revolutionary movements, the life changing moments, an era of remarkable innovation, invention, reinvention, its colour, personality and charisma. He was English football's greatest striker and forever more will be enshrined warmly in the hearts of all football loyalists, passionate fans and everybody either connected or just fascinated by the Beautiful Game.

Charlton, whose roots can be unashamedly be traced back to a humble and modest coal mining environment, spanned whole generations of football supporters around the world and was never less than a shy, self deprecating, quietly spoken player and manager, a man of bravery, resilience, heroism,  muscular Christianity and character. He was a law abiding, respectable member of every community, an exemplary ambassador, charitable in the extreme, champion of the underdog and the loveliest of gentlemen.

But he was always in the right place and the right time. He was there on that fabled and celebrated day on the penultimate day of July 1966 when England conquered the World with its first and, regrettably, only World Cup victory. When England were pronounced World Champions 57 years ago there were many of us who were touched by the spontaneous reactions of both Bobby and his brother Jack Charlton. Bobby wept with happiness while Jack slumped to the ground outside England's penalty area, limply throwing his arms into the air with elation and relief.

When the final whistle went for the 1966 World Cup Final, manager Sir Alf Ramsey, emotionless and drained, just sat on his bench while England trainer Harold Shepherdson leapt into the air with delight and sent his towels into orbit. Ramsey, totally repressed, implored Shepherdson to sit down. Meanwhile Sir Bobby Charlton was engulfed by his team mates and started hugging all and sundry as if they were doting uncles, fathers, grandparents and close cousins. Never had one cultural event throughout British history yielded so many moments heavy with symbolism, a moving allegory to tell their families and those who would follow in years and decades to come.

And yet it was Bobby Charlton, the footballer, who rose from a hospital bed in Munich in 1958 who captured the hearts of both his devoted Manchester United fans and the global football family. Charlton survived the Munich air disaster which tragically claimed the lives of so many of his United colleagues. Charlton's indefatigable fighting spirit, his determination to embrace the sweetness and sanctity of life and his enduring passion for the game could never be disguised.

The one image of Charlton in his very early childhood days encapsulated everything we came to love and admire about him. In his parents backyard, Cissie, his inspirational mother, is seen jumping together with her son Bobby in a heading duel. Even then the bug would become an addictive one and we knew that there was something indefinable about Charlton's extraordinary talent. His native North East, where coal mines and collieries would produce a conveyor belt of superbly proportioned footballers, knew a footballing genius when they saw one.

Then there was his elevation to United's first team and a couple of old League Championships later, innumerable England caps, FA Cups and then the ultimate achievement of World Cup victory, Charlton would become unmistakably brilliant, productive and the finest of them all. A model of athleticism, speed, acceleration, rapid gear movements all combined to turn an attacking, goal scoring midfielder into a lethal striker of the ball. The hair style was distinctive, the mood always right, the occasion wonderfully fitting, the moments invariably appropriate.

In 1968 though, the zenith of Charlton's career would reach another dimension. After losing his adored colleagues such as Duncan Edwards, Tommy Taylor, Roger Byrne and Dennis Viollet in the Munich air crash, Charlton sought solace and comfort in a newly refurbished and rejuvenated Manchester United side. He discovered John Aston, Dennis Law, George Best, Brian Kidd and a welcoming red carpet at Old Trafford which would never stop believing in the improbable and impossible.

On that wonderful night at Wembley Stadium in the European Cup Final against the masterful Eusebio, Charlton would reach his promised land. Benfica, hitherto, one of the most gifted and dangerous of opponents, were crushed and then annihilated by a rampant United in extra time, 4-1 winners and then gazing at the almost idolised Sir Matt Busby, whose night it would also be.

Two years later in Mexico, Charlton though would be overwhelmed by the sweltering Mexican heat in the 1970 World Cup. Charlton was unforgivably and inexplicably substituted by Sir Alf Ramsey in England's quarter final encounter with West Germany. When Charlton was hauled off by Ramsey many of us thought the rush of blood to his head would cost England any further progress in the tournament. How Gerd Muller must have longed for that crucial moment and the West Germans devoured the winning goals with the utmost relish. England were out of the World Cup and Bobby Charlton was distraught, inconsolable.

After leaving United Charlton would briefly withdraw from the limelight and his last game at Stamford Bridge would be his most poignant departure from the game he'd so brightly illuminated and graced. Chelsea were simply grateful to witness this special occasion. These were difficult moments for Charlton since his relationship with our kid and brother Jack had deteriorated almost completely. The two refused to speak after what, in hindsight, might have seemed a petty family quarrel. But most importantly, Jack and Bobby were always inseparable despite the rift. Both loved each other deeply.

The after dinner circuit beckoned but Charlton was still consumed with football, still infatuated with a game that had given him such a comfortable and prosperous living. When Preston North End came calling for a manager, Charlton didn't hesitate. He'd had no tangible experience as a football manager but the gamble had to be taken and so he took it. Sadly, Charlton and football management were completely incompatible and never the twain should have ever met.

In more recent years Charlton would become the leading founder of hundreds of children's coaching clinics in both England and abroad. The summer camps, the teaching of the game's rudiments and techniques were Charlton's lasting legacy to football. He would open up garden fetes, speak volubly and articulately about the boys of 66 and then express his eternal gratitude and appreciation to those who had been with him since he was a kid wet behind the ears.

And then finally there were the years of Manchester United as an observer from the directors box, the easily recognisable figure who sat admirably and faithfully next to his wife Norma. Charlton had fallen deeply in love with United. Of course he had. But Charlton was there to spread the word about United, a figurehead at the club, proud of the club's steadfast traditions, its beautiful narratives, the years of recovery and redemption, the lifting of trophies. We shall never ever forget Sir Bob. Sir Bobby Charlton, the most outstanding technician, the most accurate distributor of a ball, the most fearsome of shots, a player to cherish, the most stunning of gifts. You were English football's greatest.