Hail the odd couple

leave behind him great memories. In that final, Moore not only made two goals for Geoff Hurst, but a later digital map showed he covered virtually every single blade of the Wembley turf. His big rival and admiring friend Franz Beckenbauer said he was the greatest defender the game had ever seen. Johan Cruyff adored him. When all three met up it was a collection of football’s masters. Pele, the brilliant Brazilian, claimed Moore was his best pal – they both wore their genius easily, Moore appearing born to it. I once asked him of all the greats he faced, which gave him the most trouble. “Easy,” he said. “Johnny Quigley of Nottingham Forest.” Fingers were pointed at Moore because he liked a drink. But Bob was a chronic insomniac and needed encouragement to get his sleep. Once, in Moscow before a match against Russia, two FA councillors out for a stroll before breakfast, came across a sleeping figure on a park bench. It was their captain, and he had been there since before dawn. But what a player, what a man. People who bumped into him would take a step back in admiration that somebody so talented could be so normal. I have often seen others tongue-tied in his presence, dazzled by the aura of a golden gifted footballer and a great man.