A tribute to John Motson: The inimitable voice of football

We never had Sky Sports when I was growing up. On a council estate in a north eastern pit village around the turn of the millennium a satellite dish felt about as attainable as Sputnik itself, and the promise of subscription entertainment - like holidays abroad or appropriately-sized school uniforms - was the preserve of a middle class lifestyle that was as aspirational as it was alien. As a child, the nearest I ever got to a dish that served up football was when Kellog’s brought out those novelty cereal bowls. You know the ones, we all had one. That and those special edition Coca-Cola glasses from McDonald’s. And a Stephen Mulhern Magic Set, for some reason.

All of this is to say that as a bairn, suddenly aware of his own consciousness and obsessed with anything football-related, my consumption of the sport was limited to the crumbs and shrapnel broadcast on terrestrial television; FA Cup and Champions League ties, the occasional England international, and, of course, Sunday morning reruns of Match of the Day.

John Motson was, therefore, a near-ubiquitous presence in the soundtrack to my childhood, as he was for so many. In fact, up until the latter years of primary school, I’m not even sure that I knew other football commentators existed. Even if I did, I’m absolutely certain in retrospect that nobody else made quite as permanent an impression on my young mind.

There was always something different about Motty. Maybe it was the way that his tone, nasal yet pleasant, would soar over the din of a crowd, like an alto flute lancing through the rumble of an unruly orchestra. Maybe it was his sartorial penchant; Batman had his cowl, Slash had his top hat, and Motson had his sheepskin coat. Maybe, just maybe, it was his palpable ardor for the game - the subtle dexterity with which he balanced his authority as an orator with a simmering devotion for the subject matter.

Motson would fizzle with excitement as your own excitement quickened, he would muse in disbelief as you sat at home disbelieving. In gilded moments he would be caught unawares like the rest of us, his voice peaking and cracking as the rush of emotion elevated him - and anybody fortunate enough to hear him - to an unexpected zenith.

From Ronnie Radford’s improbable rocket for Hereford in the early ‘70s to his proclamation that ‘The Crazy Gang has beaten the Culture Club’ in the late ‘80s, David Beckham’s stunning free-kick that sent England to the 2002 World Cup, and countless, countless moments besides, Motson’s earnest knack for coaxing the wonder from absurdity has never been truly paralleled, let alone eclipsed.

Even at those tender, fraught junctures where football goes awry and the chassis buckles under the strain of the abnormal, the great man with his trusted mic remained a humble and perceptive anchor throughout - entirely unflappable, unmistakably charismatic. It was he who expressed the heartache of a nation as Paul Gascoigne shed tears at Italia ‘90, he who called the unimaginable as Zinedine Zidane butted his way into disgrace in the waning throes of a glittering career. Gantries can so often be blighted by ego, whether it be the ceaselessly dour or the unnecessarily melodramatic, but Motson was neither. He was, to a word, immaculate.

Across 10 World Cups, 10 European Championships, and 29 FA Cup finals, the veteran broadcaster was the inimitable voice of football. News of his passing on Thursday morning brought with it a certain unreal feeling, akin to the death of a monarch. Motson was to the beautiful game what Sir David Attenborough is to the world of environmentalism, or Sir Ian McKellen to thespianism. The key difference is that while those two luminaries might struggle to muddle their way through a World Cup final, you suspect that Motson probably could have done a smashing job on Planet Earth. Or a stellar King Lear, for that matter.

In the tragic times that a presence of his esteem passes away, it can be easy to forget that we didn’t, in fact, all know them personally. Motson resided with so many of us - in our televisions and our radios, our living rooms and our constant internal monologues - that it was all but impossible not to think of him as a dear friend, or as an endlessly benevelont and knowledgeable elder relative.

Really though, when something as sad as this happens there are no words that come even remotely close to doing those concerned justice. If you had to bet on anybody being able to conjuring them, however, it would have been John Motson.