Fave Players

I have admired many players over the years but I have never elevated anyone to the status of sporting idol. No footballers were Blu-Tak-ed to my wallpaper, nor stalked for autographs outside a ground. That’s not to say I didn’t have favourites. As a young Chelsea fan in the early Seventies, three stood out for me.

Although his national reputation was tarnished after a couple of mistakes during England’s World Cup quarter-final defeat in Mexico, Peter Bonetti was a long-time Blues favourite, making 600 appearances.  Gordon Banks prevented him gaining more than seven caps but ‘The Cat’ consistently lived up to his nickname whenever I watched Chelsea play on the telly, including the 1970 Cup Final against Leeds. My other two Chelsea faves also made telling contributions in that match and the subsequent replay. Ian Hutchinson was, in traditional parlance, an inside left. However, he was better known for his long throw-ins, propelled with a distinctive windmill action. It was one of these aerial bombs into the goalmouth which resulted in David Webb’s Cup winner. In that brutal game, marked by wild hacks and X-rated tackles, Hutch was the only man booked, for a frustrated push, having been kicked to pieces by Hunter, Bremner et al. If ever a career was encapsulated in a couple of matches, it was Ian Hutchinson’s.

Nudging ahead of them both was Charlie Cooke. As a winger, the Scotsman had the flair which tended to excite boys like me, taking on defenders, threading clever passes and producing crosses towards Osgood’s head, as in the ’70 Final replay. Hutchinson had the sideburns but Cooke the moustache and, for me, the greatest star appeal.

His contemporary, Peter Lorimer, also appeared in those classic matches, albeit on the opposing side. Something about his driving midfield style spoke to me, and then there was his fearsome right-footed shot, said to be the most powerful in the game. All his goals seemed to be spectacular 90mph thunderbolts from outside the area, the kind of finish we kids always tried to emulate – and failed. Watch Leeds’ third in their 1971 win over Man City for an inkling of what goalies had to contend with for two decades. 

In the early years of the Seventies, I had yet to transfer my full allegiance to QPR but was well aware of the mercurial, occasional combustible talent that was Rodney Marsh. He wasn’t quite George Best but he had superb ball control, could shoot and head and was instrumental in getting us promoted from the Third to First divisions I never quite forgave him for moving to Man City in 1972 for a fee Rangers found impossible to refuse. 

Dad, on the other hand, was a lifelong Southampton supporter, with countless childhood trips to The Dell and even a few after setting up home in Essex. He always waxed lyrical about the Saints’ Welsh centre-forward Ron Davies, to the extent that I would stick fingers in my ears and hope he stopped scoring. He wasn’t exactly a mobile striker but he was one of the most prolific goal machines of the late 1960s, absolutely lethal in the air. Dad also grew to love Mick Channon and Matt le Tissier but Ron was undoubtedly his adult self’s footballing hero.

Like me, Dad also had a very high regard for Peter Shilton even before the England ‘keeper joined the Saints for five excellent years in the Eighties. However, the closest any goalie has come to rivalling Bonetti for my own affections was Jussi Jaaskaleinen. A Bolton stalwart for fifteen years, he was neither the tidiest of ‘keepers nor the smartest – marked by his gloves’n’ rolled-up sleeve look. However, he was an accomplished shot stopper and nothing seemed to faze him, even having to face two Blackburn penalties in one match. No problem; he just saved both.

My football favours aren’t limited to those in the English leagues. The Brazilian midfielder and devastating dead-ball expert, Roberto Rivelino grabbed my attention in the 1970 World Cup. Nobody, not even Peter Lorimer, could blast it or bend it like Rivelino. A decade later, Michel Platini was probably the finest player on the planet. There have been superb playmakers, able to control the pace of a game, pass short and long. There have also been ace goal-scorers. The French maestro could do all the above, for club (specially Juventus) and country. In the 1984 Euros he banged in no fewer than nine in five games. He never seemed to over-exert himself, bossing the pitch without appearing to run or tackle. In other words, my kind of player!

I could never be as cool as Paolo Maldini but I used to enjoy watching him at left-back for AC Milan and Italy back in the Nineties, moving across to central defence in his thirties. He played an incredible 902 times for the rossonegri, plus a further 126  as part of the Azzuri.  He wasn’t perfect but I regard Maldini as one of the very few who made the dark arts of defending compulsive viewing.

Another Italian who has epitomised the notion of Mister (Signor?) Cool, Calm and Collected is Andrea Pirlo. For years, his face has seemed lined and gnarled as a septuagenarian Sardinian shepherd, which merely made his midfield masterclasses even more amazing. I missed the bulk of his Inter, Milan and Juventus years but in the blue of Italy, I couldn’t ignore his ability to wrong-foot an entire opposition midfield with a blink-of-an-eye turn or a pass. His performance against England in 2012 was a one-man exhibition of playmaking.

However, probably my favourite player of the past decade has to be Andres Iniesta. I first became aware of his genius in 2010, when his goal clinched the World Cup for Spain. I haven’t seen an awful lot of him in the red and blue of Barcelona, which he represented at every age group and at senior level for fifteen years before leaving in 2018, but when I watched him play for Spain, he seemed to be indulging in a different sport altogether. Having grown up with Xavi and Messi from the Barca youth academy, I suppose it’s inevitable he developed a near-telepathic understanding with his team-mates. All those intricate passes, the clever little sprints and understated finishing make him stand out for me, even above Messi himself. In any case, the Argentine has no need of any more followers so I claim the small, balding, always modest star as my own. Even I was a wee bit emotional watching Iniesta’s very last appearances on the telly earlier this summer. His legs may have gone a bit but his footballing brain was as sharp as ever.

  

Of course, as a QPR fan, there have been a number of players in the blue and white hoops to have caught my eye. I have already mentioned Rodney Marsh but, in the intervening years, I’ve been particularly fond of Trevor Sinclair and one of our more unsung heroes from the 2010s, Jamie Mackie.  

Speaking of unsung heroes, if a future football historian should study my souvenir programmes (as if!) he or she would perhaps decipher my squiggles to discover who I had selected as man of the match. It may be surprising to them, but not me, to observe the name Clive Wilson cropping up frequently. He was a solid, unflashy left-back who provided many a precise cross and even the odd goal. When QPR were relegated in 1996, I placed the blame squarely on the loss the previous season of manager Gerry Francis and Wilson just as much as our star striker Les Ferdinand.

‘Sir Les’ must be my favourite player of the Nineties. He had all the attributes of the perfect centre-forward: a direct runner with a fearsome shot and a fantastic header of the ball. And yet he wasn’t entirely conventional; he was under six feet tall. Yet he had the rare ability of being able to sustain the ‘hang’ in the air before timing the contact and picking his spot. On average, Les scored a goal every other game for Rangers, and probably more at the home games I attended. Additionally his aerial supremacy also resulted in numerous flicked assists for Allen, Gallen or Barker. Despite his subsequent transfers, it was inevitable that Les should eventually return to Loftus Road as director of football. That role may not last forever but his legendary status is permanent, as is his position as one of my all-time personal sporting paragons.