MY DAD got a surprise through the post the other day. It was a letter from Russell Anderson, whom he had coached for a few years in the early 1990s back in the days when Anderson was a scrawny right-winger rather than the doughty centre-half of today. The Aberdeen captain wanted to invite all his former coaches to his testimonial game against Everton next Tuesday. My dad, usually a master of gruffly downplaying rogue bursts of excitement, was fair chuffed.
It was a lovely touch of Anderson, a talented player who, having settled with his young family, has been happy to spend his entire career at the club rather than court the sporadic interest from wealthier employers elsewhere. Compare Ashley Cole, one of football's increasing rash of petulant nouveaux-riches. Cole's petted lip has been spitting insults in the direction of Arsène Wenger, the man who turned him into one of the most sought-after defenders in the world. Cole has the cars, the house and the pop-star wife, but he's getting all upset now because he wants to cash in on the Abramovich era at Chelsea while it lasts, and Arsenal are coming over all awkward.
The perpetually sullen Cole will earn more money, medals and caps in his career, but decades from now it's the likes of Anderson who will be remembered with affection. Cole will merely cause the shaking of heads as we look back to an era when football was in thrall to odious levels of greed.