I remember the terrible winter in 1963, clearing the snow off the forecourt at Upton Park with the rest of the players so we could train. Job done, we'd play on it for two hours in silly little plimsolls, sliding everywhere.

Dave Mackay was one of the best I've ever seen. Jimmy Greaves was the greatest goal scorer, and George Best was just the best. The greatest.

In the Fifties, Canvey was a top seaside place for a youngster - the famous Canvey Island Casino was full of slot machines and there were all the fairground rides, such as the dodgems, and a speedway track.

Losing produces a weird reaction in me. I surrender all sense of perspective. It's ridiculous, really. All this over a football match.

I like pure pro-wrestling, when it's serious in its orientation and presentation - like it's a legit sport with Jim Ross calling the action.

At issue when professional sports teams take the name of Native Americans is the problem of mimicry: having appropriated the land and wealth of America's vanquished peoples, settler culture then appropriates the supposed values and spirit of the vanquished as well.

Boxing gyms are more than training facilities. They are sanctuaries in bad neighborhoods for troubled kids and shrines to the traditions of the sport. The gym is home. For many, it's the safest place they know.

Criticism is part of football, but we have to work.