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.
