To earn the title 'The King' is one thing. For it still to be synonymous with a player who last wore red and white more than half a century ago, is another.
In that time Sunderland has had several princes but a lot more pretenders.
Charlie Hurley's career belonged to a bygone era, a time unrecognisable to what football has become. It spanned the demise of endless flat caps, the birth of flared fashion and hair length that made you wonder how the high street barbers survived.
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Yet even in the mud heaps of the period, and as a centre back, he possessed an elegance that allowed him to soar in more ways than one.
His time at Sunderland mirrored that of many other players to come - the great, good and neither of the above. Promotion challenges, occasional success and, certainly to begin with, abject defeats with a concession of goals that could hardly foretell the greatness that was to follow.
Signed to shore up the defence, Sunderland would concede seven on his debut. The following week he, and others, would leak six.
Legend has it that after his second appearance, and when questioned about his role, he spoke of the improvement the defence had made from his debut to the subsequent fixture.
Another 400 plus appearances would follow, and whilst the rollercoaster of emotions continued apace for the supporters there remained a consistency from the Cork man. His prowess wasn't simply cultivating affection on Wearside, greater recognition was to follow at a wider level in finishing runner up to Bobby Moore in the Football Writers Player of the Year in 1964.
My association with his name during my time as a player had largely revolved using his name in the context of the training ground of the time, the letters adorning the gates as big and bold as he was.
I was fortunate to share a stage with him one evening. Asked to speak at a talk in, I made my way to the venue with a curiosity at meeting this figure that had almost become mystical. Apart from the obvious connection we had also represented Ireland, albeit he had been a seasoned senior international.
I arrived for the evening.
I was introduced on to the stage. I received a great reception.
Then Charlie was introduced and I had to redefine what great actually meant. It was a welcome unlike almost any other, emotions poured from fifty somethings as the presence of one figure took them back to the excitement of their youth.
Throughout the evening he came across as unassuming, almost bewildered at the reverence coming from the masses.
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His passing allows the post war generation to reminisce of days gone by, their teenage years atop structure and shoulder in the Roker and Fulwell Ends whilst his majesty made his way to the opposition box, desire and conviction intact, to put head to heavy leather.
He remains The King. Impossible to dethrone, not even in death.
Rest in Peace Charlie.
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