Banksy (31 page)

Hampden roared as Jim Baxter fed the ball to Willie Wallace some twenty yards from my goal. The Hearts centre forward took the ball on for a few yards before hitting a thunderous low drive, the sheer pace of which took me by surprise. Having thrown myself to the ground, I managed to gather the ball into my chest at the second attempt. As I lay there spitting the dust and grime from my mouth I noticed a pair of boots and blue
stockinged legs inches from my face. I looked up to see Denis Law, his hands grasping the white cuffs of his shirtsleeves and a menacing smile on his face.

‘And I’ll be here every time. Be sure of that Gordon, son,’ he said, displaying his Cheshire Cat grin to the full. I knew Denis was playing mind games in the hope of putting a bit more pressure on me, but I also knew he would be true to his word. Should I ever slip up and spill the ball, he would be there to plant it in the back of the net.

Pressure never affected me, only helped me concentrate. The bigger the occasion, the more at stake, the more I liked it and, it seemed, the better I played. As Alf Ramsey once told me, ‘Thrive on pressure, Gordon. You get no juice out of an orange until you squeeze it.’

Though playing only his second game for England, Geoff Hurst was already showing the prowess he would go on to achieve in international football. He exuded confidence. Whenever Bobby Charlton was on the ball, Geoff was screaming for it to be played to him. Any striker wants the ball played in early – the earlier the better. Bobby was just the man for the job. After about fifteen minutes of frantic play Bobby played the ball into Geoff some twenty-five yards from the Scottish goal. Before the Scots could close him down, Geoff let fly and the ball sailed past the flailing arms of the Scottish keeper Bobby Ferguson. When the ball ballooned the net I had a good idea what it would be like to play at Hampden for Queen’s Park. There was almost total silence. Though some eighty yards from Bobby Charlton, I heard him scream, ‘It’s there!’ His voice was as piercing as that of a pub singer in Westminster Abbey.

Roger Hunt scored a second to put us in the driving seat, but this was Scotland against England and even though two goals adrift, the Scots would fight to the death. Roger added to his tally but Denis Law made good his promise, opening the account from the home side. Bobby Charlton once again put some daylight between the two sides when scoring with a typical
guided missile, but still the Scots wouldn’t roll over. Celtic’s Jimmy Johnstone put them right back on track with a fine opportunist goal and in the final stages reduced the Scottish deficit even further. I thought I had all my angles and my positioning correct as Jimmy corkscrewed his way past Keith Newton and Jack Charlton, but Jimmy simply glanced up, saw where I was and with great deliberation sliced across the ball with the top of his boot. The ball curled away from me only to return to its original line of trajectory and into the far corner of the net. I wouldn’t have thought it possible for any player under such pressure, running at speed and with only a marginal view of the goal, if any, to have scored like that. Yet Jimmy Johnstone did. It was a great goal from a player blessed with an abundance of natural skill.

With the deficit reduced to 4–3 and roared on by the massed ranks of their supporters, Scotland laid siege. With only a minute of the game remaining my heart skipped a beat when Jimmy Johnstone, who had given Keith Newton a torrid afternoon with his jinking runs, turned Keith yet again and set up Willie Wallace, whose forehead smacked the ball wide of my left arm and goal-ward. The sardine-packed terracing took to its toes. I feared the worst but there was the diminutive form of Nobby Stiles stretching up into the air as far as his limbs would allow to head the ball off the line.

‘Goa-ohhhhhhhhh!’ moaned 135,000 voices in unison.

Nobby saved the day for England. What’s more, his lastminute clearance off the line had saved every English player from a year of merciless ribbing from Scottish club mates. I could have hugged him for that alone.

The shrill of the referee’s whistle sounded the end of hostilities. It was my first senior success at international level over the Scots in four attempts, as it was Alf Ramsey’s. The Scottish bubble had been pricked and the Hampden bogey, where England had not won since 1958, had been laid. The close understanding between Bobby Charlton and Geoff Hurst was remarkable in what was
only their second game together. Jimmy Greaves had missed the game through injury, and his return could only strengthen our hand.

The victory also demonstrated to Alf Ramsey that England had strength in depth and good, workable options. The character and application we had shown in winning against what was a very good Scotland team, galvanized the squad and reinforced our conviction that we would be a force to reckon with in the World Cup. Alf liked his players to show mettle and to demonstrate that they would not be intimidated by even the most hostile of receptions. Scotland in full cry in that atmosphere at Hampden was a severe test of our credentials as an international side, and we had passed it, if not quite with flying colours, then certainly with distinction.

There were two things that Alf would not tolerate in his players: indiscipline and complacency. Anyone who didn’t toe the line found himself out on his ear. I’d hardly call myself a rebel – in fact I was always totally committed – but even I was to receive a disciplinary warning shot across the bows on occasion in 1964.

It was just before the party left England for a game against Portugal in Lisbon. The game was scheduled for 17 May, little over a week after a long and strenuous domestic programme. The England team had assembled immediately after the last league game of the season at our usual hotel in Lancaster Gate. We had a couple of days to kill before leaving for Portugal, and many of us were champing at the bit, but Alf’s rules didn’t permit us to step out of the hotel of an evening. I had resigned myself to another night cooped up in my room reading newspapers or a book, when Jimmy Greaves and Bobby Moore knocked on my door. Jimmy said that he and Bobby and a few of the other lads were going for a quick pint. Did I fancy joining them? I didn’t need asking twice.

Our little group consisted of Jimmy, Bobby, Johnny Byrne, George Eastham, Ray Wilson, Bobby Charlton and me. Jimmy
had convinced us that there’d be no harm in going out for just a couple of pints. He knew a quiet pub just along the road and that’s where we headed. Of course we were recognized immediately we walked through the door, but no one ever bothered us, nor thought to tip off the press. In those days the press didn’t camp on our doorsteps round the clock (they only sent a single reporter to cover matches), so we felt confident our little jaunt would go unreported. Besides, no one thought the sight of England players out for a quiet drink was anything out of the ordinary, or newsworthy.

Last orders were called, by which time we’d had a couple of pints, with Bobby Moore and I each buying a round. Jimmy G, however, was adamant that he couldn’t go out for drink and not do the honours. He knew ‘a little club just down the road’. We fell into line behind Jimmy and soon found ourselves in a quiet corner of a cosy little den where we could continue our evening in conviviality. So enjoyable was it, in fact, that we lost track of the time. It was past one in the morning when the seven of us sheepishly slipped away to our respective rooms, thinking we’d got away with it.

On entering my room I switched on the light and immediately knew I was in trouble with the boss. There, on my pillow, was my passport. (When he joined the England squad every player handed his passport to Alf for safe keeping.) He’d obviously found out about our little escapade and the passport on the pillow was a message to me that my place on the trip to Portugal was far from assured. I was still gathering my thoughts when the door opened and in walked the others, all with passports in hand.

The following morning at breakfast, Alf said nothing about the incident. In fact he didn’t mention it until after our final training session in Lisbon. As the session came to an end Alf said, ‘I believe there are seven among you who would like to remain behind for a chat with me. Is there not?

‘If I had enough players here with me, not one of you would be getting a shirt against Portugal,’ Alf said sternly. ‘Consider this
a warning shot across the bows. I will not tolerate the sort of thing that happened in London before we left. You are here to do a job – for your country – and so am I. Thank you gentlemen. I look forward to the game against Portugal in the knowledge that what happened the other night will never be repeated.’

We needed no further warning. It was quite clear that our international careers would be finished should we overstep the mark again. Happily, we achieved a notable 4–3 win against the Portuguese, with a hat trick from Johnny Byrne and a goal from Bobby Charlton. Though I had conceded three goals, I saved what to my mind would have been another two and came off the pitch feeling satisfied with my performance. Perhaps I had gone some way to redeeming myself? Alf, however, thought differently. He dropped me for the next game against the Republic of Ireland.

Along with ill-discipline, Alf Ramsey’s great bugbear was players who took their place in the side for granted. I was never that complacent, yet Alf never missed an opportunity to ensure that it stayed that way. Following one game I was leaving our hotel to start my journey home to Leicester when I saw him in the car park. ‘See you Alf,’ I said, waving goodbye. Alf nailed me with a cold piercing stare. ‘Will you?’ he said.

It is well known that Alf had taken elocution lessons. I don’t know why. Perhaps he felt that a plummy accent would help his cause when his name was being bandied about for the England job among the many Old Etonians on the FA. Alf was the sort of manager who knew he could never be ‘one of the lads’, and his accent helped to distance himself from the players. He had a brilliant footballing mind, though, was totally dedicated, occasionally taciturn, yet often witty and warm. His record as England manager speaks for itself. Of the 113 games he took charge of, England lost only 17. At times he appeared cold and distant, yet I know of no one who played under him who doesn’t have great affection for Alf Ramsey, the quintessential ‘player’s man’.

At times Alf appeared to be at pains to play down his humble background, although he wasn’t ashamed of his roots, and certainly no snob. Perhaps he felt the need to be on his guard in the company of FA officials who might look down their noses at his Essex upbringing. His father had a smallholding in Dagenham in the 1920s from which he sold hay and straw to dairies and the various companies which still delivered by horse and cart. Alf’s first job was as a delivery boy for Dagenham Co-op in 1935, a job he held until he was called up for National Service.

It was during his time in the army that he first played for Southampton, the club he joined as a full back when his service days were over. In 1949 he was transferred to Spurs for what was then a record fee for a full back of £21,000. He won thirty-two caps for England and was a key member of the Spurs ‘push-and-run’ side that won the League Championship in 1952 under Arthur Rowe. Though he had only an elementary education at school, he was intelligent and an avid reader. Though his attempts to appear better read than he actually was sometimes misfired.

Jimmy Greaves came from a similar east London background, but enjoyed a more fruitful education and was, in fact, the head boy of his school. On leaving school Jimmy worked for the
Sunday Times
only for Chelsea to step in and give him his chance in football.

Following an England training session prior to a game against Hungary at Wembley, the players were discussing with Alf who was the best club chairman. Jimmy hadn’t said much, so Alf asked him if he had any thoughts on the matter.

‘Not really,’ said Jimmy, ‘there’s small choice in rotten apples.’

‘I’m surprised that you, of all people, Jimmy, haven’t anything more worthwhile to say on the subject,’ said Alf. ‘The English language is the most descriptive of all. Surely you can think of something more imaginative than, “There’s small choice in rotten apples.” English is the language of Shakespeare.’

‘That is Shakespeare,’ said Jimmy, much to Alf’s embarrassment.

Alf was proud to be English, as we all were. He had an enormous influence on me as a player and as a man, and I can pay him no higher compliment than that. When he died of a stroke in 1999, Lady Ramsey went in person to the Ipswich Registry of Births, Marriages and Deaths to complete the solemn task of officialdom. The death certificate gave his occupation as, ‘Knight of the Realm, England Football Manager (Retired)’. To that I would have added, ‘Gentleman, friend to all his players, and the only England manager to have won the World Cup.’

Prior to the World Cup commencing in July 1966, England set off on a short tour of northern Europe. We began in Helsinki with a 3–0 victory over Finland, a scoreline that did not reflect the degree to which we outclassed the Finns. Alf used this game to give a run-out to a number of squad players, such as the experienced Jimmy Armfield, Leeds United’s Norman Hunter, Ian Callaghan of Liverpool and a young, lithe, left-sided midfield player from West Ham, Martin Peters.

Alf saw the tour as a means of fine-tuning the side and giving every player in the twenty-two-man squad a final opportunity to show what he was capable of at international level. Alf rested me for the next two matches – a 6–1 victory over Norway in which Jimmy Greaves scored four, followed by a hard-fought 2–0 win over Denmark – opting for first Ron Springett of Sheffield Wednesday, then Chelsea’s Peter Bonetti. I returned for our final game in Katowice against Poland. When we disembarked from our plane we saw at first hand what life was like behind the Iron Curtain. Even in the month of July Katowice appeared grey and foreboding, the city skyline was drab in the extreme, a mishmash of charcoal grey blocks of flats, chemical works and coalmine winding gear. The people looked very poor and what few cars we saw seemed to belong to another age. Jimmy Greaves surveyed the sight, turned to Alf and said, ‘OK, Alf, you’ve made your point. Now let’s get back on the plane and bugger off home.’