The tale is of an English businessman who is on a work contract somewhere in Eastern Europe in the mid to late 1960's.
Every day, when he leaves his grim apartment block for the commute to his office a cheery, ruddy faced local to whom he was introduced upon his arrival, catches his attention and enthusiastically shouts what, to our man, sounds like " Boaby Shar".
This is a Monday to Friday exhortation and occasionally on a weekend if their paths cross.
The friendly face and kindly sounding words are very much appreciated in what is otherwise a bit of a dour, soul-less existence often associated with the region.
Keen to return the gesture the businessman decides to master the tone and pronunciation of the words. He is quite pleased with himself as it is a difficult language and dialect and plans to respond in kind the very next day.
A bit nervous, he anticipates the approach of the neighbour and when hailed across the street he answers, "Boaby Shar, my friend".
The local runs over and excitedly proclaims "You know Bobby Charlton-that is amazing".
So, to my writing today.
Every Saturday morning in the UK and certainly across the globe, hundreds of thousands of school age children look forward to a couple of hours of soccer training.
It is a bit of the national identity-football in spite of the regular failings of the home grown teams to do much in World or European tournaments.
The youngsters may have gone to bed the night before in their soccer kit so as not to waste any time in getting ready.
There is something magic about a football strip.
I can still recall the pride and special feeling of my first proper replica kit, Liverpool, in 1970 (I am now 53 years old).
This Saturday I was helping a friend take his two boys for their first ever session.
At a similar age, all of that time ago when a 26 year old Bobby Charlton was in his prime, my football training was on an outside playing field and regardless of whether it was sunny or snowing.
We arrived at a newly built sports hall , a purpose built multi function venue with a lofty atrium reception area with cafe and all mod cons. A distinct improvement.
A few other things struck me as a direct contrast.
The main hall had a grass-effect playing surface, so realistic that I had to reach down and touch it. On a real outside pitch we had to make an organised sweep for dog mess, broken glass and other obstacles.
The atmosphere was climate controlled and so no prospect of a howling gale to battle against or allow for when kicking the ball.
It had a roof and would keep dry.
The floor was flat and level and not at all with a gradient that gave an advantage to the team playing downhill.
In my time, there was only a limited splash of colour in the football kits. Liverpool and Manchester United Red, Chelsea Blue, Leeds White and a few variations based on those primary colours.
The hall, now filling up quickly with children (and grown ups) was a riot of the full spectrum with just about every club and national team represented.
I can imagine the accumulated cost to have been vast but yet a small price to pay for domestic peace and, vitally, keeping up with the other kids.
There was a constant fluorescent flash from branded footwear. In my day you could, as they say, have any colour of football boots as long as they were black.
Some things, however,never change.
Split into two groups, identified by contrasting day-glo bibs, the ensuing match resembled a mass swarm of hi-viz bees flowing back and forth across the greensward of the artificial pitch chasing a yellow honeycomb panelled ball.
There were no tactics, a lack of spatial realisation, little positional sense, not much by way of communication between team mates but some early and promising indications of enthusiasm and skill.
I can report that the Under 6's have made a good start but with a few Saturday training sessions to go if they are to redeem the footballing status of the whole nation.
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