RIP Patrick 'Paddy' Barclay: One of the true greats

My memories of a majestic sportswriter who was also a wonderfully kind man

How on earth has it been a week already?

Seven days since I sat scrolling on my phone, moments before a press conference, when my eyes caught the dreadful news appearing on a tweet that was due to fly past on my screen without recognition.

“It is with the greatest sadness that we must announce the death of our dear Patrick Barclay,’ the statement read.

Patrick Barclay dead? The news hit me like a freight train.

Dazed, my brain went numb, as I was left clutching my phone insensibly, holding it as you would a loaf of bread, dumbly and without thinking - as my thoughts then led to treasured conversations with Paddy, moments of kindness he’d shown me, when I’d needed them, amid all the tips and techniques, opinions and valued conversations we shared when I was first starting out as a journalist.

The press conference started, but my head was elsewhere. I somehow managed to ask a question, but while the reply made it into my dictaphone, the words failed to land.

I nodded to the speaker in thanks, recognition of an answer I would use in a preview piece, but really, I wasn’t there at all.

Asking questions is what I do for a living. But I didn’t feel like speaking.

For if I had, I would have cried with sadness and grief.

RIP Paddy Barclay

…….

Quite simply Paddy was a majestic sportswriter. One of the greats.

He had style, he had wit, he had knowledge, deep knowledge, of the game we all love. And my word he did love our beautiful game. His passion never wavered, nor did his enthusiasm for the written word, and how we use it. His eye for detail was immense.

He had energy, grace, class and charisma. You knew you were in his company, you were drawn to him, yet he was humble and engaging. modest and likeable. Respected.

But now he’s gone.

And I still can’t believe it.

Paddy Barclay during his time on Sky Sports Sunday Supplement.

……..

How did I know Paddy?

I couldn’t call him a friend, much as I would have liked to, no, that would have been too presumptuous. Nor could I describe him as a mentor, because that would be too grand a notion on my behalf.

Let’s just say he was someone I looked up to, and massively respected.

When the stars aligned, and I had left a well-paid job in The City, to somehow follow my lifelong dreams of becoming a journalist, Paddy was one of the first people I spoke to.

It was completely by chance, thanks to Arsenal, as plenty of unexpected camaraderie I owe in my life over the years has done.

Paddy had just written a book on Herbert Chapman. And I, in my rush of eagerness, had reached out to this giant of a journalist, to ask, if I could write a review for the Gooner Fanzine, and while we were at it, could I interview him for a piece, as well as pick his brain about the trade I was about to enter.

The presumptuousness of it all. What was I thinking.

But Paddy, to my delight, replied. And we began speaking. About journalism, and about football, two things close to both our hearts.

I think Paddy appreciated that while I could talk about Arsenal and then manager Arsene Wenger every waking minute of my day if so desired, the fact I could also just about hold my own when speaking about Hugo Meisl, and of course of Herbert Chapman - not to mention discussing his beloved Dundee’s march to the semi-finals of the 1962-63 European Cup - meant that he thought I wasn’t a complete idiot.

Not that he ever showed me anything other than gentle kindness, and empathy, while generously sharing his time. I still value that greatly.

As the weeks and months passed, we talked about heading up to Kiveton Park, for a game, to mark the club where the great Chapman first started out.

I even mugged up on Dundee results, for they were his boyhood team. Years, later when I went to nearby Arbroath FC for a weekend away groundhopping with old pals that turned into a newspaper feature, he jokingly admonished me for failing to visit Dens Park up the road.

When I wrote and published my review of his Chapman book, Paddy even took the time to send me a hand written note, thanking me. Such class, but then that was to be expected from such a class act, and such a gracious gentleman.

When my newspaper diploma ended at journalism college and I was taken on by local newspapers to learn my trade, Paddy messaged me to congratulate me.

After my late father’s unexpected praise (he was a hard man to please), Paddy’s acclaim took pride of place.

He also gave me the finest complement I ever received, saying he liked my writing because I had a ‘rare empathy.’ I still treasure his words to this day.

I also still savour the memory of having a pint with the great man at an FSF awards night in the shadows of the Tower of London, whose sage and engaging bonhomie was thoroughly enjoyed by myself, and so many others that night.

When I was accepted into the Football Writers’ Association, it was a proud day for me and my family. Paddy took the time to welcome me into the body he truly loved, and did so much for, as a former chairman.

Knowing I was an Arsenal man, Paddy sent me a message in terms I would understand. “Remember who you are, what you are, and who you represent.”

Even now, many years later, as I write those words this morning, as the light slowly emerge on another dull winters day, right here, right now, my eyes have welled up, and I can feel my throat catching.

For even now, when I enter a press box, any press box up and down the country, or across Europe and beyond, fulfilling a lifetime’s ambition every time, I recall those words Paddy sent me.

Words which came via the famous quote from Arsenal’s David Rocastle, and those that came before him at the club, which Paddy knew would resonate with me, and I try to do my best with the things I have, when Saturday comes.

One more memory.

I have a good friend who drove a black London taxi for 30 years. His wife was, at one time in the early 1980s, a copy taker at Northcliffe House, back in the days when the giants of the trade had to phone in their match reports from grounds.

When I became a journalist and mentioned to them that Paddy had shown such kindness towards me, my mate’s wife, Chrissy, simply said: “Mr Barclay is such a lovely man - with such a lovely voice,” before telling me that his copy was “immaculate” every week, saying he was “one of the greats.”

I thought the sentiments Chrissy mentioned summed up the great Paddy perfectly: Kindness and professionalism.

It was to all those fond memories that my mind raced during Mikel Arteta’s press conference last Friday morning at London Colony, when the terrible new broke, knowing I’d never be able to talk to Paddy again.

To someone I always looked up to, and massively respected: to the majestic Patrick Barclay - Paddy, you were one of the greats. Thank you for your kindness.

RIP.