John Robertson provides the cross, because of course he does. Robbo shimmies and bursts, just like he always has. The delivery is long, but not overhit. Brian Clough has picked Trevor Francis on the right because he knows his pace and speed of thought makes him perfect for late runs into the box. This time it’s a header. This time the roof of the blue-green net in Munich’s Olympiastadion ripples.
When Cloughie sits back in his chair in his garden in retirement, closing his eyes in the warmth of the sunshine, that is the goal he thinks about above all others. Francis has scored for the first time in Europe in his first game and it will prove to be the winner in the final. It is an extraordinary standalone achievement, outside of club context.
On commentary, David Coleman gives Francis the good grace of five seconds before the inevitable words: “…the first million-pound footballer”.
Look around, and see how many headlines mention that nugget. It comes with good and understandable reasons, of course. That fee caused a sensation. It was a milestone, an early notch on the bedpost as we nudged up closer to rampant capitalism for a cuddle. The crowds in the City Ground car park were overwhelming and that was just the photographers.
That mania would have brought others to their knees, or forced them the other way: head in the clouds, believing their own hype. Clough even claimed that the transfer fee was a touch under the landmark as an attempt to reduce the pressure on Francis, but he need not have worried. His new striker was humble and smart and ambitious, not to attain a certain value or wealth but a level of excellence.
Francis revelled in the history he made, not because it permitted his own arrogance but because it made him unique. “It was just a magical figure – a million pounds,” he said. “Paris Saint-Germain spent nearly £200m on Neymar, but I don’t think it has the same magical appeal that £1m did. Do I feel proud of being the first £1m player? Absolutely.”
The irony of the tributes to Francis is that the one place where he is not remembered for his transfer fee is at the club who paid it.
To Nottingham Forest – the club, his old teammates, the supporters, the community – Francis is simply the man who scored the goal. It would not have mattered if there had been no others.
Clough’s leadership and Robbo’s crossing are just two strands that the man himself would extol over his own, but it’s the diving header that we all remember. Francis took a provincial club through their final step to Everest’s summit.
There is great sadness in Francis’ passing, a good man who leaves a little short of what must be considered a good age. At least he is at peace now.
In 2019, Francis spoke eloquently about struggling to come to terms with the death of his wife Helen two years earlier after a long battle with cancer. They were 21 when they married and stayed together for 43 years. The fur coat from the City Ground car park that made a hundred newsreels? Helen was inside it.
But there is great sadness within the Forest family too, for what Francis represents. In these parts, for too long you tended to know your history and tried to forget the present or the future. I have a framed 1979 replica shirt, signed by Francis, with a photo of him kissing the European Cup. It hangs pride of place in my office and even now, after countless glances and stares, it’s hard to believe that it happened to us before I was here.
We lost Peter Taylor and we lost Clough, their grim separation playing a part in the demise of both. But Francis is the first player of that cohort, of the group of 20 players who won a European Cup winner’s medal over that unfathomable 13-month period, to pass away. His death is a reminder that others will follow.
And with Francis’ passing, a small part of the club deserves to pass too. Without him, nothing about Nottingham Forest is the same and nothing is as special.
from Football - inews.co.uk https://ift.tt/TjLWawz
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