When I was the press officer for London Festival Ballet (now English National Ballet), I used to travel ahead of the company to drum up publicity. One of my favourite visits was always to Manchester, where the company regularly played the Opera House, then run by Tommy Appleby. One year I knocked on his door and was greeted with: “Come in, Tony, I’d like you to meet Bobby Charlton” (Obituary, 22 October). “Good to meet you, young man,” the footballer said. “I trust you are a football fan as well as a dance fan.” I replied rather tentatively that I couldn’t honestly claim to be its greatest follower, but having been a student in the city, I had actually seen him play. “Well, that’s a start. Next time you are up here, you must be my guest at Old Trafford.” I said I’d be thrilled to. “So, what’s the company dancing on this visit?” “Sleeping Beauty, Mr Charlton,” I replied. “Well that sounds great, and it’s Bobby, by the way. My wife and I would like that.” So that was arranged, and it began an occasional friendship on my visits to the city. If Bobby was around, Tommy would always try to invite him to be there too. He always treated me as an old friend, asked after the family, wanted to know about the dance and what he could see. He never made me feel ignorant of the sport and I learned a lot from him. But most of all he was an old-fashioned gent – courteous, kind and generous-hearted. Antony Barlow Wallington, London Shortly after the Munich air crash in 1958, my father took me to watch a game at Old Trafford – the first of scores of visits. Boys stood at the front of the terrace, heads just about level with the pitch. At some point during the game, the ball bobbled down into the gutter and stopped in front of me. Bobby Charlton came to retrieve it. As he bent down, on impulse, I reached out to touch his arm. He gave me a wide, warm smile. That moment defined my young life and I cherish the memory still. Many years later, I was in Tokyo being vetted by the family of the girl I wished to marry. The head of the family was an elderly, serious and rather forbidding retired judge. “From Manchester?” he asked. I nodded. “Manchester, Bobby Charlton.” Things went swimmingly after that. Bobby, thank you for memories of great football, wonderful goals, gentlemanly conduct, respect for the referee and modest comportment. Prof Roderick A Smith Imperial College London In the mid-60s, eight of us drove across Europe to Istanbul, and got lost in Bulgaria. Driving into a small, remote village, we were dismayed when our ex-army Land Rover was suddenly surrounded by a crowd of wild-looking men, all pointing and discussing something with great intensity. Eventually a spokesman was pushed forward, pointed to our GB sticker and said proudly: “Bo-bee Charl-ton”. Laughter and relief all round, and we drove off, grateful to a great man. Vicky Woodcraft Welwyn Garden City, Hertfordshire It is October 1967 and I am standing with two friends at the White City stadium, Manchester, watching an afternoon rugby union match between the North of England and the All Blacks. About five metres to our right, watching the match on his own, is Bobby Charlton. The aura of the man, and the respect in which he was held, resulted in three students behaving impeccably. After the match, we went to Old Trafford and saw him score two sensational goals from outside the box against Coventry City. What a day! Laurence Swarbrick Hammerwich, Staffordshire Thank you for Jonathan Wilson’s touching tribute to Sir Bobby Charlton (Bobby Charlton’s hug with Jack was a pure moment for two tangled brothers, 22 October). Bobby Charlton was clearly a complex individual as well as a footballing genius. The story of two contrasting brothers from a working-class mining community who bestrode the sporting world in their different ways but who stayed loyal to their roots was very moving and Guardian writing at its best. Matthew Ryder Buckden, Cambridgeshire