As a rugby league player, Manfred Moore was a trifle though you could see he was a good athlete.
The uncomfortably seated crowd in the decrepit King George V Memorial Grandstand at Henson Park in 1977 spent much of the game entertaining themselves by chiding the former San Francisco 49ers NFL player: “Not that way Manfred! … That’s called a tackle Manfred” or barking gems such as “Where’s your helmet Manfred?”
The poor bloke stood so far away from the action on the wing he had one foot in Lewisham.
I used to be a sports editor so I once had an excuse, now it’s just an obsession that probably requires intense therapy.
Rugby union, rugby league, Australian football, cricket, soccer, Gaelic football, hurling, tennis, hockey, golf, boxing, swimming, track and field, basketball, netball – I watch squash and racquetball for God’s (Heather McKay’s) sake – and to make matters worse, I’ve lived in New York for about a million years so I’m now compelled to absorb and love baseball, American football and ice hockey. I am one of the few people in America who never misses a Major League Soccer game of minimal significance. I have been to Aqueduct Racetrack to be a spectator at the midweek gallops; there were maybe seven of us. I have found myself cheering at a pick-up game of lacrosse in the Bronx.