There is a statue of Bobby Moore that stands high upon a plinth outside Wembley Stadium. You’ve almost certainly seen it. His arms are folded, his foot is on the ball and he stares north across Stanmore and Edgware like a battle hardened sergeant-at-arms, calmly awaiting the enemy. Few statues have ever captured the public’s perception of their subject so well. It is unquestionably magnificent.
If that statue, stoic and commanding, is how you wish to remember Moore, if any deviation from that will cause you offence, then you really, really shouldn’t read this book. Don’t worry. Dickinson’s portrayal is not disrespectful. It does not seize upon untrustworthy sources in an effort to paint Moore as the sort of bounder who kicked kittens out of windows for cheap giggles. No, it’s far more dangerous than that. Instead, it paints Moore as a very ordinary and vulnerable human being.
Despite repeated complaints of illness, admissions that Moore would have thought of as admissions of weakness, his growing cancer wasn’t spotted until it was far too late. But it is in the final stages of the book, more so than at Wembley in 1966, when Moore’s character and dignity shines through.
Upon the book’s release, a handful of Moore’s old friends in the media were critical of Dickinson and you can understand why. These are not the usual stories you hear about England’s World Cup winning captain. The loyalty he inspired in those around him still runs strong. They do not want the legend to be humanised.
There will be those who find a sort of laddish glory in some of the wilder anecdotes. Moore, it transpires, once acquired a smart, peaked cap and wore it when driving his Jaguar drunk in the correct assumption that the police would be far less likely to stop a chauffeur. Rather less glory can be derived from the time that Moore once crashed his car into a bollard when he was a whopping three times over the limit and had his young son in the back seat. As manager of Southend United, Moore and his assistant Malcolm Allison got so drunk in a local pub that they forgot about the night’s game and turned up in a taxi, absolutely smashed, just 30 minutes before kick off.
It’s not a hatchet job. All of Moore’s strengths are well documented. His talent, his gift for leadership, his ability to settle the nerves of others. On numerous occasions while leading dignitaries down the line at Wembley, Moore would swap the names of his players around, introducing Jimmy Greaves as Roger Hunt, silently daring them to giggle. There are many reasons why his drinking, heavy even by the standards of the time, was tolerated.
Most interesting was Moore’s habit of turning the spotlight on everyone around him. Whether it was new faces or old friends, he would swiftly direct the conversation away himself, asking about families, holidays, work, anything at all. People thought he was attentive, and perhaps he was. But it was a tactic that maintained his privacy. Even those who were closest to him wondered if they ever knew him at all. And while that’s the sort of line that usually precedes dark revelations, that’s not the case here. Dickinson’s Moore is an excellent footballer and a sporting hero, but ultimately a very normal person.
After retirement and a string of disastrous business deals, Moore was shunned by West Ham and largely ignored by English football. It was his doctors, however, who failed him most grievously. Despite repeated complaints of illness, complaints that Moore would have thought of as admissions of weakness, his growing cancer wasn’t spotted until it was far too late. But it is in the final stages of the book, more so than at Wembley in 1966, when Moore’s character and dignity shines through. Only Moore’s statue could get through the final chapters without shedding a tear.
Dickinson’s book challenges the myth of Moore and, for that reason, has attracted criticism. But myths should be challenged and balance should be sought. Make no mistake, this was one of the finest books of 2014.
