YOU didn’t need to have ever met or even spoken to Graham Taylor to piece together a fairly detailed picture of his life from the many and varied tributes that poured in following the former England manager’s death the other day.
The reviews were almost entirely positive. Perhaps that was to be expected. The old adage of “if you can’t say something nice, say nothing at all” is never more apt than at the time of someone’s passing. Obituaries that resemble a list of grievances tend to be somewhat thin on the ground, even if those in that line of work must be hugely tempted at times.
The tone of the accolades paid to Taylor, however, seemed heartfelt. They tended to fall into two categories. Some praised him for his vision, ability and knowledge as a football manager. The rest focused on the more personal angle, offering a glimpse of what he was like as a seemingly decent, honest and approachable person for those of us who never knew that side of him. It is perhaps that latter tranche of tributes that will give most comfort to his wife and family at what must be a difficult time.
It is among the richest of ironies that only in death are the personalities and achievements of the famous fully revealed to us. We learn things that had either been long since forgotten or remained undiscovered throughout their lives, aspects that tend to enhance already glowing reputations. We look at them anew from a fresh perspective and mourn their passing even more. If only they were still alive, we mutter. We would have treasured them more.
They tend to only put up statues to the deceased but perhaps we need to start appreciating more our erstwhile role models, heroes and influential figures while they are still with us. Taylor’s death was sudden as a result of a suspected heart attack. Among the many regrets at this time may be the lack of opportunity to draw further from his well of football knowledge before he died, although he was often found offering his views on the game on both radio and television.
It is a morose business trying to estimate anyone’s expected mortality, especially given life is such a capricious business, but Taylor’s death and the response to it should serve as a further sign that we need to show greater appreciation of the living while they are still around.
That is not to say we start checking up on elderly former players and managers, turning up at their homes en masse to make the sure the milk bottles aren’t piling up on the doorstep or that their mail isn’t falling out of a stuffed letterbox onto the street. But many of those who made their living in what can safely be considered Scottish football’s golden era of the 1960s and 1970s still have a story to tale, and an audience that will be grateful to hear it. The numbers that poured into the Armadillo in Glasgow last weekend to listen to Willie Henderson, Tommy Docherty and John Greig recount tales and anecdotes from their careers offer proof of that.
Some former players have already been recognised appropriately for their feats. Most football clubs have a Hall of Fame where erstwhile heroes have their name belatedly put up in lights for posterity. Others employ some of their old boys as matchday hosts, entertaining hospitality guests while they tuck in to their lunch before a game. There are many others who should be treated similarly, with stories to tell and minds to tap into. The biggest regret when they leave us will be not having done so more often.
THE people who produce Golf magazine and the Golf.com website don’t appear to be satirists or big on parody which makes you wonder what they were thinking when they proudly rolled out their list this week of the “Most Beautiful Women in Golf”.
The argument by one of those featured in it that they were simply promoting the fact that “women golfers can be feminine, athletic and love the sport” fell apart fairly quickly when it was revealed that some of those on the list weren’t actually LPGA golfers, but the wives or daughters of male golfers, a TV reporter, and a Miss America winner who happens to like the sport. And at this point you have to check the calendar to make sure it really is 2017.
If the magazine should hang his head in shame for such retrograde, cringe-worthy stuff, then those professional golfers who agreed to the glossy, glamour shots have hardly forwarded the cause of the women’s game either. We can only hope there will be never be a male equivalent, not even in jest. Can you just imagine Andrew “Beef” Johnston prancing around in his Speedos?
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