RIP Johan Cruyff
Aged 7, the 1974 World Cup appeared in my life like a thunderbolt. My head already turned by the 1973 FA Cup Final when Bob Stokoe ran across Wembley’s perfect turf and the year after when Keegan and Heighway defeated Newcastle. I sat for an entire month watching pictures on our little telly from West Germany. I was enthralled.
The orange-shirted Haan, Neeskens, Krol, Jansen, Rensenbrink, Rep, the Van Der Kerkhof brothers and my idol Johan Cruyff were responsible for my falling in love with Charlton. It wasn’t as complicated as it sounds. For a whole year after the 1974 World Cup I nagged my Dad to take me to football, to see close up this game that had captivated me. Total football, the Cruyff Turn, the Arie Haan thunderbolt. My Dad finally caved and took me to the only ground that he was ever going to take me to, The Valley. The rest as they say, is history.
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