It’s been a sad week in the Imps world, losing not one, but two legends of the club.
It’s nice to see tributes pouring in for both Ron Harbertson and now Steve Thompson, and while I didn’t know Ron, I did know Steve. You’ll read lots about his career, captaining the Imps, managing the Imps, and the successes of those periods. You’ll see the stats – 218 appearances as a player, 128 games as manager, 11 goals, many more cards and a Player of the Season Award.
They’ll tell you about him as a great performer on the field and in the dugout, but not as a person.
I don’t claim to have been close to Steve, but I did speak to him on many occasions. The first was at a dinner back in the 2000s, and after that, he always recognised me and took the time to say hello. He was a great talker, full of stories and names, but he was never ‘big time’ with it. Steve liked to entertain, he liked to hold court, but he did it with a style and character that drew you in.
Later on, I met him through media work. I reported on matches for Football League World for a while, and we often crossed paths in the press room. I remember early one season, a new intake of Lincoln University students were in, eagerly chatting, networking and learning the ropes. Thommo came in, in tracksuit bottoms and sports jacket, if I recall correctly, looking more like a coach than anything. A couple of the fresh-faced uni students said hello, exchanged pleasantries and then asked if he was a journalist.
“I used to effing manage the club, son,” was his reply. It sounds cutting, but it wasn’t; he accompanied it with a wide-eyed look around the room, catching the eye of the likes of Chris Ashton, not breaking character, but also raising the roof with the mock indignation. Doubtless, those same journalists will recall his warmth and approachability later in their short experiences the club.
Don’t think for one second he was ever aloof or arrogant, because he wasn’t. I recall the first (and to date, one of only two) game I ever commentated on. It was the FA Trophy tie against Gateshead in January 2017, a cold and miserable afternoon in an empty stadium. Myself and Chris Bell were the team commentating for a station, the name of which escapes me. The commentary booth perhaps had room for three at a push, and Michael Hortin and Steve were already in place.
Steve nudged up, I wedged myself between him and Chris and kept warm! On the official commentary, you could hear me in the background of Steve and Michael. After a long journey on a cold day covering a pretty crappy competition, I’m not 100% sure the latter enjoyed being squashed into a corner because of two new faces. Steve? He was great. I remember telling him how excited I was, and he was so supportive, giving me little tips and shaking my hands afterwards.
That measure of the man, and on that day, he became not just someone I liked and admired, but respected.
Our paths crossed again, briefly, last autumn. I’d been told he was poorly and that he’d started working on a book with another writer, but had only got one chapter in. I was asked to contact him to pick up work, and we had a few chats on WhatsApp. He was poorly, but eager to get some of his stories out.
“Get the lawsuits sorted,” he said when arranging for us to meet, typically full of personality despite his failing health. Sadly, our meetings got cancelled a couple of times, and we vowed to pick things up after Christmas.
That was my last interaction with Thommo, sadly. I’ll always remember him as much more than a former player and a former manager. He was someone I admired, and later respected. He was great on the mic, someone who knew what he was talking about when it came to tactics and understanding the game, even if he did love a name drop.
He was old school, no doubt about that, but one-of-a-kind.
Rest in peace, Thommo.