Sir Bobby Charlton (left) and Des Lynam during Italia 90. Photo: Sport Scan
Sir Bobby Charlton has just completed career as a player when I first met him. He tried his hand as a manager at Wigan and Preston North End. It didn't last long. Genius is a non-transferable commodity.
So we met, and now I can admit that when we shook hands, I blushed. I'm even a little tongue-tied. You see, I carried with me the memories of his remarkable performances at the World and European Championships, those sensational goals, those lightning-quick strikes with both feet, those familiar little leaps into the air in controlled celebrations and touches of the foot. his hair on the back of his head.
Then I remembered the Munich plane crash, when he escaped with barely a scratch and some of his teammates and friends died. It was difficult for him not to feel guilty about his survival.
All this was running through my head as the unmistakable athletic figure approached. Now I can tell you that nothing much has changed over the past years. The thing is, of all the famous people I've been lucky enough to meet, Bobby, through no fault of his own, has always made me shy.
One day we were playing golf together at a charity tournament, and I thought that I could finally stand up for myself with a great man, restore a little dignity. We played out similar flaws. Don't you know that my game, which always took terrible revenge for every pleasure I got from it, decided to let me down again, and by that time I found myself ruining Sir Bobby Charlton's day by throwing him into several impossible positions in that , what he expected would be a relaxing foursome.
The last time I met Bobby was at the funeral of another great British sporting hero, Henry Cooper. We shook hands and inquired after each other's health, but kept it briefly before the presence of the great man again became too much for me. After all, I'm only human.
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