John Motson Rip
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Ah here, Motty is more than a significant person ffs.
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Significant person - fuck off!!
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Heâs definitely a significant person.
Says it all. The Paddy Footix, Sky Sports Super Sunday EPL generation wouldnât have a breeze about Motty.
No surprises itâs a murderpool fan who doesnât think John motson was a significant person.
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Why does Paddy Footix have to distill everything down to Manc v Scousers?
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The murderpool fans have no respect for the dead.
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I hadnât seen this before with his commentary
Iâm surprised he only commentated on 29 fa cup finals if he done 10 World Cups. I presume that includes a few replays.
Bbc wouldnt have had every cup final
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He was a massive racing fan. Used to be a regular at the big festivals.
David Coleman was the BBCâs Number 1 until the end of the 1970âs really. Think the 1977 Man U v Liverpool Cup Final as a stand-in was Mottyâs first. Coleman was at loggerheads with the BBC and on strike at the time. Motty took over as Number 1 shortly after that.
My uncles were at that fa cup final if it was between man United and Liverpool I think
Iâm not sure when Mottyâs last FA Cup final was, but letâs try and work it out.
I make it Motty would have done 18 successive finals from 1977 to 1994.
There were replays in 1981, 1982, 1983, 1990 and 1993, so add five replays to bring it up to 23.
Barrry Davies did 1995 and 1996. Canât remember who did 1997. Have a feeling it might have been Motty.
ITV had the live FA Cup rights from 1998 to 2001 inclusive. BBC have had it since.
Motty would surely have taken over the live commentaries from 2002 again and definitely did the 2006 final.
1997 plus the five finals from 2002 to 2006 would make it 29 live finals.
Motty definitely commentated on BBCâs highlights package of 2001 because I recorded it live on VHS tape that night.
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David Coleman did the 1978 Cup Final. It was possibly his last. Great childhood memories of that Cup Final. Roger Osbourne scoring the winning goal as Ipswich shocked Woolwich.
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Thought heâd have been a lot older than 77.
Always came across as an old man when I first started watching soccer properly in the very early 00âs.
Continuing the discussion from 2022 FIFA World Cup (Part 1):
I left out there what is probably Mottyâs finest moment among so many, which is Michel Platiniâs winning goal in the 1984 European Nations Cup semi-final for France against Portugal.
Itâs difficult to put into words the full context of the moment, but I will give it a try.
Michel Platini, at this moment, was not yet considered a cynical, corrupt cunt, but the epitome of a beautiful man who represented the innocent beauty of football. He was the epitome of the heart throb matinee idol. Those eyes, that smile. He was beautiful and played beautiful football. Him and his French team were the representation of tragic first love in football form and the essential representation of Frenchness and La Belle France. They were passion, beauty and rebelliousness. Tragedy would always befall them. They were from the time when national stereotypes were real. Rummenigge and his hooded eyes and shifty demeanour were straight out of the Nazi team in Escape To Victory. Harald Schumacher putting his boots through the head of Patrick Battiston was considered the football equivalent of Germany invading Poland.
France were the good guys, West Germany the baddies.
The 1982 World Cup is remembered for the two twin tragedies of France and Brazil, who everybody wanted to meet in the final. These two teams represented innocent, glorious football. My oulâ fella raged for years about the injustice of the defeats suffered by France against West Germany and Brazil against Italy. He especially adored âthat big black centre halfâ Tresor and that âgreat black midfield playerâ (Tigana). When France later played Brazil in 1986, the world raved about this game because they were imagining it was the 1982 World Cup final.
In 1984 France were in a European Nations Cup semi-final at home. The other three teams left were Portugal, Spain and Denmark. France had to win.
Like all tragic heroes, France were about to somehow fail again, against a team considerably their inferior. They had a Stade Velodrome in Marseille full to heaving behind them, on a Saturday night where the magical, coastal Mediterranean, urban open air of the Velodrome, set amidst the hills of Marseille, was set alight by fireworks and klaxons. Franceâs kit was beautiful, and so were the Metaxa and Bata Bata and Canon advertising hoardings.
The game was, to the best of my knowledge, not broadcast live on BBC Television. You donât need this sort of thing. And anyway, arenât you supposed to channel your ire at those awful striking miners?
Amidst all this cacophony John Motson effectively found himself alone in a box in Marseille, paying homage to a muse in silence. He was free to weave words as he liked, because nobody would hear them.
John Motson didnât have to prepare for this game. There were no pre-prepared lines, no pre-prepared statistics. There was no need. He was free, as a football man and a football fan, to go deep into his inner romantic and call it as a fan, in the best possible sense of that phrase. School holidays stuff. Motty never told us he wanted France to win but it didnât need to be said. His commentary is the words of a man lost in a dream. A tragic dream, as France were going to lose.
And then France did not lose. Tee-gannaâŚTeegannaâŚTeegannaâŚ
The anticipation. The pause.
Platin-eeeâŚ
The deliverance.
GGGGGGGGGOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLL!!!
There was nothing else to do except shout that word. At the end of 120 minutes of sheer glorious hell, the deliverance. The glorious climax. The ecstasy.
âI havenât seen a game like this in yeaaars!â
No Brazilian ever shouted the word âgoooooalllllâ better, because they shout it all the time. Motty didnât shout âGoooaalllllâ all the time. But here he was shouting it, because nothing else was needed or could do justice to the moment. Scarcity is truth.
And the commentary nobody would hear became one of the most enduring representations of the sort of innocent moment of pure joy that football can light up our humdrum lives with.
Thank you John Motson.
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Thatâs a smashing post Cheasty. Fair play.