Whenever I mention the f-word, I fear half of you won’t read on. However, this isn’t really about football. It’s about life and death, though not remotely in the Shankly-sense of football being more important than life or death.
What happened was that a famous footballer died – Trevor Francis. If you’re not into football, bear with me, please, as, for context, I need to explain that he was a brilliant player towards the end of the last century who somehow embodied a whole era in the game. For football fans of my vintage, especially those of us from the Midlands where he mostly plied his trade, his death has been most upsetting.
Generous, heartfelt tributes were paid, via media old and new. Some, admittedly, veered into that unbecoming territory where the tributes are as much about praise of the person paying the tribute as the subject of it: I knew him the best; he loved me the best; I played this small but key role in his success. You know the kind of thing. Each contribution seems to elicit something similar from someone else. It becomes a competitive sport. But then his family released a statement, which I heard read out on a radio sports bulletin. It’s quite something to be able to say that it will live as long in my memory as the man himself.
“Trevor Francis has died at the age of 69. He had a heart attack at his apartment in Spain this morning. On behalf of the family, this has come as a huge shock to everybody. We are all very upset. He was a legendary footballer but he was also an extremely nice person.”
What a masterpiece of concision. Less is more. He was a legendary footballer but he was also an extremely nice person. That is all. Beautiful, properly beautiful. I don’t know Trevor’s family, but if I did I would implore them to have these few achingly simple, sincere words on his gravestone.
Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
