'Trevor Francis was my hero as a teenager - and he used to pop round for tea'
In the 1970s, Trevor Francis’s face looked down from the bedroom wall of every teenage Birmingham City supporter.
The Boy Wonder, the shining young superstar. An object of utter devotion. Flowing locks, pace, and an eye for goals. Royal blue penguin shirt, No.8. Amid such a barren wasteland at St Andrew’s, ‘Trevor,’ stood tall. He modelled himself on Johan Cruyff. To thousands in Birmingham, he was all that and more.
But he didn’t look down from my bedroom wall. Oh no. I had the real thing. My father produced Birmingham City’s matchday programme at that time. There were a few occasions when TF - everyone knows those initials in the Second City - would pop around to our house with his glam wife, Helen.
The bloke who was scoring Goal of the Season contenders - like the one against QPR in 1975 which was an absolute signature strike - would be in our kitchen, chatting. Or, we’d head over to his. Yes, actually IN HIS HOUSE as my dad carried out an interview.
He once left me and my brother Joe alone to play with a Newton’s Cradle - a 70s gimmick that was all the rage - only for my sibling to break it. Trevor laughed. Helen rewarded us with an apple apiece.
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He moved on, first to Nottingham Forest, then Manchester City and QPR. We were in Menorca when he scored the goal that won the European Cup for Forest. I swear there was a tear in the old man’s eye that a player who had turned into such a polite man had landed the biggest prize of all.
Trevor didn’t know it but we stayed in touch after my dad died. I moved on to college, he moved to QPR as player-manager. One day he took his team to Villa Park.
Trevor Francis emerged as a wonderkid for Birmingham City (Sydney O'Meara/Express/Getty Images)Hmm, I thought, ‘I’ll go and see that.’ What an inspired afternoon. A Francis hat-trick of exquisite quality. He subbed himself off with ten minutes to go, right by the Witton Lane stand.
He enjoyed the walk back across the pitch to the dug-out, staring at the baying mob in the Holte End. All apart from one undercover Blue, inwardly laughing his head off. Good old Trev.
Our paths crossed again, a few years later when I followed my old fella into sports journalism and Trevor succeeded Barry Fry as manager. There were numerous stories about his fastidiousness. He liked the milk on his breakfast cereal to be at a certain temperature. Helen made sure it was.
He once moaned at chief executive Karren Brady, making her run all the way from the directors’ box to the manager’s room because his gloves weren’t on the radiator during a cold snap. He came so close to immortality as a manager.
Trevor Francis moved into management at Queens Park Rangers (Bob Thomas Sports Photography via Getty Images)
He combined his coaching duties with still being a player (Bob Thomas Sports Photography via Getty Images)A Worthington Cup final shoot-out with Liverpool in 2001 shouldn’t have even got to that stage had referee David Elleray been brave enough to award a second penalty after Stephane Henchoz upended Andy Johnson. Predictably, it ended in penalty shoot-out heartache.
He cradled Johnson, who later missed a shoot-out penalty, in his arms. There were tears running down his face as well as ours. We loved him all the more. Still, I had a job to do. On the 30th anniversary of his becoming the million-pound footballer, I rang for an interview.
I offered him money. He wouldn’t take it. ‘Neil, I’ll do it for you.’ After talking beautifully for an hour, he disappeared outside to take pictures in the snow. Only he wouldn’t take off his bloody bobble hat for the photographer. Pictures unusable. Typical Trevor.
Trevor Francis lost his wife, Helen, to breast cancer in 2017 (Bob Thomas Sports Photography vi)But he was a good manager. His contacts were second-to-none. Talk to him about football and he was magnificent company. He was a natural as a co-commentator when he fell out of favour in management. But ask him for a number for a plumber and he wouldn’t have a clue. Helen did that, you see.
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When she died - from breast cancer in 2017 - Trevor’s world truly was rocked. She had been his everything. At least, one would hope, they are now united. I’m now in my 50s - and there’s one momento in my man cave that stares out at me - Trevor Francis’s shirt - yes, No.8.
Never mind Jude Bellingham - that’s the number the club needs to retire. Me, a fully-grown adult, still hanging on to the giddy days of yesteryear when tens of thousands of us lived our dreams through one precocious youngster. That’s what Trevor Francis did.
So, rest easy Trev - and say ‘Hi’ to Helen for me, will you?
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