The Throwback

In the first minute when Bobby launched a sliding tackle that nicked the ball away from the England skipper just as he was lining up a shot; John Motson enthused “There is Jones – he really is a throwback to another era!”

Although, Bobby cringed when he heard this comment during the Match of the Day highlights package, deep within he knew that it was true. He was a throwback – at 34, he’d only ever played for one club – his hometown team and the one he’d supported as a lad. A one club professional – there weren’t many of them anymore – even fewer since Tony Adams had retired. When Bobby retired at the season’s end would he be the last?

Bobby’s club was traditionally one of the most successful in England. But Bobby’s time as a pro had coincided with a dip in performance. There’d been cups, and a position, almost by right, amongst the top six in the Premiership, but Bobby had never won a Championship.

All seasons begin full of promise, and hope, but often there is nothing to back up this belief. This season was different – as it began there was an air of expectation – they’d finished strongly last time ending up second, and the manager had bought wisely over the summer, strengthening the side’s weak points with quality players. In August, they hit the ground running – winning games comfortably and by October were five points clear at the top. That optimism now seamed an age ago.

The team’s form had dipped faster than a Latin American economy. They had been dumped out of the Champions League by a bunch of Scandinavian part-timers and hadn’t won a league game in months. Plummeting to seventh, they even sat below their perennially underachieving local rivals.

Bobby had spent most of the poor run on the bench. His place filled by a French Under-21 international. As he watched his colleagues lose to North-Eastern nonentities or scraping a draw with a gang of Cockney chancers, he was livid. These players had sublime skills, certainly more skill than Bobby could muster, and earnt as much in a week as his mates on the terraces did in a year. But where was the commitment? Or the passion? The team would go a goal down and knock the ball around seemingly believing that an equaliser would come through divine right. Didn’t these players care? Didn’t they realise what this club meant? Didn’t they know it’s history?

Last week, after another ****-poor performance, Bobby lost it in the changing-room. All the feelings of the previous few weeks spilled out. He ranted and raved, reminded the multimillionaire misfits of their responsibilities, kit-bags were kicked and a table overturned. Anything to make an impression - anything to make them care or show a bit of character.

On Monday, Bobby was summoned to the manager’s office. He expected the worst – his outburst had been reported in the Sunday Papers, he’d breeched club discipline and was expecting to be fined, stuck in the stiffs, or transfer listed. But no, the manager agreed with him, and Bobby was gonna start to inject a bit of spirit into the team.

When matchday came Bobby played like a man possessed. The following morning’s papers provided the stats. He d attempted more tackles than the rest of his side combined, winning over 90%. His pass completion percentage was well over 80. He had cleared off his own line twice and mustered his side’s only shots on target.

The consensus, amongst the fans and pundits was that Bobby had “played a blinder”. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for his teammates. Nothing Bobby had said the previous week had made a difference. The old malaise continued – it was a passionless, insipid and error strewn performance. Passes were misplaced, crosses made that failed to clear the first defender, and challenges were entered into half-heartedly.

Following the first minute tackle that Motty had greeted so enthusiastically, Bobby played a simple ball to the full-back, who under hit his backpass to the keeper, allowing the opposing striker to intercept and tuck the ball away for a soft early goal.

Midway through the first period Bobby made an inch perfect cross, that the centre-forward only needed to touch to force an equaliser. The player, a star few months previously in the World Cup, somehow contrived to entangle his gangly legs and trip, allowing the ball to trickle out for an opposition throw. They went in for the interval three goals down.

Again, Bobby raged in the dressing room – “Show some pride for Christssake !” But it was all too evident that his words meant nothing to his colleagues, who ignored him, and carried on adjusting their kit or taking on fluids.

It’s a strange and wonderful element of football (that I don’t’ know applies in other sports) that no matter how badly the team or you as an individual are playing, there is always one moment of perfection – it might be a well timed tackle or a nicely weighted pass, but there is always something, to look back on, where you can say to yourself, “at least I did that well”.

For Bobby, it came early in the second half, he broke down an opposition attack, on the edge of his own box, with a crunching tackle, and finding himself in space, and still seething from the indifference his teammates had shown to his halftime call to arms – Bobby thought “sod it”. And set off alone, up field.

Maybe it was the steely look in his eyes or his determined gait but for the first time in the match the opposition began to back off. Shaking off a token challenge from the centre back, Bobby was left with only the keeper blocking his path to the opposition goal. The goalie came out, to narrow the angle but, Bobby dropped his shoulder, faking to go left. Then with the outside of his boot he steered the ball to the right, leaving the keeper clutching at thin air. All that was left was to gently roll the ball across the goal- line.

Bobby didn’t celebrate his wonder goal, he simply jogged back to the centre circle. The job was far from finished. Inspired by Bobby’s example his team rallied, they began to pay the beautiful one touch football that was his team’s traditional trademark. They even created a few half chances. But it was only a brief revival and the old problems were soon reapparent. The team lost 1-6.

Bobby was in the centre circle when the final whistle was sounded. With that he was unable to influence the game anymore and sank to the floor. Drawing his knees up to cover his face, all the bitterness of this defeat welled up and Bobby began to cry caustic tears.

Of course Bobby was embarrassed at weeping publicly, he just couldn’t face his colleagues yet. Although his performance had been exemplary and he had nothing to reproach himself for, somebody had to pay a public penance for this debacle. This great and noble club had been humbled with barely a murmur.

Bobby sat in the centre circle head bowed, trying to compose himself. He was the only one who cared about this club, the rest of the team were probably already onto their agents, trying to secure a big money move. The manager appeared aloof and unconcerned. Whilst the board only had eyes for the balance sheet. No Bobby was the only one who gave **** and he’d just proven that he couldn’t turn things around on his own. Maybe he should just accept it and play out his final season. What happened after he was gone was someone else’s problem.

Then he heard it “Walk on, walk on with hope in your heart and You’ll never walk alone, You’lllllllll never walk alone”. Although Bobby was now alone on the pitch, he was far from alone in the stadium. The crowd had stayed and were singing that peculiarly beautiful harmony that only thousands of none singers at a football match can produce.

As Bobby got to his feet he was still crying but now they were tears of joy. Only a moment ago he’d thought that he alone cared about the club and it’s heritage but he was wrong – there were 50,000 others who cared about just as deeply. It wasn’t only the home fans singing – the opposition fans, perhaps moved by the traditional values Bobby had shown or perhaps recognizing qualities in Bobby’s performance that recall their own erstwhile heroes, were joining in as lustily as the home fans, even the radio commentators and ex-pros in the Press Box – their days work done, were standing to applaud.

Bobby began jogging round the pitch to demonstrate his appreciation to the crowd, raising his hands above his head to clap the fans, hugging people near the touchlines , even throwing his boots and shirt into the stands. By now the chant had changed “There’s only one Bobby Jones, One Bobby Jones, One Bobby Jones, There’s only one Bobby Jones.”

It was with this chant ringing in his ears, and after pausing at the pitches edge for one last acknowledgement of the fans, that Bobby disappeared from sight, jogging purposefully down the tunnel, to knock some heads together in the dressing room.