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Farewell Sir Bobby
So why should I, an interloper from Lancashire, with allegiances’ to the blue half of Manchester rather than the toon, want to intrude on a region’s grief for one of their favourite sons. Well, for one, I love enthusiasts, particularly sporting ones, and Bobby Robson’s passion and enthusiasm infected all those who met him. And whilst I love football - Bobby’s brand of football particularly – his zest for life was the thing that somehow drew me to want to pay my respects. I love people who, when they enter a room, light up the place. At St. James’ I was sat near the tea lady who was being interviewed by the BBC: “Always had time for people, always loved to talk, and always left me feeling he was interested in me.”
And, another thing about this afternoon: it helped me connect a little bit more with this city. A city that’s undergone phenomenal change in the last 50 years, yet whose heart still beats to a black and white rhythm. I think I understand the notion that sport, albeit fleetingly, can somehow transport ordinary people from their humdrum lives to a place of excitement and elation. To be in that stand today was to witness a gathering of people who somehow find their identity in that stadium. Which is why the young man in his hoody in front of me, and the older man in his fifties next to him, shed tears unashamedly, and clapped with gusto like the rest of us, to salute a man who embodied values that united people, inspired people, and, above all else, allowed them to dream.