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Everybody remembers the very first game they ever went to. No matter who you watched, in which stadium, it remains a magical moment. The memory of it never dims.

Mine was special. In more ways than one. It was September 1958 and for my 9th birthday treat a football loving uncle asked me if I'd like to come to Upton Park with him to watch the Hammers.




I can still recall the excitement I felt even though 68 years have slipped past since. The match was special not just for me, but also for a young man who was only eight years older. His name? Bobby Moore. He was to make his first team debut that evening.

It was West Ham`s first season back in the top flight after promotion. The opposition were Manchester United and only seven months had lapsed since the Munich disaster.

I was treated to a seat in the West Stand and my most vivid memories of the occasion were two colours. The first was the bright green of the pitch, a new one; the second was the colour of the West Ham number six`s hair.

Bobby Moore`s hair, when he was that age, was golden, believe me, and he was easy to follow from where I sat. At that age, you know what is going on and you understand what a football match is all about, but the sights and sounds sweep you up leaving you breathless with excitement.

I watched, transfixed at what was going on before me. As you well know, from that moment, you are hooked for life.

As I have said, Moore stood out on the pitch and I spent most of the 90 minutes watching him. All around me I could hear men muttering their approval of this youngster and I vividly remember my Uncle telling me at half time that this Moore chap was going to be a good player one day! How right he was.




I won't lie and tell you I recall all the goals, I don't. I know the game finished 3-2 to West Ham who were given a standing ovation at the end, which I found fascinating.

The story has a sequel. We now move forward in time to 1985 when I was working for a company in Hainault who had a Christmas do coming up and a signed football was to be raffled at it to raise money for a local charity.

Everyone there knew I was a football nut and I was given a ball and told to make my way to number 4, Stradbroke Drive, Chigwell, Essex. There, they said, I'd find somebody waiting to autograph it. I had no idea who it was going to be, they weren't letting on. I asked but was told I'd find out when I got there.

I drew up outside the house and walked up the long path to the front door, thinking what a beautiful place it was. I still couldn't imagine who was going to be there to meet me. I rang the bell and stood, ball under arm, waiting for my surprise. Did I say surprise? You could have knocked me over with a feather when the great man himself opened the door.

I went to say something and just made a strange noise in the back of my throat! Bobby was as suave and cool off the pitch as he was on it. He asked me in and I followed as if in a dream.

He told me to sit in a chair just outside a huge lounge while he went off to get a felt tip pen. When he returned I came out with the immortal words: "You`re Bobby Moore aren't you?" What an absurd thing to say! He laughed and said "Yes, as far as I know".




To cut a long story short, after he had signed the ball I told Bobby that I had made my debut at Upton Park on the same night as him 27 years earlier. He was either intrigued by this or made a good job of seeming interested as he sat opposite me in his hall and started to talk about the club and players that were there in the late '50s and early 1960s.

He was a joy to chat to and in no time at all I was bending the poor sod's ears back. 15 or 20 minutes passed in what seemed one minute. I knew I couldn't sit there all day and the great man himself was obviously not the sort to cut you short and send you packing so I said I had to get going.

Bobby saw me to the door and on the porch he said he'd enjoyed meeting me and had loved talking about the players from that era again. We said goodbye, he shook my hand and I floated back to the car.
He had actually made me feel important! What a class act he was, both on and off the pitch.

When Bobby died at the tragically early age of 51 in 1993, I made my way to the ground along with thousands of others to pay tribute to him.

As I stood amongst the saddened Hammers fans who were laying flowers and old rattles and scarves alongside messages of sympathy, I couldn't help but cast my mind back to the day 35 years earlier when I had turned up for my first game and more poignantly, to the day eight years earlier when I had been privileged to spend a magical 20 minutes in the home and company of West Ham`s favourite son.

It is something I shall treasure for the rest of my days.

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