Growing up as a Spurs fan in the 1970's could be something of a challenge: After three successful cup winning seasons from 1971 to 1973, an ageing side began to crumble, leading to Bill Nicholson's departure and, eventually, an unthinkable relegation in the summer of 1977.
Even in those triumphant first three years it seemed that some of our players could do no right as they were, in some quarters, always being compared to their double winning predecessors from a decade earlier. However well they performed, Pat Jennings was no Bill Brown, Mullery no Blanchflower and Martin Chivers was no Bobby Smith.
Through the years that followed, successful or otherwise, it seemed that our fathers and various other people of their generation could never forgive a Spurs side that failed to lift both trophies in a season. It became very tiresome. It wasn't that we were disrespectful or ignorant of our history - it's just that we'd never seen these people play football. We could all recite the double winning side, but at times, their success almost became a curse.
Years later, in 2005, I met Bobby Smith at a Jimmy Greaves birthday evening. Other members of the double side were there along with more recent players such as Jennings, Perryman, Coates and Ricky Villa.
One player was designated to each table and Bobby sat with us. Whenever I had previously met players I had felt pretty comfortable, but I had no idea what to say to this legend that our parents' generation had been in awe of for so long. Well, as a tribute I'm afraid I can say nothing more insightful or indeed less trite than the fact that he was one of the nicest men, and certainly the nicest ex-footballer I have ever met.
It was easy to talk to him about Spurs and football in general and his love for both was evident. As the evening wore on, he dealt graciously with fawning drunken buffoonery and unscrupulous e-bay dealers with their reams of blank white cards. How they must be rubbing their grubby little hands now.
When I had to leave, it was earlier than most and as I stood up, I tried to think of something to say to Bobby that sounded respectful but not stupid. Before I could speak, he got up, shook my hand and thanked me for my company, adding what a pleasure the evening had been. In that moment, for the first time I really wished I'd seen him play.
It was indeed a pleasure but, to mis-quote Poet Laureate elect Stephen Morrissey, 'the pleasure, the privilege was mine.'
