James Lawton: Hutchinson's big heart contrasts with Robert's selfish drivel

Ian Hutchinson's contemporaries have reached a swift consensus while reacting to his tragically early death. The Chelsea man, whose throw-ins often had the impact of howitzer shells, is praised for his superb commitment to the business of winning football matches, not least the epic FA Cup final replay victory over Leeds United in 1970. One of the defeated of that day gave maybe the definitive tribute yesterday when he sighed and said: "That Hutch – what a big brave bastard."

Hutch, like so many lions of his trade who discovered they had operated several decades too early, had his troubles when the Glory Game was over, but none of them impinged on the sense of a wonderfully good-hearted and talented professional.

Watching him was an uncomplicated joy. He had good talent and a huge spirit and his loss is all the harder to bear in a week when the self-indulgences of some of today's marquee football names were once again being unfurled, both on the field and, in the case of Newcastle's £10m winger Laurent Robert, on a personal website.

Robert, who came from France complaining that his luminous talents had not been properly appreciated, was given 22 minutes of action in Newcastle's mauling in Champions' League action in Kiev. Sir Bobby Robson explained that his selection had been based on tactical considerations. Translation: Robert played like a drain at Chelsea last weekend. Players who cost £10m who do not walk automatically into an important game – as Big Hutch did, with his manager's certainty that he would give every ounce of his considerable ability – are generally better off taking a peek into the mirror rather than offering wholesale advice to their team-mates. Not, however, our Laurent.

In the course of a wide-ranging analysis of Newcastle's need to sharpen their European act he announced: "I came to Newcastle to be a winner and I have to put the club in the top three [they are currently in the bottom three, if you hadn't noticed] and I hope Newcastle have the same ambition. We have to do better than last year but I cannot do it on my own. It has to be a team effort."

There was quite a bit more of this self-serving drivel but I think we can leave it with some certainty about the author's position. He is Laurent Robert, footballer of talent and a vision blissfully untouched by the ignominy of being kept out of the trenches for all but 22 minutes of a game in which his manager, one of the most experienced in the business, had the queasy feeling that his team were going to be overrun and that his big French signing wouldn't be able to do a whole lot about it.

The sadness is that when performing with a properly exercised professional conscience Robert gives Newcastle exactly the qualities Robson was looking for when he agreed to pay him around £32,000 a week – which are fine balance, speed and the skill to supply Alan Shearer with killer crosses. But, of course, he becomes much less of a bargain when he indulges himself as he did so bizarrely this week. Amazingly enough, however, he is far from the champion of self-aggrandisement since nothing could have matched the stomach-churning performance of Paolo Di Canio as his West Ham slipped to defeat by Tottenham last weekend

Di Canio once again made a mockery of the authority of his manager, Glenn Roeder, with one of his typically testy touchline seminars. Roeder, who did a remarkable job last season despite the torment inflicted by the impossibly egotistical Italian, continues to make excuses for his man-child virtuoso. "We all know what Paolo is like," says Roeder, rather sheepishly. Indeed we do.

We know he has lovely skill, but also that the concept of team spirit has completely passed him by. For every entertaining break-out at Upton Park there is at least one reminder of the classic interrogation of a player of notorious unreliability anywhere but on his own park by the legendary sceptic-manager, Harry Storer, of Derby County. After one match in which the offender's efforts had been particularly derisory, the old manager dragged him on to the empty field and demanded to know where it was. "Where's what, boss?" squeaked the player. "The bloody hole you hide in every time we play away," roared Storer. The manager was once caught making a rather erratic count of players boarding a bus bound for one of the frozen reaches of the North. "One – two and a half – three and a quarter," Storer was heard muttering as the last of his players passed into the bus. He explained: "I'm not counting players, I'm counting hearts."

In those days, though, the combatively challenged knew their place once they climbed out of their foxholes. It was to lurk in the shadows and hope no one noticed. Today Laurent Robert preaches from his website and Di Canio tells his manager how to do his job. Missing is both a consistent competitive rage – and even a hint of shame.

Di Canio's most amazing flight from reality was when he announced how closely he identified with the professional frustrations of Roy Keane. This is still possibly not quite the right time to extol the professional virtues of the Manchester United captain, but for Di Canio to compare his own commitment to that of Keane surely carries us into the surreal. Keane, for all his faults, is plainly incapable of giving anything less than 100 per cent when the first whistle blows. In other days this might not have seemed so remarkable – not when the likes of Ian Hutchinson were plying their trade.

"A big brave bastard," was yesterday's assessment. It would do well enough as the the epitaph for the best of any football age.