A few years ago, while changing planes at Chicago airport, I passed the time by heading to the bookshop. Right in the front of the store was the business section, and gurning at me from the cover of a large pile of bestselling management books, was you know who.  I smiled to myself and my mind went back…
 
… to early 1980s Britain, Thatcher’s Britain, a Cortina Mk III with its engine running outside a house in College Road, Norwich. A freezing late January day. The car honked its horn. Inside the house, the management team of Colney Athletic were rudely awakened. The management had spent the previous evening recruiting an 11th man and this had involved a tour of several pubs and a night club.  Director of Football (S. Neal) was away for the weekend, standards had dropped and now the day had begun too soon. "Gal, Mickey’s here" I croaked. Bags were grabbed and we bundled into the car. As we sped off towards a Norfolk village Gareth whispered, “who’s got the kit? Rob? He is playing isn’t he?”.
“I hope so.” I said, “he didn’t look too good last night.”
The changing rooms were an ancient portacabin. No team talk, just anxious glances at the door waiting for Rob. He arrives, “sorry lads, I forgot to wash the kit” he said, as he emptied a bag full of damp, muddy shirts and shorts onto the floor.  Kit gingerly put on and as the ‘Athletic’ took to the pitch, the dampness added an extra chill factor as the Norfolk wind began to bite. A turgid first half, huffing and puffing and burning off hangovers against a group of strapping Norfolk lads, who bumped and buffeted us as we tried to get the ball down to play. Then early in the second half, a corner not cleared and the locals score a scrappy goal, 1-0.  The wind bites even more and the hangovers start to return. Then a moment of inspiration from JB, tearing down the wing from left back and whipping in a cross at waist height that eludes everyone except Jones at the far post who, from one yard out, performs a pelvic thrust and scores with the favourite part of his anatomy, 1-1. Game on. It heats up, tackles fly in from both sides. Paul, the Irishman, clatters one of the locals and the referee reaches for his notebook. Registering the players was a management responsibility, Gareth moves swiftly towards Paul and whispers in his ear. The referee, gets to Paul and says “name?”
“Goroth Jornes” he said in the thickest Belfast accent. An eyebrow was raised but the name was taken.
As the game neared its end, it got colder, the pace slowed and the partially frozen pitch had been chopped up to become a mud bath. A local midfielder tried a through pass to set their centre forward clean in on goal, still running, Jones chased back and as the ball stuck in the mud, with a huge swing of the left boot, he launched it up to the other end of the field. As the clearance was in the air, the late-night recruit, a University first team forward, showed a burst of speed completely alien to the game so far and met the ball as it hit the ground, took it on, rounded the goalie and rolled it into an empty net, 2-1. A famous victory for the Athletic.
 
The team retired to the Garden House, warmth came back their bones, the beer flowed and the craic about the booking was mighty. Eventually, after four or five pints, the self-proclaimed, Hoddle‑esque nature of the final match winning pass was grudgingly acknowledged by all, except perhaps by the Director of Football who had returned and remained sceptical.  
 
… as my mind returned to the present, I realised (without reading it) that the book could not be about the organisational management of ‘business’, but must be about motivation and taking care of others, making the team effort greater than the sum of individual efforts. This was what Gareth was about whether he was a business guru or not. He always did the best for himself, but he also made sure others he knew did their best. He told them they could do it and deserved it. He knew the kit would be there, he knew the young forward would chase the ball and he knew if we fought and tackled and played our game we would win. I will miss him.