Super Cooper
There is no point in saying it doesn't seem possible that twenty-five years have passed since Davie Cooper died.
A quarter of a century has come and gone and what we have left today on the anniversary of his passing are the memories. They are timeless and that is the way it should be.
My oldest friend in the world was the Clydebank captain when he telephoned me to say the club had unearthed this kid from Hamilton who would have to be seen to be believed.
Sure enough. I turned up and saw him with my own eyes at the ramshackle Kilbowie Park. God's gift to the entertainment industry.
He could glide past defenders as if they were not there.
And the final ball?
That is what separates the great ones from the ordinary ones. Davie could find a willing striker with unerring accuracy every time.
Clydebank paid him his signing on fee with money removed from the one arm bandits in the Bankies Social Club, and never was money better spent.
My primary school aged son was mesmerised by this guy who seemed to have the ball tied to his boots in order to bewilder those charged with the responsibility of having to keep him under control.
My wife had to sit up late into the night to knit our boy a scarf in Clydebank's red and white colours so that he could wear it the following day when the local derby was played against Dumbarton.
Davie was next door to paranormal then. He destroyed the opposition single handed, laying on goal after goal.
The punchline is that when, in 1977, Clydebank cashed in on their golden nugget and sold him to Rangers the news bulletin announcing this move so enraged a Primary Two child that he stood up and landed a kick on the television set in the corner of the living room.
Coop is a Rangers legend and held in similarly iconic regard at Motherwell, where a Fir Park stand is named after him.
But he started his career at Clydebank and he met his untimely end while being back at the club who had given him his start in professional football.
"Moody Blue" they called him when he was at Ibrox, a reference to what was regarded as an occasionally difficult temperament.
I never found him to be that way.
He could be grumpy like any other human being in a stressful occupation, but I remember the ready smile and the winning personality.
Weeks before he died after collapsing during a televised training session with kids, Davie and I toured the country's pubs and clubs doing question and answer sessions covering his career.
Whenever we left a venue in his car he would always ask the same question.
"Where is it next week, Shug?" he would say.
On one occasion my answer was "A pub called the Grapes on Paisley Road West."
I thought he was going to choke with laughter.
"You're going to the Grapes?" he spluttered.
I didn't get the joke until Davie explained it to me.
To say that the people who frequent the Grapes are hard core Rangers fans is, I now understand, like saying they would really rather not have Celtic winning Ten in a Row.
The rules of engagement were therefore drawn up between us.
Davie would drive me there and Davie would drive me away from there. If one of us had to take a comfort break while were were inside the premises, the other one would accompany him on the basis that there is strength in numbers.
The night, I have to say, was a success on the strength of Davie's ability to tell a story in the company of the working class folks he could readily identify with.
They lapped up his every word and as we brought our night to a conclusion I thanked the audience for their good order and fine questions.
I also expressed my gratitude for the welcome they had extended to me, a thank you which was interrupted by a voice from the back of the audience saying, "You're no fxxxxxx oot yet"
I turned to Davie and said under my breath, "Start the car."
He was still laughing like a drain when he dropped me off at the end of the night.
A few weeks later he was gone and the sense of devastation was awful.
Derek Johnstone always told me of what it was like to be, in the company of Ally McCoist, the last two football people to see Davie in his hospital room before his life support machine was turned off.
Tonight we'll talk about Coop on Superscoreboard, and rightly so.
All we have in these currently troubling times is nostalgia and Davie will be the source of fond memories for fans of three different clubs, one no longer in existence as a professional entity.
If the game is essentially about giving people a memorable experience in their recreational lives then Cooper was your man.
He was the working class guy in a working class game. No airs or graces, just a sense of being comfortable on the ball, with the ability to strike it well and the happy knack of being able to find a team-mate with ease no matter the heat of the battle.
Sadly missed but fondly remembered.