They don’t make showboaters like him anymore. Forged through a kind of adversity we don’t see today.
Coventry turned him down for an apprenticeship at 16 and he went to work in a factory. Pelaw, Clarke Chapmans and Tow Law followed in his teenage years. Those weren’t factories, they were the clubs he played for. He didn’t have any holidays left from the factory to take up Newcastle Utd’s offer of a trial. Eventually, they signed him and 46 goals later, Spurs coughed up £600k for him. Marseille saw enough and paid £4.5m for his services, making him the third-most expensive player of all time.
Three league titles and a European cup final later, Marseille fans voted him their second greatest player behind Jean-Pierre Papin. Le Dribbler Fou, they called him. The Crazy Dribbler. Football Writers Player of the Year in his first season back in the inaugural Premier League. Magic Chris, he went by now. Not quite the same.
He could have been the factory worker known for dodging weekend shifts. He wasn’t. He was the old winger tearing up the Premier League, sitting Ryan Giggs down. Two World Cups, a Euros. He did the lot.
He didn’t stop, even when his legs did. He played in Scotland and drifted down every English division. He loved it. Worksop, Glapwell, Stockbridge, Hallam. He couldn’t stop. Addicted. 53 years old and still going.
There was the mullet, the accent, the gait, and arguably the greatest collection of club shirts to ever be worn by a single player. Marseille’s Adidas, Wednesday’s pinstripes, Spurs' Holsten classic. He looked like a rock star in them. Even the ill-fitting England shirts couldn’t contain him. The mullet always flared out the back. The socks always sagged. He didn’t dress for the cameras. He dressed to play.
There were moments he’d like back and we’d like back. There were missed penalties. But that’s all part of it, isn’t it?
Some people are born to play the game, even when they’re told no. Turned down by Coventry? Working in a factory? Playing non-league? It doesn’t matter. It’s destiny. Chris Waddle was meant to play this game. And we were meant to watch him.
Words by Lee Kelleher