There is a certain mystique about the stars of the sporting world. In some respects it is now just too much information to know that they have a private life but the media world are wholly obsessed with exposing and exploiting the new levels of celebrity which go hand in hand with sporting elitism.
I grew up to respect a sports star for their prowess in their chosen discipline and not for dancing skills, nocturnal or extra marital activities or fisticuffs with the paparazzi. My childhood sporting heroes were mainly footballers and I would avidly collect the small sixpence and then post decimalisation 2.5p packets of collectors cards. The earliest I recall were for the 1970 World Cup in Mexico and I did, through careful conservation of my pocket money manage to fill the complete album from the double spread of the England team, Banks, Astle, Hurst, Ball, Thompson, the Storey Moore brothers, amongst others through to the best of the National teams of Brazil, Italy and West Germany.
I clearly recall the TV series on the BBC of 'Superstars' where the main personalities of the day were pitted against each other in a sort of modern decathlon of events. The mix of stars could not be replicated today on the basis of contractural obligations, health and safety and insurance cover. Footballers were humbled regularly by athletes, boxers, judo players and motor racing drivers. The popularity amongst viewers was immense,with around 10 million at its peak, only topped by the respect earned by the season winners or best underdogs.Kevin Keegan increased his stock and standing considerably by going on to win his heat, bloodied and bruised after a bad fall in the cycle road race event.
In pursuit of my own favourite football stars I had been caught up in the collecting frenzy and progressed from the World Cup to the English First Division in the 1970-71 season. The album, half A3 in size, cost 2 shillings and sixpence or using the metric conversion table on the inside back cover as a subversive educational medium for the transition, 12.5 new pence. Teams in the top Division included Huddersfield Town and the frequently up an downers in the promotion and relegation stakes of Blackpool, Burnley,Crystal Palace, Derby, the mighty Leeds and West Ham. The drawback in successfully filling an album was the large number of swaps that were inevitably accumulated. In the hubbub of the busy school playground there was the atmosphere of a stock exchange trading floor, the hot picks being clamoured for and the less fashionable players being hawked around by increasingly desperate collectors. With the skill of a currency trader the poorer card propositions would be bundled up in an attractive selection or perhaps with the sweetener of a prized marble or the offer of a kiss from a reluctant girl friend. Perhaps the modern concept and idea for the concealment of toxic financial debt in a basket of securitised assets originated in the very same school yard bun fight.
I have never gone as far to idolise or stalk a particular personality but opportunities did arise in my later teens and early 20's to see, at close quarters, some of my heroes. I graduated from footie to cycling in the early 1980's. The English speaking riders were just starting then to muscle in on the dominant french, belgian, spanish and italian led european circuit. I was in the crowd in Nottingham in 1983 or so when the aussie Phil Anderson lapped the whole field during the Kelloggs town centre race series.Mingling in the crowds before the race were the megastars of Jan Raas and Stephen Roche. I was able to resoundly slap Sean Kelly on the back after his second place finish in Newcastle city centre in The Wincanton Classic and vowed never to wash the hand again. Johan Museeuw, the Belgian star chatted easily with an exchange student from his home country whom we were hosting at the time of the Leeds Classic event. The World Champion track rider, Hugh Porter was a regular commentator at local cycle races and when I participated I was regularly mentioned in actual name or number on the frequent occasion of my tactical withdrawals after falling off or getting shelled out of the back of the race.
This mingling, albeit indirectly with my heroes, was only topped by my meeting and short conversation with Barry Hoban. Prior to the modern day phenomena that is Mark Cavendish he had been the most successful of British riders in the Tour de France between 1965 and 1978. As a contemporary of Tom Simpson he was on the race at the time of that rider's death and out of respect Barry Hoban was allowed to win and dedicate the next stage. I was calling in at my local bikeshop when I recognised the healthy and tanned faced Hoban in conversation about purchasing trade goods with the proprietor. I was introduced as a supporter of the local cycling scene and was duly proud of this acknowledgement in the presence of such a cycling icon. I was understandably pumped up at this stage and asked for a meduim sized cycling jersey as I was planning a trip out on my racing bike at the coming weekend. Mr Hoban commented that perhaps I would be better off getting a large size . I was immediately deflated and head down scuttled away red faced, clutching a large jersey, not wanting to make a scene, or frankly, start a fight with a pensioner.
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