Ronaldo, Romario, Gascoigne, Lineker... Sir Bobby guided them all to greatness

02 August 2009 11:24
The winter evenings always seemed colder in his corner of Suffolk, but Bobby Robson would emerge from the dressing room in a thin jacket, hands dug deep in pockets, breath billowing in the freezing air, ready to face the Press. Somebody would mumble a question and Bobby would answer at moderate length; head bowed, staring at the shoes of his audience. Then, because we knew our man, we would say nothing. A silence would descend for 10, 12, 15 seconds, until Bobby could stand it no longer. In he would plunge, head swaying and shoulders rolling, with stormy gusts of passion and perception. And we would scribble and smile, conscious of our privilege, aware that we were being given not just a story, but an education. Guardiola and Mourinho pay their respects to Sir Bobby Robson, a truly Special OneJEFF POWELL: He inspired devotion and forged a bond with his playersSir Alex Ferguson: There is no person I would put an inch above himSir Bobby Robson: Brave player, great coach... but most of all a true gent He would speak of his Ipswich players like a man reciting a litany: Burley, Mills, Beattie, Wark, Talbot. Joe Mercer once said of Bill Shankly that he 'thinks all his geese are swans'. So it was with Bobby. In later years, he would nurture some of the best that the game has known, from Shilton and Gascoigne, Lineker and Bryan Robson to Romario, Ronaldo, Figo and Shearer. But it was the Ipswich lads he would remember with most affection, for they helped him learn his trade and make his name. In 1978 he took them to the FA Cup final, where they overcame a fine Arsenal side. That was the final when Lady Blanche Cobbold, the chairman's mother, was asked if she would like to meet the Prime Minister. She thought for a moment and said: 'Actually, I'd rather have a gin and tonic.' Winning is a great habit to get into: Bobby Robson celebrates with his assistant Jose Mourinho and star striker Ronaldo after his Barcelona side won the European Cup Winners Cup in 1997 Last year, 30 years on, Bobby smiled at the memory. 'Wonderful day,' he said. 'I can still see Roger Osborne scoring the goal that won it. Smashing lad. We named our dog after him, you know.' He chuckled at the daft recollection, but the affection was strong. 'I loved the club and Iloved the chairman,' he said. 'He taught you things. I remember complaining about losing one day and I can hear John Cobbold saying, in that Old Etonian voice of his: 'Bob, you'll have to learn to take defeat because, by losing, we have given the other team the pleasure of winning''. And I looked at him, much as to say: 'Is he OK?'. But he meant it. 'He'd say to me: 'You must love the game beyond the prize because if there's no game, there's no prize anyway'.' In truth, those who saw Bobby play, for Fulham, West Bromwich Albion and England, recognised a man who embodied all the civilised values. Straight of back and high of head, he was an old-fashioned attacking winghalf, a persuader of passes. He played with them all, from Finney and Matthews to Greaves and Haynes. He won 20 caps and would tell you that he should have won a good deal more. But he knew when it was time to end his playing career, he sensed that coaching and management was his destiny, and he moved on with the urgency of one for whom time was precious. Bobby was born in Sacriston, County Durham, and raised in hard times by decent folk. He gave the game his all because that was the only way he knew. He also knew that he was an exceptionally talented teacher, and he found his rare failures hard to take;decades later, his voice could still break as he recalled the day when he learned from a newspaper placard that he had lost his first managerial job at Fulham. It was Ipswich who offered him his chance of redemption and history records how well he seized it. Through his time with the club, there was a natural temptation to portray him in simplistic terms; the young, passionate manager who infused willing players with his sense of purpose. But occasionally he would spend an hour or two with sympathetic scribblers and often his doubts would surface. Bobby did not possess the confidence of a Clough, the certainty of a Shankly, the subtlety of a Stein or the serenity of a Busby; all men he respected and even envied. But he had the wit to take the best from these remarkable people, to tailor their strengths to his own considerable virtues; not only a fine teacher but a diligent student. He treated the England job like a call to the colours. Simple patriotism played its part, of course, but far more than that was the chance to select from the finest players in theland; to mould, influence and develop the best the nation had to offer. I remember the day the England deal was done. Bobby looked like the kid with the keys to the sweet shop. The England story has been well chronicled. There was the disappointment and disillusion. There was the relentless criticism; some of it fatuous, much of it deeply wounding. And there was the heart-rending conclusion in the semi-finals of the 1990 World Cup, when the Germans took their largely undeservingtriumph in Turin, leaving Gazza in tears and a nation in shock. I watched Robson take his lonely leave that night, walking down the slopes of the stadium and into the dark tunnel, cursing his luck and searching for his transport. But still he obeyed the old pro's instincts; his back was straight, his head high. In many ways, the real merit of Bobby Robson was revealed over the next decade and a half. His gifts, we learned, were not parochial, they could flourish in the Netherlands, in Portugal and Spain. The trophies arrived in a clamorous clinking of silver as the manfrom Sacriston demonstrated his ability to handle the finest players, the most devious directors and the most demanding fans on the planet. There was only one job which could have brought him back. And, in retrospect, it was the only one he should never have taken. Newcastle United were the club of his boyhood and the ambition of his maturity. He held the post for five years, twice achieving Champions League qualification, but even then expectations ran far ahead of resources. In August 2004, just a few months after finishing fifth in the Premier League, he was sacked. It was the cruellest indignity. The rest of his story was ceaselessly inspirational. He continued to confront the cancer he had battled down the years. He used his name and reputation to raise funds for the fight. Where others might have shrunk from the public gaze, Bobby intensified his efforts and heightened his profile; pleading, cajoling, raising money by the million. If a man could have designed his departure from this world, then Bobby Robson wrote his own script. The title of 'national treasure' is too glibly awarded, but Bobby wasnothing less. He realised the truth of it on that December evening in 2007 when his friend, Sir Alex Ferguson, walked on stage at the BBC Sports Awards to present him with a lifetime achievement prize. The applause went on and on, great waves of warmth breaking upon his head. And we knew that those cheers were resounding across the nation. Typically, Bobby made a speech. An elegant and heartfelt speech. Along with his heroes and contemporaries Stein, Clough, Shankly, Busby and Ferguson himself Bobby had received the minimum of formal education. And yet, like them, he was wondrously eloquent, blessed with the ability to summon a phrase or articulate a thought when time was short and pressure intense. When it was over, he sat down with Elsie, the lady he had married more than 52 years earlier. 'Elsie,' he said, 'did I mention you in that speech?' 'You did, love,' she said. 'Well, thank goodness for that,' said Bobby. Then one of his sons texted him and said: 'Well done, Dad. Didn't they make a fuss of you!' And Bobby, recalling the moment, shook his head. 'It was just . . . I'll tell you, there's times when I can't believe what's happened to me.' For the past five years, he would write about such moments for The Mail on Sunday. And sometimes he would write harshly, critically, as if to counter the illusion that he was no more than a benevolent ancient, a man fearful of giving offence. At such times, his fiercest anger was reserved for those who, for reasons of greed or ego, had damaged the game he loved so well. For Bobby Robson was, above all else, a football man. He knew its idiocies and recognised its failings, but he also knew that it was a game worthy of serious men.He loved it not only for its fierce intensity, but for its devilment and its daftness. And the part he loved most of all was as a player; young and strong and unaware of all thepitfalls. A couple of years ago, weeks before the opening of the new Wembley, we took him to the stadium to seek his impressions. His health was frail and his movement slow, but he limped across the pitch, biting his lip and racking his brain. Then his face lit up. 'It was over there, just about there,' he said. 'England versusFrance 1957. My debut. Bryan Douglas on the byline and me in space.' He spread his arms, pleading for the pass. 'He played this lovely little ball,' he said. 'I had all the goal to aim at. And, know what? I buried it.' He remembered the celebrations, remembered the noise, remembered how he had been congratulated byDuncan Edwards, Roger Byrne and Tommy Taylor, three young men who were to die at Munich three months later. His face tightened for a second, then he pointed across the field, and the smile returned. '1961 . . . Denis Law kicked me, just over there,' he said. 'Right in front of the Queen. I've still got the scar. Worth it, though. England 9 Scotland 3. And Denis kicked me.' He threw back his head and roared at the marvellous nonsense of it all. For Bobby Robson revelled in that nonsense from cradle to tomb. And even as we mourn his passing, we give thanks for the fun and the glory, all the good and gleeful times. The nation has lost a treasure. And we have lost a beloved football man.

Source: Daily_Mail