Farewell Butch, my teenage idol

MY mobile phone has the numbers of eight people who have died. While I’m certain that number will grow, the phone numbers must remain. They can never be deleted. No more than you can wipe your mind clean of the memory of a family member, friend or work colleague who has passed away. I never had a phone number for Ray Wilkins. There was a time in my life when I loved him, respected him. I also wanted to be him, of course. But mostly I just loved the man who passed away on Wednesday at 61 years of age. When I was a teenager, Ray Wilkins made me proud. A Chelsea fan through and through, I was surrounded by nothing but Arsenal and Liverpool and Manchester United supporters. But what other club had a team captain who was 21, who looked cool and handsome, who had the nickname ‘Butch’? None. I was the only Chelsea supporter in the whole world (my whole world being rural Meath in the mid-70s). I had a special relationship with Ray ‘Butch’ Wilkins. I could run on to our local GAA field in the Chelsea jersey I had mail-ordered from the pages of Shoot magazine and play a game of soccer. I could tell everyone I was Butch Wilkins (we all had to be somebody) and I could be full sure that nobody was going to take the mickey. Of course, Ray Wilkins would eventually leave Chelsea. He ended up playing for 11 different clubs in his career. In his later years, he had his troubles in life as he balanced coaching teams with his duties as a TV and radio analyst. He also lost his unruly tuft of brown hair along the way. In his appearances on TV, he favoured a shaven head. He wasn’t the best analyst around. He also wasn’t the greatest coach. Respect: Ray Wilkins It was as though he had worked with too many teams and far too many people, and didn’t want to offend anyone with a stray comment shot straight from the hip. He was no Gary Neville, for example. But he was always Butch, the greatest midfielder of all time, and forever. And ever. No argument.