I heard the news on Christmas, about John Robertson going. It just hit me quiet, you know? He was this legend for Nottingham Forest, but for me, he was always just this brilliant football mind that people maybe didn’t talk about enough. A scruffy genius, they’re saying now. That feels right.
I read what Ewan Murray wrote. He called him a “truly unique talent,” which he was. Its a pity, like Murray says, that Scotland is only just realizing how good he was now. A real peer to the greats, he should have been seen as that all along.
My mind goes to stories I heard. Like from Stiliyan Petrov, the Bulgarian player. He told this story once, from when he was young at Celtic. There was a possession drill, and he couldn’t get the ball off this older, rounder coach. That was Robertson, of course. Petrov said his teammates were all laughing, but it taught him a lesson. About how Robertson must have played, I mean. That talent didn’t just leave him.
For a lot of the younger lads, he turned into this amazing mentor. The value he had. It’s clear now, with him gone, that Scotland lost someone truly singular. Maybe his own modesty stopped the proper acclaim from happening up there.
When he played, he was Brian Clough’s favourite. I always remember that. He could use both feet, but his left? It was devastating. Just a quick five-yard burst and he’d be gone, putting in these wonderous crosses. One of them led to the goal in Munich, the 1979 European Cup final. Trevor Francis scored it. There’s photos of him celebrating with Bowyer and Burns. That was his legacy being made, right there.
He was key for both those European Cup wins, which is an incredible thing. But his brilliance was quiet. Murray pointed out he was different from Law or Dalglish, but it shouldn’t be wrong to say he was right up there with them. That’s the truth of it.
All the tributes now, they show a man whose genius was maybe too subtle. It wasn’t flashy. But his legacy, it’s solid. Not just in Nottingham, but in all the players he helped later on. We’re left thinking about a man who looked one way but his football brain, it was something else entirely. It truly defied what you’d expect.
It hits you quiet, a news like that on Christmas Day. I always felt he carried a certain kind of wisdom, the type that didn’t need shouting. Maybe that was his problem for getting headlines, but it was his gift for making actual footballers. The ones who listened learned something deep.
I remember someone telling me a thing Clough said once. He called him his “little Scottish bottle-washer,” but the affection in it was huge. It was because Robertson could do the simple thing that changed everything. A lot of players try the spectacular. He’d just move the ball five yards and the entire field would open up. It looked like nothing until you saw it again.
There’s a warmth in the sadness, though. Reading the tributes, you see it. It’s not just about stats, it’s about the man he was after the boots were hung up. He had this dry wit about him, they say. Could cut the tension in a room or build up a player with just a few grumbled words. That’s a rarer skill than having a good left foot, in many ways.
It makes you think about how we see the game now. Everything is about physical stats and pace. He was proof that the game is played mostly in the space between your ears. A quick mind will always beat just quick legs, eventually. That lesson feels more important now than ever, watching sometimes.
For the people in Nottingham, he was just one of their own. He wasn’t a flashy star bought for a record fee. He was part of the cloth of the club, woven into its best moments. That’s a different kind of love, I think. It’s slower and it lasts longer. The mourning there feels personal, like losing a family member who told great stories.
And the final thing that stays with me is a line from that article. About him being a “peer” to the greats of Scotland. It’s true. Genius doesn’t always look the same. Sometimes it looks fit and sharp; sometimes it looks a bit scruffy, plotting its next move while you’re not looking. The football world is dimmer without characters like that in it. We didn’t just lose a former player, we lost a specific way of thinking about the game.
