Banksy (22 page)

During the break Bert Johnson asked Ken Keyworth, who had been ploughing a lonely furrow for us up front, to drop even deeper to help us contend with what Bert believed would be another relentless onslaught from Liverpool.

‘If I go any deeper,’ said Ken, ‘they’ll end up having to carry me off that bloody pitch with the bends!’

In the second half Liverpool redoubled the pressure on my goal. Within minutes I was hurling myself to my right to block a close-range effort from Ian St John. Moments later it was Roger Hunt that Ithwarted, then Gerry Byrne, then Hunt again… I don’t know how many times during the course of the game I was called upon to make a save. All I can say is, never in my entire career did I make so many saves in a match as we stuck to our task of defending the slender lead Mike Stringfellow had given us. The tension was incredible.

In the closing stages time seemed to stand still. Some of the players’ wives left their seats in the stands, unable to watch the final minutes. For the umpteenth time I went down at the feet of the marauding St John. With the clock against Liverpool, John Sjoberg put himself in the way of a stinging drive from Ian Callaghan. Frank McLintock denied Roger Hunt with a timely sliding tackle. The ball broke to Callaghan; somehow I managed to get my fingertips to his rasping drive but we still couldn’t clear our lines. The ball ricocheted around my penalty area like a pinball. Shots were fired into outstretched Leicester legs. I blocked efforts with any part of the body I could. Still Liverpool came at us as we desperately clung on to the slenderest of slender threads.

Richie Norman put the ball in touch out on the right. The
Liverpool wing half, Gordon Milne, came over to take the throw-in and held the ball above his head for a few seconds as he looked for the best option. Those few seconds were heaven, a momentary respite from constant pressure and a little nearer to full time. In looking across to Milne I saw the linesman signal to the referee that time was up on his watch. Surely there were just seconds left. I inwardly willed Gordon to delay his throw for as long as he liked.

Milne sought out Roger Hunt who, in the space of a hearthrug, turned Colin Appleton. But Colin wasn’t letting Hunt get away; he yanked at his shirt and the referee immediately blew for a free-kick just outside my penalty area. Ian St John ran up to the ball, stepped over it and kept on running while Gordon Milne played the ball into his path. St John angled a shot at goal that, diving across to my right, I managed to deflect up and away. The ball bounced midway between my six-yard box and the penalty spot; red shirts converged, but couldn’t control it. Finally a Leicester foot made hefty contact and the ball rocketed away in the general direction of heaven. As far as I know it’s still going, because for the first time in ninety minutes, I took my eyes off it. The long drawn-out shrill of the referee’s whistle cut the air and I immediately fell to my knees. We’d done it!

The joy of making it to Wembley again was superseded by unbelievable relief. The referee’s whistle released my body and mind from ninety minutes of torturous pressure, taut nerves and intense mental concentration. At first this elation cushioned me from both physical and mental exhaustion but, as I embraced Frank McLintock, who was the nearest team mate to me, we almost had to prop one another up or collapse in a tired heap.

According to that Sunday’s
News of the World
, Liverpool had thirty-four attempts on goal. We’d had the one. That semi-final performance against Liverpool was, in my opinion, my best ever in a club game, as well as my busiest.

One distasteful footnote to this epic encounter came as we headed for the tunnel. Richie Norman, Ian King and I just burst
out laughing in nervous relief as we congratulated each other. Just then a distraught Ian St John passed close by, unable to contain his tears. A press photographer stepped forward to capture his moment of emotion. At the time I never gave it a second thought, but I was soon to learn to my cost that some members of the media can be highly manipulative.

The following day a newspaper printed on its back page the photograph, cruelly cropped to exclude Richie Norman and Ian King so that I appeared to be laughing in the face of a tearful Ian St John. The caption hammered home the point. I couldn’t understand it – I was not that callous. The damage, however, had been done. Needless to say, when I next played at Anfield, as I took up my position in front of the Kop, I was pelted with boiled sweets, orange peel and worse. The vitriol directed at me by the Liverpool fans was unbelievable. I simply had to take it because, down there on the pitch, there’s nowhere to hide and no way to explain what had really happened. As time went by the incident, thankfully, was forgotten, and as the England goalkeeper I was always to receive a tremendous reception from the Liverpool fans.

The vast majority of people who cover football in the press are good at their job. What they print may not always be true but, by and large, a reporter will not write a story unless he believes it to be true. There are a small minority, however, who have no such scruples. There always has been and, I guess, there always will be. That ‘doctored’ photograph of Ian St John and I was the work of one of this small minority, but it taught me not to take what I read or saw in the newspapers at face value every time.

For the record, Ian knew I had been set up. On seeing the photograph he kindly contacted me and told me not to worry about it. It’s just a shame he didn’t tell the Kop!

In light of our previous good form, unbelievably, our semi-final success over Liverpool proved to be the last game Leicester won that season. Our failure was due to a number of factors, not least
of which was a crippling injury list. After the Liverpool game we were full of confidence but very much aware that we would have to apply ourselves totally in each of our remaining five matches if we were to achieve our dream of the double. Immediately following our success in the semi-final we played West Bromwich Albion at the Hawthorns. Jimmy Walsh came in for the injured Ken Keyworth, only for me to break a finger diving at the feet of Albion’s Ken Foggo. Our trainer, Alex Dowdells, taped up my fingers and I carried on for the final hour of the match but we lost 2–1, Albion’s winner coming from a Don Howe penalty.

That broken finger put me out of our three remaining league games, but I wasn’t the only player missing in action: Mike Stringfellow, Ian King and Davie Gibson also succumbed to injuries. Their replacements were decent players, but the cohesion and fluidity of the team was affected, and the fact that we had to play three crucial league games in the space of a week didn’t help. As Cup finalists and close contenders for the League Championship, we were attempting to fire on all cylinders while being unable to field the same team consecutively in any of our remaining four matches. We contrived to lose each one to finish fourth. Under normal circumstances, to finish fourth in the league and have a Cup final to look forward to would be considered a successful season. But to us it felt like relegation.

The champions were Everton, who clinched the title in front of nearly 70,000 fans at Goodison Park when they beat Fulham 4–1. The newspapers dubbed Everton the ‘Cheque Book Champions’ because they had spent £180,000 on five players, most notably Tony Kay, who cost £80,000 from Sheffield Wednesday, and Alex Scott, a £40,000 purchase from Glasgow Rangers. Kay and Scott proved more than useful additions to a side managed by Harry Catterick, but for me the key players in that successful Everton team were their young centre half Brian Labone, and Roy Vernon and Alex Young, who between them scored fifty goals that season.

Alex Young was revered at Goodison as the ‘Golden Vision’ (later the title of a TV play written by the former ITN newsreader and novelist Gordon Honeycombe, that told the story of a group of Evertonians who idolized Alex, and their exploits when they were down in London to watch Everton take on Spurs). Signed from that most romantically named of all British football clubs, Heart of Midlothian, he was wonderful to watch, a darting forward who combined silky, deft skills with great strength, and both made and scored goals with class and style.

Roy Vernon was as sharp as a needle either deep in the midfield or as an out-and-out striker, and was a fine captain. Oddly for such a quick player, he was a heavy smoker, even indulging in a quick one at half time. Later in his career, at Stoke City, Roy would even smoke in the shower – and somehow managed to keep that cigarette completely dry!

The bookies had made us odds-on favourites to win the FA Cup final. We had enjoyed a good, though ultimately disappointing season in the First Division while our opponents, Manchester United, had had a torrid time. On paper United looked a good side; Bobby Charlton, Denis Law, Johnny Giles, Albert Quixall, David Herd, Pat Crerand and Bill Foulkes were all extremely gifted players, as was their captain, Noel Cantwell. Yet United had only just survived relegation to Division Two, finishing three points ahead of their doomed neighbours, Manchester City. In their semi-final United had made hard work of beating Second Division Southampton by a goal to nil. Almost to a man, every sports writer said it was going to be Leicester’s year for the Cup. With our strong defence and quick counterattacks we would be too strong for United, who were seen as over-reliant on their brilliant individuals.

On the day, however, just about every Leicester player, myself included, underperformed in what was our worst performance of the season. In contrast to our lacklustre showing, United displayed exemplary teamwork, while also giving full vent to
their considerable individual skills. Crerand and Law were outstanding for United, and both Charlton and Giles tackled back tirelessly. We knew what to expect from players like Crerand, Law and Charlton at their best, but we didn’t reckon on them being able to build up confidence and get into their stride so quickly.

One of the Leicester strengths was how much we gained from the part contributed by every player both to defence and attack. In the final, however, it was United who gave the perfect example of forwards taking some of the weight off the men behind them. Bobby Charlton dropped back to tackle Howard Riley, and Johnny Giles was always there to help the United right back, Tony Dunne, deal with Mike Stringfellow.

I have to hold my hand up and say United’s opening goal was my fault. Twelve minutes into the game the United goalkeeper, Dave Gaskell, threw the ball out to Johnny Giles who swiftly moved it crossfield to Bobby Charlton. I only succeeded in parrying Bobby’s low shot and there was the United centre forward, David Herd, to accept the gift.

The result was never in doubt after United’s second goal. My intended throw out to the right wing was intercepted by Paddy Crerand, who beat Richie Norman before slipping the ball to Denis Law twelve yards out. Colin Appleton went to tackle him, but Law was far too elusive. He slipped away, swivelled through 180 degrees and fired a low right-foot shot that I had no chance of reaching. It was Law’s twenty-ninth goal of the season and his twenty-ninth in all cup competitions.

With ten minutes left a wonderful diving header from Ken Keyworth seemed to put us back in the game. Minutes later, however, Denis Law rose like a Green’s cake before planting a firm header to my left. I was beaten, but couldn’t believe my luck to see the ball hit the post and rebound straight into my arms. Four minutes from time, my good fortune had run out. I jumped to collect a Johnny Giles cross. As I landed I jarred the heel of my boot and the ball spilled from my hands for David
Herd to poach another goal. At 3–1 there was no way back. United, in the end, deserved to win. For the second time in three seasons I tasted the bitter disappointment of losing a Wembley cup final.

The club’s post-match banquet was again at the Dorchester on Park Lane and, as in 1961, was a low-key affair. Our disappointment was, if anything, even greater than our defeat by Spurs. Then we were the valiant losers of an unequal struggle, but this time everyone had expected a Leicester victory. That we had all played so badly on our big day was perplexing to everyone. As our skipper, Colin Appleton, said at that dinner, ‘We learned an important lesson today, lads. But for the life of me, I don’t know what it is.’

Since joining Leicester City I’d made a concerted effort to study goalkeeping and its role in the team. Like every other club, Leicester had no goalkeeping coach or specialist training routines. I trained with the rest of the lads and, though I was willing to do all the long-distance running to build my stamina and sprinting to enhance my speed off the mark, I couldn’t help but wonder if this type of training was best suited to my role in the team. It seemed silly that I should be doing the same training as the midfield players and wingers. My needs were different, so I took it upon myself to organize my own training regime in addition to my normal work.

In the early sixties both Frank McLintock and Davie Gibson lived in digs. Davie, like Frank, was a Scot who had joined Leicester from Hibernian and was still doing his National Service with the King’s Own Scottish Borderers when he arrived at Filbert Street. Davie was a fine ball player, quite the artist and his nimble creativity coupled with granite-like hardness made him formidable on the football field. Opponents feared his extra agility and turning capacity and preferred to stand off and position themselves goalside of him rather than risk a wasted tackle. Davie had an uncanny feel for the ball. Without ever looking down, he could coax the ball on for three or four yards before eloquently hitting a forty-yard through-ball. With his keen all-round vision he could spot Ken Keyworth or Mike Stringfellow making their runs at a distance and calculate his pass almost to the inch.

I liked Davie a lot, both as a player and a friend. When he retired from the game he continued to live in the Leicester area and became a postman before he and his wife opened a residential home for the elderly, which they still run today.

Frank and Davie were very keen to hone their skills and, being single lads, had the time to do it. At my suggestion the three of us got permission from our groundsman, Bill Taylor, to do some extra training on the Filbert Street pitch on a Sunday morning. Players weren’t normally allowed to do this, but Bill readily agreed.