RIP Dean Richards - a man of class and humility

There are two questions you can ask of any football fan which are almost guaranteed to set him or her off into an overly-enthusiastic prolonged dialogue, writes Wolves blogger Tim Spiers.

A - What are your favourite games of all time? And B - Who would be in your club's all-time XI?

I could sit and talk about these two subjects all day and probably revisit them far too often than is socially acceptable.

The favourite games list is steadfastly unshakeable, with dates such as May 26 2003 and April 13 2009 - the play-off final and Derby away in the Championship title run - forever etched in the top 10.

It may alter just once a year and I have to say recent wins over Liverpool and Man United are doing their best to edge out games like the 3-1 win over the Baggies from 2001.

As for the Wolves dream team, circa 1991 onwards, well that's a different matter.

Pairing Steve Bull with Robbie Keane up front is a given more often that not, but the rest of the side alters with more frequency that a Nick Clegg policy pledge.

There's so much to take into account; what formation to use, who gels best with who down the flanks, who would help nullify the potential opposition?

If it's Black Country derby then bulldozer Alex Rae is the first name on the team sheet, or if we're talking about a Champions League final then Steve Froggatt's enterprising wing-play deserves serious consideration.

But no matter how often my opinion changes one player remains constant in the answer to both questions and it's an utter tragedy that we can now only refer to this man in the past tense.

I'm talking of course about Dean Richards, whose death at the weekend was as tragic as it was untimely at the age of just 36.

Up until 1995 my experience of central defenders at Molineux was a sheltered one.

Numbers five and six belonged to rugged, no-nonsense, brutish players who took great pride in kicking lumps out of opposition strikers.

Paul Blades, Shane Westley, Peter Shirtliff – these were players who, although effective at what they did, had little desire to play football.

Dean Richards changed all that.

Don't get me wrong, Richards gave as good as he got when it came to being rough and tough, but there was a wondrous elegance about this gentle giant which opened my eyes to a different breed of footballer.

He first joined Wolves on loan when a catalogue of injuries – something which the man himself would become depressingly familiar with – crippled Graham Taylor's promotion-chasing squad.

Richards was just 20 at the time but, despite his inexperience and the fact he joined from a Division Two side (Bradford City), he made the step up with consummate ease.

He ticked all the boxes for a good centre half – tall, good in the air, quick, strong, fleet-footed with sound positional sense.

But what classed him as great was the fact that he made it all look so damn easy.

His nonchalance was breathtaking at times. The way in which he would calmly dispossess his opponent before coolly stroking the ball to a team mate was a revelation to my uncultured eyes.

But then there were the occasions that Richards didn't pass to a gold shirt, those times when he would get Molineux on its feet with a barnstorming foray forward.

In fact he did this quite a lot – forcing the issue, going on a mazy solo run, taking on players he had no right to.

It was as if he had become temporarily possessed, thinking he had the dribbling ability of Maradona, attacking with carefree abandon.

It wasn't as if he was chancing his arm or doing it for the adulation of the fans – far from it.

This was a humble footballer who, contrary to the 'me, me' culture which has sadly engulfed modern football, didn't crave the limelight.

All those attributes and more rightly earned Richards cult status, with repetitions of "Deano, Deano, Deano" a sound which regularly reverberated around Molineux.

He appeared genuinely grateful for the adulation he received, almost embarrassed, as it he didn't know what the fuss was about.

His desire and eye for a goal created many special memories during his four years at the club, with a bullet header in a 2-0 win over Albion at Molineux a particular one to savour.

Then there was the time he went in goal against Stoke after we'd used all our subs, or when he scored two goals at the old Baseball Ground in a thrilling 3-3 draw with Derby.

Defensively his man of the match performances were numerous and, although I wasn't there, I'm told Richards gave a majestic masterclass in our 1-0 League Cup loss at Villa Park in 1996.

Sadly, a terrible car crash and several resulting injuries dampened his upward career trajectory and meant that a player who could have become a regular for his country didn't move to the Premier League - and only Southampton at that - until he was 25.

But before he departed for the Saints on what at the time was a controversial Bosman transfer Richards gave us one last cherished memory, which brings me back to that favourite games list.

Our play-off hopes under Colin Lee hung by a thread in spring 1999 and a trip to Oakwell to face Barnsley was an important one.

Around half an hour in we were 2-0 down and facing a very bleak afternoon, with Richards having scored an unfortunate own goal.

Neil Emblen pulled one back with a header before half time and midway through the second half we managed to level things up at 2-2 through David Connolly.

Then, with just injury time remaining, Richards nicked the ball off a Barnsley player, made his way into the box and drilled a stonking shot into the far bottom corner for a fabulous late winner.

Cue trademark celebration, complete with goofy grin and lofted arms – the perfect way to atone for his own goal and earn us an outstanding comeback victory.

It took a good long while for me and my dad to depart from Oakwell, singing all the way back to the coach – what a day.

Less than two months later he had departed Molineux, but Richards left an indelible mark on my life, for which I will always be grateful.

It's very difficult to comprehend that he's no longer with us, a life so cruelly cut short which will hopefully be marked in a celebrated but tactful manner before our match with Spurs this Sunday.

Yes he could have won trophies and international caps, yes he could have played for Man United or Liverpool and become one of the finest centre halves of his generation.

But in the week of his passing we owe such a gentleman as Richards the good grace to remember what he did achieve in his 36 years.

As supporters of Bradford City, Wolverhampton Wanderers, Southampton and Tottenham Hotspur will attest, that was a considerable amount.

Further still, the mark of any man is not what he achieved, but how he achieved it.

We can take all take comfort in the fact that Dean Richards did it with style, class and humility.