Footie; Boys Owen

I was really into football as a kid.

Any spare moments were taken up with playing football, reading about football, counting my football cards, talking about football. I even got an Airfix 1:32 scale box of footballers one Christmas and painted them all in the kits and strips of the time. In the days pre-sponsorship, high tech fabrics and printing techniques most teams wore either red, white or blue shirts and with matching or contrasting coloured shorts and socks. Consequently it did not take much skill, imagination or time to complete the whole set.

Of course, in the 1970's and as illustrated by the pages in my collection album there were no black players in the English Leagues and so all the small figures were Humbrol flesh coloured.

I started to follow Chelsea but only because I had blue shorts and a blue T-shirt for school PE lessons. The thin white stripe on Chelsea's real team shorts was as iconic amongst the blandness of kits generally as would later be established and monopolised by the branded images Adidas, Le Coq Sportif and Umbro.

My first proper football strip was Liverpool in about 1971. All red and with the Liver Bird badge on the breast I felt like a million pounds. Such a huge figure pales into insignificance in the modern game.

It was fully expected for me to hate Leeds United's team of the early 1970's, also Arsenal but I respected Derby County and that character of a manager that they had in Brian Clough.

My favourite player was Kevin Keegan. A pocket rocket frizzy haired lad from near Doncaster who personified athleticism and skill and all in a frame at about five and a half feet tall. He really stood out in a crop of otherwise pretty good home grown British players and this was endorsed by the accolade of European Player of the Year and a distinguished playing career with Hamburg in the Bundesliga. He was certainly one of the first really merchantable assets in the game but I expect that even today he has to count the pennies as although well reimbursed for his effort his annual wage would be the equivalent of a weekly wage for current top flight players.

A few years ago I got to meet a professional player from the 1960's. As with many of his peer group his career path after leaving the game included stints running pubs, clubs, racing stables or just any business that could sustain a lifestyle. One of his contemporaries ended up in prison for unwittingly or otherwise running a brothel behind the façade of a nightclub. I was too young to have seen him play but his reputation for being a hard man, uncompromising but ruthless in front of goal had established him as a local hero. I even seem to think that he had been a one team man rather than hawking his services around to those who could better his current wage. The stooping, arthritic figure who struggled to get across the hallway of his house was a sad sight. As he remarked, you had to be tough in his day because there was nothing like the level of support services, dietary, medical, psychological and financial as there are now. I was pleased to see him next at the newly built stadium of his beloved team in his club blazer, lording it up in an official capacity as a match-day host for the guests and visiting dignitaries. He looked fit, healthy, upright and positively sprightly. He had obviously taken a drink before his duties but then again nothing will have changed over 40 years or so with the public bar being an extension of the training ground..

These reminiscences are stronger today with the announcement by Michael Owen that he is to retire at the end of the 2013 season.

I had lost interest in football by the time he burst onto the scene, debuting for Liverpool in 1997, at the age of 17 years old. The big business domination, sponsorship and above all the disproportionate levels of incomes for the top players compared to their fans were massive disincentives for me to discontinue my obsession with football. It was the loss of innocence in the beautiful game as though even my diminutive Airfix footballers had sold out.

Michael Owen was, don't get me wrong, in the team on merit. He was of quicksilver pace, lighting reflexes, first touch perfect and predatory in the penalty area. All of these attributes in someone who looked like a choir boy.

He endeared himself to the followers of the English style. His ascent in the league and a debut goal against Wimbledon in May 1997 soon had him earmarked for the National team and he became, at that time, the youngest to play for his country and also score. Two matches are cited as his best. A hat trick in the 5-1 away win over Germany in September 2001 and, three years earlier, that mesmerising, mazey run and goal in the World Cup versus Argentina. Many recall that goal and forget the misery of losing the actual game.

Riches cascaded down with a reputed, possibly minimum, wage of £70,000 a week, the purchasing power to acquire a cul de sac of houses for his family and close relatives, race-horses and prestigious and classic cars. Owen did remain in sight of his roots and married his school sweetheart. He was popular in the tabloids but thankfully only for his sporting prowess although childrens BBC TV did run a story about his love of gambling and alleged losses.

He managed to retain his role model status throughout. His roll of honour is impressive but rather fizzled out through injury and being sidelined at Barcelona, Newcastle, Manchester United and Stoke City. Extra-curricula activities involved TV adverts for a Nestle cereal, Persil wash powder, Jaguar and Tissot watches. He is knowledgeable about his sport but a bit wooden in his presentation when summoned as a pundit and expert.

In retirement, at 34, he has potential to do great things if he wants to. He may be spared the role of managing a club side which does not suit all ex-players. Not for him running a public house, sports bar or nightclub as befell many of his predecessors out of necessity rather than choice. I do hope that he does not find himself at the beck and call of celebrity agents to open a supermarket, eat grubs in the jungle or other menial tasks which that relentless stream of 'B'  Listers have turned down as being cheap and beneath them. He might be quite good coming in from the wings in the Pantomime season.

If Mr Owen has a desire to put something back into the sport which has given him a very decent living, thank-you, then what better form of service than offering to take the poverty stricken, wizened, creaky and fragile of limb Old Professionals out for the occasional day trip or excursion in his helicopter?