Cod Almighty | Diary

Age shall not weary the memory of Futch

24 November 2016

Whatever you were thinking about. Whatever Middle-Aged Diary was thinking of writing about. Stop.

It has been confirmed that Paul Futcher has died from cancer, aged just 60 years old. It is unthinkable.

If ever a player was timeless, it was Paul Futcher. By appearance, as an athlete, he was always on borrowed time: frail and cobwebbed-looking. He came to Town after a spell in Halifax reserves, and it was as though he'd been retrieved from an attic. But in deed he was always a second ahead of everyone around him. They say as you get older the extra yard is in your head; Futch had an extra mile. No Town defender ever read the game better, and had the vision and the skills to be both the last line of defence and the first point of attack.

For those of us lucky enough to have watched him, he is still living now. We shut our eyes and we see him once again, strolling in just ahead of a bullying centre-forward to nick the ball away and sweep it to John McDermott. Or taking the ball back, glancing up, and sending a raking 50-yard pass to an unmarked Dave Gilbert. Or even, when something had gone wrong, and a goal had been conceded, making sure the team put it behind them. Not with a rant or a huddle. A look was enough.

Those memories will be no consolation now to his family and friends. Our thoughts are with them.

Rest in peace, Futch. Rest in peace.