BOBBY
MOORE
By The Person Who Knew Him Best
TINA MOORE
HarperSport an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London, SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperSport 2006
© Tina Moore 2006
The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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In the words of his adoring West Ham fans, Bobby Moore was a âtop geezerâ.
The fact that he left us at fifty-one years of age is downright unfair. His memorial service was held at Westminster Abbey - how fitting for the best England captain we have ever had and for us all to say goodbye to our national hero. It was a wonderful service. Franz Beckenbauer read a lesson and then it was my turn. I have never been so nervous in my life. I opened up with, âI usually say itâs nice to be here, but on this particular day it certainly isnât.â
What I thought happened was that God had arranged a football match in heaven and had said to St Peter, âGet me the best captain.â That, without doubt, was Bobby Moore.
He was a total gentleman and a very fair man, both on and off the pitch. He was a terrific companion who could have won the World Lager Drinking Championship three years running. He was totally let down by those small, envious men who controlled football on a national basis in those days. He was never once offered a job, a position as a football ambassador or just representing the England team. It was, and still is, a bloody disgrace. He deserved so much more from life. What a great Minister of Sport he would have made.
I once asked Pele about him. He said that Bobby wasnât a friend, he was a brother. After all these years I still canât believe that heâs gone and the phone is not going to ring and that voice at the other end will say, âHello, Jimbo, all well?â His sense of humour and his companionship and him just being Bobby Moore - oh, I do miss him.
Hereâs my Bobby now. Head up, sunlight on blond curls. Heâs been out there for nearly two hours but he looks so elegant and calm he might just have stepped onto the pitch.
Heâs chesting the ball down. A short pass to Bailie, who passes it back, socks down around his ankles. Bobby looks up. Where to now?
I can feel Judith Hurstâs fingers tighten on my arm. Out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of Geoff, exhausted but still instinctively heading for the German goal.
Oh Bobby, donât risk it. Big Jack Charltonâs screaming at you. No one can hear what heâs saying, all we can see is his Adamâs apple wobbling, but itâs what weâre all thinking. Weâre 3-2 up! Weâre in the final minute! Kick the % *#$ thing into the stands!
Judith and I are clinging to each other, the way weâve done for most of the game. Every conceivable emotion has been wrung out of us - pride, rapture, excitement, despair, euphoria, disbelief, hope, agony, exhilaration. We clenched our fists in anticipation when Martin Peters scored with twelve minutes to go. We plunged our heads in our hands when the Germans equalized with just moments of normal time remaining.
We watched the shot from Geoff bounce in off the crossbar in extra time. Or did it hit the underside and bounce out again? Wasnât it a goal after all? Judith was shouting, âItâs in, itâs in!â and I was backing her up with, âOh yes, itâs in!â The German supporters behind us were shouting back, âNo it isnât!â We must have sounded like the audience at a panto. But it was all right. Goal given. 3-2.