Sir Bobby Robson RIP
Sir Bobby Robson, the most popular man in English football, died earlier this morning. Having successfully overcome cancer a staggering four times, Sir Bobby was diagnosed with terminal cancers in his lungs in 2007. His death marks the passing of one of sport’s true gentlemen and will be felt particularly here in Ireland, where he spent two years as part of the international management team.
I had the good fortune of meeting the man on his first engagement as international football consultant: a 3-0 win over Sweden on a bitterly cold March night at the old Lansdowne Road. Having wrangled myself a pass to the player’s lounge afterwards, I made a giddy circuit of the room, stopping schmoozing players for their photographs, autographs and the odd word of conversation. In a squad with few stars, it went without saying that the masses of snot-nosed children were concentrated in dense swarms around Robbie Keane, Shay Given and Damien Duff, enabling my access to less celebrated heroes.
A ripple of oohs and ahhs announced the arrival of each new player from the dressing-room, tides of youngsters ebbing this way and that as one would arrive and another would be spotted the far side of the room. Bobby Robson managed to sneak in under the radar, but hadn’t even made it as far as the bar before he was surrounded by the gaggle of green-shirted youngsters jostling for position. My initial reaction was one of concern: it had been a particularly freezing night and he looked pinched despite his woollen coat and apt green scarf. I found myself surprised by all the extra lines in his face, so much more worn than the bright lights of camera flashes allowed, so haggard compared to that suntanned smile from the photos of Italia ’90 that I kept stored in my mind’s eye. The West Stand of Lansdowne Road is no place for a 73 year old on an icy night like this, I told myself.
My image of the frail pensioner was swiftly and gloriously shattered a moment later when one of the hair-gelled ten year olds shoved a match programme under Bobby’s nose, loudly requesting that he sign it.
“I don’t sign anything for you ’til you say please” came the reply.
The boy gave a startled smirk, looking mildly disorientated before repeating that he wanted Bobby to sign the brochure for him.
“I know you want me to sign it and I’m telling you I ain’t going to sign anything unless you ask nicely and say please. Have a bit of manners”.
Chastened, the boy managed a considerably more polite effort. Bobby duly obliged.
“Now, there you go, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
The boy walked away with his brochure in his hand and a few gruff Geordie words in his ear, probably too young to realise that he had just entered the exalted company of Gascoigne, Romario and the countless other young men to whom Bobby Robson had laid down the law. Suddenly the pinched frail old man standing before me was a proud, battle-hardened warrior, a man from the North East who’d seen more cold nights and cheeky youngsters than I’d had hot dinners.
“Excuse me Sir Bobby, would you mind if I got a photo with you please?”
“’Course I don’t mind son.”
A gentleman, legend and hero. Rest in peace Bobby.
Simon Cox and James McClean will emerge as the headline names from an underwhelming 1-1 draw against the Czechs, but it was another assured performance from Jonathan Walters that should really grab the limelight. The Stoke City man appeared from the bench with 20 minutes remaining and his strength, intelligence and movement immediately transformed the Irish attack. His first touch of the game set up Paul Green to work the goalkeeper, his next created an opening for Andrews and for the remainder his work rate and positioning was such as to make the often directionless long ball tactic look like a viable means of picking the lock. Cox will take the plaudits, but it was the presence of Walters as the focal point of Ireland’s attack which provided the foothold in the final third from which the goal came. Continue reading 
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