HSC RIP

I contributed to the death of Horatio Stratton Carter. This was entirely out of my own ignorance as I was new to Hull and had no idea that my appointment with a Mr Carter was actually the Mr Carter, very fondly known to his fans, friends and admirers as Raich. I remember the day of the appointment very well, more out of subsequent guilt and retrospective regret than anything. It was autumn, cold, wet and very much like the weather we fully expect from that season. I was on time as arranged at 11am prompt. In dealing with senior citizens I have a policy to arrive exactly on time even if that invariably means sitting in the car around the corner and waiting until the clock ticks around to the specified hour. Even if my shoes are scuffed, my hair dishevelled and my suit lapels a bit shiny with wear and tear there is nothing to impress those of that certain age more than being on time and polite. Mr Carter answered the front door upon my faint, deferential knocking. I introduced myself and explained what I intended to do as part of my instruction. I was invited in to the warm hallway but declined stating that I would prefer to make a start in case the weather worsened. Mr Carter peeked out into the inclement weather and commented ' It was always cold outside like this in my time....." It was the perfect set up line for me to enquire what he had done 'in his time' but no, I was too dense to pick it up and run with it. Some 15 minutes later after I had inspected the outside of his 1950's built bungalow I knocked again at the front door and conscientiously, after my garden foray, slipped off my shoes so as not to trail any mud and debris onto the carpet. Horror upon horror, I had not undone my laces when removing my shoes. I had however got away with it and had escaped the rebuke of a someone who obviously took great pride in his demeanour and appearance. Looking up in stockinged feet I found that I was staring at a large gilt framed oil painting of a footballer in an old fashioned woollen jersey. It was obviously of a character from the inter war sporting days from the hue and tint of the whole scene. Mr Carter took me on a tour of the principal rooms. In the living room I noticed some strange soft furnishings. These were like small cub scout hats but in blue, with white piping and the odd and incongruous attachment of a braided tassle. I dismissed this as being some sort of freemasonry attire and fearing the prospect of being recruited as fresh blood to that cause I scuttled away into another room. The dining room was a sparkle of silver. Trophies, platters, framed medals and certificates of certainly meritous deeds. I sensed that Mr Carter was eager to fill me in with the history of the memorabilia. Instead I think I asked him how old the central heating boiler was and was the bungalow fully double glazed. I unintentionally but absolutely blanked Mr Carter's attempts to tell me his back story.  Wrestling on my shoes, still laced up, and walking to the gate I waved lamely back to Mr Carter who now stood looking frail and forlorn. Behind his left shoulder, now noticeable rounded and defeatist, I made out a faint resemblance between his friendly wrinkled face and the strong mannerisms of the portrait.

My colleagues at the office ridiculed me something rotten at my account of the appointment with Mr Raich Carter. The portrait was of him in the heyday of his football career with Hull City and Sunderland. The great Stanley Matthews regarded Raich Carter very highly as a colleague and professional. The headgear, I had subconsciously counted more than a dozen, were his England Caps. The trophies and awards were in recognition of as exemplary a managerial career as that of his actual playing days. Raich managed his former Tigers and also brought John Charles to Leeds under his post there.

Raich Carter died , aged 80, in 1994 but I believe that I had been the instrument of his eventual passing through my insensitivity and lack of interest in his life and footballing times. It was though, on leaving his presence I had been the first to literally take away his ball and kick it into the bushes of what he perceived as impending obscurity.

He does however regularly have the last laugh at my expense. The dual carriageway on which I regularly travel in the course of my work is named in his honour. The Raich Carter Way wins every time.