Obviously Bobby couldn’t be an England player for ever. He was 33. Even so, virtually everyone in the country took it as read that England would qualify for the 1974 World Cup in West Germany. The attitude was that they were still one of the best sides in the world, with the best goalkeeper in Gordon Banks and the best captain in Bobby Moore.
Besides, if any man could put up a fight against the march of time, it was my Bobby. He had a marvellous constitution, his game had never depended on pace and he still put so much discipline and commitment into his training that he might have been an ambitious youngster trying to push his way into the first team.
He remained incredibly weight-conscious. On the occasional days when he over-indulged himself with some normally forbidden culinary delight, he would cut back totally the day after. If we were in a bar having a drink, he would count out twelve peanuts, never more, never less.
That was his ration and he was sticking to it. I, of course, finished off the rest.
As well as being so controlled and disciplined, he was also almost supernaturally strong. I think both of us believed he was invincible.
In summer 1973, England flew out behind the Iron Curtain on a tour that began with their World Cup qualifying tie against Poland. It was always going to be a huge challenge. The Polish supporters were passionate and fervent and they had jam-packed the stadium in Katowice in the hope of fireworks from Wlodi Lubanski, the quickest and deadliest striker in European football. They got what they wanted in the first few minutes of the second half.
Poland had already gone one-up with a goal that was claimed by their Number 7 although in fact the ball brushed against Bobby and spun off him into the ground before it flew up inside the near post off Peter Shilton’s shoulder. No one could blame Bobby for that one. Peter was beaten and Bobby was just making the classic defender’s last ditch stand. In any case, there was plenty of time left. Alf Ramsey called all the players around him at half time and said, ‘Gentlemen, if we keep plugging away we’ll get some sort of result. A draw at least.’
Instead, Bobby went back out and made a bad mistake straightaway. He called for the ball from Roy McFarland but Lubanski was closing on him quickly. It wasn’t ever Bobby’s way just to boot the ball into the stands so he glanced up to check where he wanted it to go. Lubanski pounced and took it off him to score. It put Poland two goals up and knocked the stuffing out of England. To make a bad night worse, Alan Ball was sent off.
That night in Katowice was the low point of Bobby’s footballing life. Eight years before, he had been England’s hero. Now, with his manager and the rest of the team, he was being pilloried in the papers. I felt so badly for him.
Normally the England team wouldn’t have known about the contempt in which they were being held by the gentlemen of the press, because British newspapers never got behind the Iron Curtain and phone connections were poor. But this time the British Airways charter plane had gone back to London before the next stage of the trip. When it returned to Poland to take the team on to Moscow, the English papers were on board. The cabin crew innocently distributed them among the players, who after reading the scathing verdicts on their performance were so upset that they decided not to say any more to the press.
Somehow, Nigel Clarke had to produce Bobby’s column for the Daily Mirror. He trudged on foot from the media hotel to England’s and stood outside shouting, ‘Mooro!’ at the upper windows.
Eventually one of them opened, and Bobby stuck his head out.
‘What am I going to put in your column?’ shouted Nigel.
‘Tell them I’m gutted!’ shouted down the normally guarded and press-conscious Bobby, and closed the window.
Bobby’s habitual insomnia kicked in during the very hot and humid nights that followed. There was no air-conditioning and after tossing and turning for a second successive night, Bobby was so fed up that he got up, tucked a newspaper under his arm and went out for a predawn walk and some fresh air. After he had walked round the park for a while, he sat down on a bench and started to peer at the paper. Soon he dropped off to sleep. The next thing he knew was that the sun was shining brightly and two FA officials who had gone out for a stroll after breakfast were staring at him with outraged disbelief.
Bobby sat up, pushing aside the newspaper that had fallen across him. ‘Good morning,’ he said.
The officials went storming back to the hotel where one announced disgustedly, ‘I’ve just seen our captain asleep in the park like a tramp.’
The mood in the England camp lifted a bit. The players fell about laughing when they got to hear about it. Not so the stuffy and stiff establishment characters in the FA. They didn’t see the funny side at all. Neither did they know about Bobby’s habit of getting up at night and wandering the streets if he couldn’t sleep. They only saw the England captain asleep on a bench and were appalled. I feel sure that this was one of the reasons Bobby was excluded from the FA hierarchy after his football career was over.
After the match against the USSR, won 2-1 by England, the team went on to Turin for a friendly against Italy. It was going to be the first time Bobby had faced them and was special because it coincided with Bobby’s 107th full international appearance, a record. Alf made an exception to his usual practice and announced Bobby as captain well before the team declaration. That gave Bobby the chance to receive a presentation from the press, a Capodimonte china ornament. Someone had a sense of humour - the ornament featured a tramp on a bench feeding a bird.
The match wasn’t worthy of the occasion. Another mistake by Bobby led to one of Italy’s goals in their defeat of England. Bobby sat up all night drinking with Alan Ball and some of the press corps. Just after six in the morning, the England amateur team came down into the foyer. They were on tour as well, and just about to set off by coach to their next fixture. Bobby sent them on their way with three bottles of champagne. No one could have known from his demeanour how much he minded the depths to which his England prospects had plunged. But behind the mask, he was distraught.
Back home in Chigwell, waiting for him to return, I wasn’t completely aware at first of how badly things had gone wrong for him. In fact, I was far more preoccupied with the latest domestic crisis - Dean and Roberta had had a fight. Although Dean was younger than Roberta by three years, he was tall and strong like his daddy. Roberta, on the other hand, was small and fine-boned and she had come off the worse in their rough and tumble. Her arm was hurt and I was terrified that she had broken it. She needed to get to hospital quickly.
In the middle of this chaos, Bobby arrived. He had Alan Ball in tow. Both of them had had a few - rather more than a few, in fact.
‘How could you let yourself get in such a state?’ I said angrily, as he flopped into a chair in his bar. He said nothing, just leered up at me.
There wasn’t time for a full scale row to develop, thank goodness - Roberta’s injured arm was too important. I dashed off to casualty with her, leaving Bobby and Alan commiserating with each other.
The next day, when he’d sobered up and started talking about how badly he’d played, I wished I’d been more sympathetic. No wonder he’d got blind drunk - it was the only way he could blot out the pain.
It was rare for him to bare his soul because he was normally so good at compartmentalizing things. I realized how desperate he was feeling. He was really anxious. He was horrified by his mistake against Lubanski and kept going over it with me. He was worried that his reactions weren’t so sharp and that he was slipping.
‘I think I’ve blown my chances of ever playing for England again,’ he said. ‘I should have been in control of the game and I wasn’t. I feel I’ve let everyone down - Alf, the lads, the country.’
I tried desperately to reassure him, but it was hard to reach him. Even as I reminded him of all his caps, I thought, ‘What a futile exercise. He doesn’t need to hear about what he’s achieved in the past. He wants to know if he’s still got a future.’
It was into this period of despair that Brian Clough barged.
‘Is that Bobby Moore?’ said the familiar nasal tones at the other end of the phone. ‘Now then, young man, I hear you’re interested in winning a League Championship medal.’
Brian knew exactly which buttons to push. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’ said Bobby.
‘Would you play for Derby County?’
‘Yes, why not?’
‘That’ll do me.’
Brian and his assistant, Peter Taylor, had turned Derby County around. Although it wasn’t one of the money clubs like Manchester United or Arsenal, it had won the League Championship in 1972 and Brian was still the manager of the moment. He was dashing and cavalier and he broke the rules - just the man to shake up the stuffy, creaking structure that was English football. Bobby agreed to meet Brian for lunch at the Churchill, an upmarket hotel where the Derby team stayed when they had a London game.
Bobby was there in time to witness Brian’s arrival in a gold Rolls Royce. After a drink in the bar, they headed towards the dining room where the maître d’ tried to refuse Bobby admittance because he was dressed in a casual shirt and sweater.
‘My team,’ said Brian to the maître d\ ‘will never stay here again if my player can’t come into this restaurant.’
‘Hang on, Brian,’ said Bobby. ‘I’m not your player yet.’
‘Shut up,’ said Brian. ‘You’re my player. That’s no trouble. I’ll ring Ron Greenwood right away and sort it out.’
Bobby raised an eyebrow and followed Brian in. After they sat down to read the enormously expensive haute cuisine menu, Brian attracted the waiter’s attention. ‘Have you got any mushy peas?’ he shouted.
Then he leaned across the table and fixed Bobby with a mesmerizing glare. ‘I can make you play better than you’ve ever played,’ he said.
He didn’t need to say any more. Bobby was riveted.
‘He must have hypnotized me,’ he said when he talked it over with me later. ‘All I can see is a white shirt with a ram on the chest. I love the man. I love him for wanting me.’
There would have been drawbacks to a Derby move. Either we would have to uproot the children from their schools and move as a family, or Bobby would have to commute, spending part of the week in London and the rest in the Midlands.
I knew that being away from his home turf so much would be a challenge for him. He liked being in London, among his own people and close to his business interests. But all the drawbacks were outweighed by the prospect of him feeling motivated and enthusiastic again, and I was all for him accepting Brian’s offer.
Ron Greenwood, unfortunately, wasn’t.
Not long after the meeting at the Churchill, Brian and one of the Derby directors paid a visit to Upton Park. ‘I want a chat with you,’ said Brian. ‘Got any whisky? I’ve come to take Bobby Moore off your hands.’
‘No chance whatsoever,’ said Ron.
‘I’ll give you £400,000 if you throw Trevor Brooking in as well.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ said Ron.
‘Every man’s got his price,’ said Brian.
‘There’s no point going on,’ said Ron. ‘They’re not available, Brian. But I’ll pass your offer on to the board.’
Needless to say, both Bobby and Trevor Brooking stayed at West Ham.
Would going to Derby have brought Bobby that Championship medal? Brian was a specialist at bringing the best out of players who were past their first youth and if he had stayed at Derby instead of resigning after a fall-out with the board in October, it might well have done. Instead, Brian went on, via Brighton and Leeds, to achieve great things with Nottingham Forest.
Brian’s own football career had been cut short at 29 and I think that fed his ability to resurrect careers that seemed to be over. In spite of his brash, abrasive reputation, he had a huge streak of compassion. He knew what it was like to feel written off and how unfair it was when you had so much left to give. He really understood how crestfallen Bobby was about his declining career. Even though the move never happened, just knowing that Brian admired him and wanted him gave Bobby a huge boost of confidence.
When Brian died after a long period of illness in October 2004, the game lost one of its most original, dynamic figures. As a motivator of players he was exceptional, winning the European Cup, forerunner of the Champions League, twice with Forest.
Brian had his demons and in later years a drink problem forced his premature retirement, but he was a good man and he touched Bobby’s life in a very positive way.