Banksy (37 page)

After thirty-one minutes the Portuguese goalkeeper, José Pereira, blocked a shot from Roger Hunt. The ball rebounded into the path of Bobby Charlton, who calmly stroked it across the lush turf and into the net. The Wembley terracing turned into a sea of Union Jacks; we had taken a mighty step towards the final.

During the second half Portugal asserted themselves and for a time our slender advantage looked very shaky. We defended manfully, however, none more so than Jack Charlton, who was embroiled in a titanic struggle for aerial superiority with the giant Portuguese striker José Torres. With only twelve minutes remaining, a gloriously fluent move produced a second goal. The ball moved from Bobby Moore to George Cohen, who hit a long pass down the right wing. Geoff Hurst and José Carlos battled for possession, with Geoff seizing control. He pulled the ball back across the edge of the penalty area and Bobby Charlton, racing in, hit one of his trademark thunderbolts.

Pereira had no chance. We had made a goal out of nothing, and the Portuguese players were the first to acknowledge it. A number of them even shook Bobby’s hand as he ran back to the halfway line for the restart.

I thought we were home and dry, but I was mistaken. Portugal staged a grandstand finish and eight minutes from time were awarded a penalty. A cross from Antonio Simoes was met by the towering José Torres and, with our back line on the wrong foot, Jack Charlton handled the ball. I knew nobody saved Eusebio penalty kicks, but I was determined to give it a try.

I had discussed Eusebio and his penalty taking in some detail with Alf during training. I’d made a mental note that he always seemed to hit the ball to the goalkeeper’s right and made my mind up to go that way. As I prepared to face the penalty, however, I caught sight of Alan Ball who was repeatedly pointing to my right with some agitation. When Eusebio placed the ball
on the spot, Portugal’s captain, Mario Coluna, clocked what Bally was up to, ran up to Eusebio and whispered something in his ear. Eusebio nodded.

This threw me into a quandary. Initially I’d had no doubt in my mind about which way to dive. On seeing Coluna whispering to Eusebio, however, I was convinced the Portuguese skipper had told Eusebio to change the direction of his penalty. I decided to double bluff them, and dive to my left.

Eusebio hit the ball to my right. It was the first goal I had conceded in 443 minutes of World Cup football. I could have strangled Bally. But for him ‘giving the show away’ I might still have had a clean sheet. After the game, Alf took me to task about the penalty. He was furious with me for diving ‘the wrong way’, seemingly forgetting what we had discussed in training. I tried to explain that it was Alan Ball’s action and Coluna’s subsequent reaction that had made me change my mind, but that cut no ice with Alf.

Portugal now had their tails up. Minutes from the end, Coluna latched on to a crossfield ball and hit a rasping drive that was heading for the roof of my net. Instinctively I took to the air. I only managed to get the fingertips of one hand to the ball, but that was enough to deflect it over the bar.

At the final whistle the Portuguese players were devastated but, to their eternal credit, highly sporting in defeat. Eusebio was inconsolable and wept unashamedly. It had been a classic game which the Portuguese coach, Otto Gloria, summed up perfectly when asked which team he thought would win the final. ‘Surely,’ said Gloria, ‘this was the final tonight.’

Football may have been the winner that night. But it was England who were in the final of the World Cup.

People say there is no room for sentiment in football. By and large they’re right, but sometimes you just can’t avoid it. Jimmy Greaves and the World Cup final was a case in point. Jimmy had been a key member of the England team for seven years, during which time he had been his country’s most prolific goalscorer, but Alf Ramsey – ever the pragmatist – decided to play the same team that had done so well against Argentina and Portugal. Obviously I was delighted for Geoff Hurst, but I couldn’t help feeling desperately sorry for Jimmy.

Of course, Alf’s decision was the correct one and, deep down, I think Jimmy knew from the moment he was injured against France that his chance of playing in the World Cup final had effectively gone. The Argentina game had been just three days after Jimmy picked up his debilitating shin injury against France, and he also realized that with the semi-final scheduled only three days after that, he wouldn’t make it for that match either. Jimmy was of the opinion that should we reach the final without him, Alf wouldn’t change a winning team. Though I’m sure that he did cling on to a secret slender hope. Characteristically, when Alf announced an unchanged team Jimmy immediately wished Geoff Hurst the best of luck.

The myth about English people being quiet and reserved went out the window on 30 July 1966. The England team were carried on an unprecedented tidal wave of enthusiasm to victory in the World Cup, but it was far from plain sailing.

On the morning of the match, I joined half a dozen of the lads on a walk down Hendon High Street, both to stretch our legs and kill some time. We’d all got up early and had long hours to
fill until going off to Wembley. Even at 8.30 a.m. the streets were buzzing and countless people came up to us to wish us luck.

I bought a paper, but back at the Hendon Hall Hotel my mind was so concentrated on the game ahead that I kept rereading the same paragraph without taking it in. Finally I cast the paper aside. When the time came at last for the squad to leave for the stadium, I was taken aback. I had been told that there were a few wellwishers outside waiting to wave us off, but on leaving the hotel I was staggered to see a crowd well in excess of two thousand people gathered around the forecourt. ‘The whole country’s behind you,’ someone called as I made my way to the team coach.

I hoped against hope we wouldn’t let everyone down.

We were confident, but Alf Ramsey had ensured we weren’t complacent. Alf had the knack of putting everything in perspective. He’d done his homework on West Germany and had made us aware of their strengths without making us fearful of them. Since 1965 England had played twenty-two internationals and lost only once. As a team we were on a roll and really believed we could go on and become world champions, as Alf had always maintained.

All those little dressing-room rituals take on extra significance when you’re killing time before a big game. And they don’t come any bigger than the World Cup final. I must have tied my boot laces at least three times before I was happy that the knot was comfortably secured at the side of the boot and not across the lace holes, where I might be aware of its presence when kicking the ball. The strips of bandage that served as tie-ups also came in for undue attention: in binding them around my stocking tops they must lie flat, not twisted. I paid more attention than usual to making sure that my goalkeeper’s top was tucked smoothly down into my shorts: not crumpled, not bunched so that the base of my back felt exposed. I could have no distractions, even of the most minor sort. No irritations. No excuses for myself.

I warmed up with a series of stretching and bending exercises. Then pummelled a ball against the wall of the warm-up room, repeatedly catching it on the rebound until my hands were accustomed to the feel of it. That done, I repeated the ritual preparation of my strip and boots.

Nobby Stiles traipsed across the dressing room and into the toilet for the umpteenth time. Jack Charlton stood in front of a mirror applying Vaseline to his eyebrows. Ray Wilson dipped into Les Cocker’s kit bag, found a little jar of Vicks VapoRub, smeared some around his nostrils, then applied a dollop to the front of his red shirt. Bobby Moore sat impassively, his socks rolled to his ankles as Harold Shepherdson rubbed copious amounts of liniment into his legs. Bobby Charlton and Geoff Hurst held a conversation as both made last-minute adjustments to their boots, Bobby seated on the bench, bending down, Geoff checking the tie-ups on his casually crossed legs. Nobby, back from the loo, sat with his arms folded and legs outstretched. Martin Peters sipped tea from a white china cup, the sort you used to see in British Rail buffets. George Cohen, ready and willing, sat leafing through the special-edition matchday programme. He paused at a page listing details of past finals, and started to read. How could he, at a time like this? How could he take anything in? Why would he want to? Roger Hunt leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped, his eyes focused on the floor. Suddenly he sat upright, clapped his hands together and sniffed, then resumed his leaning posture, elbows on his knees, hands clasped and found something else of interest in the concrete floor. Nobby passed me on his way to the loo again.

I intermittently took deep breaths, trying to stay calm, as Alf said his piece, but my mind was roller-coasting. Much of what he wanted to say he had said in the days before, particularly during the Friday team meeting. So he didn’t say much now. He didn’t have to.

‘Jack, be hard and competitive… Nobby, get a foot in…
Is
that stud longer than the others? No. It’s the floor. It’s not flush
… Alan, work and work and work up and down that line. Always be looking to play the ball in early…
That left tie-up seems a bit tight. If I just extend that leg… that’s better
… Long ball, short ball, it doesn’t matter, Martin, as long as it’s the right ball… Bobby, control the middle…
Must look for Bobby for an early throw out
… Bobby, be aware of Seeler; he can get up high for a little fellow…
Not in my bloody box he won’t
… George and Raymond…
Raymond??? I’ve never called him Raymond. Suppose that’s his proper name though
… When Gordon has the ball, go wide, give him the option…
Yes, be looking for them
… And –’

Burrrrrrrrrrrr!

That’s it. We’re off !

‘Good luck to you all.’

And you, Alf.

‘Best of luck… Best of luck… Best of luck… Good luck… Good luck… Come on. Come on!
Let’s go!
’

Even though I had planned to wear gloves, Harold Shepherdson still gave me chewing gum. It tasted really good in my dry and caked mouth. I spat into the palms of my hands anyway as I followed Alan Ball out of the liniment-scented warmth of the dressing room into the cool Wembley tunnel. The West German players were already in line, bobbing up and down, jiggling arms, keeping leg muscles loose. Their studs on the concrete floor chattered away like eleven Volkswagens having tappet trouble. The German goalkeeper Hans Tilkowski extended a hand. I wiped my hands down the front of my jersey, tentatively shook his hand, then chewed way like mad on the Beechnut again to conjure up a good gob of goo.

Standing in line, I noticed just how tidy Alan Ball’s hair was. How red it was. How much shorter than me he was. I could gaze down on his scalp, which had tiny freckles on it. I wondered if he knew they were there.

Somewhere away in the distance I heard a band playing. Then
no band. From the head of the line came the shrill blast of a whistle. The lads in front of me began to walk up the slight incline towards the rectangle of light I could see at the mouth of the tunnel. What a tunnel. I never realized it was so long. My legs kept walking but the light at the end of the tunnel didn’t seem to come any closer. It was like a dream in which I’d walk or run, but get nowhere. A sudden and deafening roar swept down the tunnel and assailed my ears. The rectangle of light grew bigger. Bigger still. I walked out into sunshine so bright that I had to squint. A cacophony of noise avalanched down from the undulating masses on the terraces. The volatile sound of Wembley in full cry.

I glanced up to where I thought my parents, my brothers, my wife Ursula and our son Robert might be and raised an arm in that direction. They would think I had seen them. I imagined Ursula saying to Robert, ‘There, Daddy has seen us. Picked us out from all these people. I told you he would.’

Flanked by Alan Ball and Roger Hunt I stood guardsmanlike as the bands played the national anthems. I didn’t normally sing out with gusto, but I did on this occasion, happy to have some release from the nervous tension that had built up inside me.

Then a hurricane of hurrahs from the terraces. A sea of Union Jacks. The constant collective chant of ‘Eng-land! Eng-land!’

Both sides fidgeted nervously as the long wait neared its end. The presentations seemed to take an age as the dignitaries passed along the teams. In red shirt, white shorts, red stockings, the England team: Gordon Banks; George Cohen, Bobby Moore, Jack Charlton, Ray Wilson; Alan Ball, Nobby Stiles, Bobby Charlton, Martin Peters; Roger Hunt, Geoff Hurst. And the West Germans, in white shirts, black shorts, white stockings: Hans Tilkowski; Horst Hottges, Willi Schulz, Wolfgang Weber, Karl-Heinz Schnellinger; Helmut Haller, Franz Beckenbauer, Wolfgang Overath, Siggy Held; Lothar Emmerich, Uwe Seeler.

*

We kicked off under gold-leaf sunshine, though previous heavy rainfall had made the pitch soft and greasy. In such conditions errors of judgement were inevitable, especially where the pace of the ball was a factor. But an error of a different kind gave West Germany the lead.

One of our prime strengths was our resolute back line, but it was an uncharacteristic mistake in defence that allowed West Germany to open the scoring after just thirteen minutes. Ray Wilson went up to meet a centre but his header lacked power and length. The ball fell to Helmut Haller who, from my left, shot across the face of goal.

Although Haller’s shot lacked pace, Jack Charlton’s defensive position between Haller and myself momentarily unsighted me. I saw the ball late. Before I could adjust my positioning it had passed me and crept into the right-hand corner of my net.

I was devastated. Having been on the losing side in two FA Cup finals at Wembley, for a split second I could see it happening all over again. My disappointment at conceding an early goal, however, was quickly replaced by resolve and determination. The game was still young and I knew we had plenty of time to assert ourselves. What’s more, I was convinced we would do just that.