SHORTLY AFTER JOHN MOTSON died in late February, I received an email from an old schoolmate whom I haven’t seen in forty years. He was reminiscing about our “kickabouts during the 1982 World Cup with a Motson-inspired commentary to accompany every touch of the ball”, and admitted that he “still can’t say the name ‘Zico’ without doing it in a Motson voice”. Instantly, of course, I heard exactly that in my head, complete with the slight fricative which made it almost “Zhico”.
But there was more to this than simply the sudden memory rush ofand reaction afterwards — but the simple need for words over pictures remains constant.