Banksy (44 page)

I caught the next available flight home and on the journey steeled myself for saying one last farewell to Dad. He had always been a tremendous source of strength and inspiration to me, not only in my career, but throughout my life. His passing hit me hard and by the time I eventually touched down at Heathrow I was emotionally drained. But I knew that I had made the correct decision to return home to be with my family, and Dad for one last time.

A year later I was on tenterhooks, anxious to hear what Alf had to tell me. I hoped against hope it wasn’t to be bad news concerning a member of my family. However, from his body language I got a hint that the news he was about to impart wasn’t of the tragic kind.

‘Gordon, a gentleman is on the telephone for you,’ said Alf. ‘It is a call I think you should take.’

I took the call and was astonished to hear a plummy voice on the other end of the line informing me that he was an equerry from Buckingham Palace.

‘Mr Banks, I have the considerable pleasure and duty to inform you that you have been provisionally proposed to receive the Order of the British Empire in the forthcoming honours list to be awarded by Her Majesty the Queen,’ said the voice. ‘The purpose of my telephone call is to establish if you are willing to accept the said award, and to determine if you are in a position to accept it personally at Buckingham Palace. The occasion will be most auspicious.’

For a split second I thought it must be a wind-up. Alan Ball, Nobby Stiles, Jack Charlton and Alan Mullery were forever playing pranks and winding up other members of the team. But the fact that Alf Ramsey himself had summoned me to the telephone, convinced me the call was genuine. They wouldn’t dream of involving Alf in one of their practical jokes. Besides, I could never imagine Nobby or big Jack coming up with a word like ‘auspicious’.

I was floating on air. I wasn’t just pleased, I was euphoric. I
informed Mr Equerry that I would be delighted to receive such an honour and thanked him profusely. He swore me to secrecy, so I couldn’t share my pleasure and pride with my team mates. I couldn’t think why I had been chosen for an OBE and simply assumed the award was in recognition of my services as a goalkeeper to British football and, in particular, England. As is my way, in the end I decided not to question it too deeply and simply enjoy the moment. My joy was tinged with one sad regret: that Dad hadn’t lived to hear of my OBE. Though in all probability he would not have shown it, I know Dad would have been as proud of me as I have been to be his son.

A couple of days before our game against Brazil, Alf Ramsey made an uncharacteristic faux pas. Following a training session he gathered us all together and told us that the eleven who had finished the game against Romania would start against Brazil. Full back Keith Newton had not recovered from the injury he had picked up against the Romanians, which meant his Everton team mate, Tommy Wright, was to continue at right back. Chelsea’s Peter Osgood had replaced Francis Lee and Ossy could not contain his joy at having been selected to face Brazil.

Later that day we had a team meeting and Alf began talking about the roles of Francis Lee and Bobby Charlton, only for a perplexed Franny to point out that he hadn’t been selected.

‘But you are in the side, Francis,’ said Alf.

For some reason Alf had completely forgotten that Peter Osgood had come on for Franny Lee against Romania. Alf was very embarrassed and Peter very disappointed. But not half as disappointed as he was going to be. Towards the end of the team meeting, Alf named our five substitutes and Peter Osgood wasn’t even among them. Ossy, needless to say, was most upset about what had been a genuine oversight by the manager.

We were staying at the Hilton Hotel in Guadalajara and hardly got a wink of sleep on the night preceding our game against Brazil. Hundreds of Mexican supporters held an all-night anti
England vigil in the street outside. They constantly chanted ‘Bra-zil’, honked car horns and bashed dustbin lids together. The England party had taken up the entire twelfth floor of the Hilton but the constant noise kept us awake all night. I was sharing a room with Alex Stepney of Manchester United. At one point a group of Mexican supporters gained access to the floor and banged on our door.

I jumped out of bed and swung the door open just in time to see half a dozen Mexicans in their late teens and early twenties being chased down the corridor by a furious Jack Charlton.

The hotel security staff and the local police hitherto had maintained a heavy presence at the hotel. Oddly, on this night they were conspicuous by their absence. The most anyone managed was two hours’ sleep.

The following morning at breakfast, Everton’s Brian Labone told Alf, ‘I could sleep for England.’

‘That’s as may be,’ said Alf, ‘but what the nation wishes to know is, are you in a fit state to play football for them?’

Brian said he was. We all were. We had snatched only a couple of hours of fitful sleep, but such was our motivation and state of mind, we couldn’t wait to get out there and face the Brazilians.

In Brazil’s opening match against a technically accomplished Czechoslovakian team, Pelé had illuminated the proceedings from start to finish. Brazil won 4–1 and Pelé had been the focal point of every Brazilian move. I was left in no doubt. Pelé was the greatest footballer in the world. He combined effectiveness, vision and power with grace, beauty and style. Just to see him taking the ball on his chest was to witness athleticism of the highest order. When Pelé met the ball in the air, his first touch was wonderfully deft, on a par with the perfection he displayed when taking the ball on the ground. His shooting was both powerful and accurate and it was obvious he didn’t give a jot which foot he used since both were equally deadly. Physically he was very strong. His speed off the mark was like lightning. Even when running at full gallop, Pelé’s co-ordination made him
appear to be marvellously relaxed. I believed him to be
the
great player. For years I had been looking forward to the chance of playing against him in a major competition. Now the moment had come. He was at the peak of his powers and, to be honest, such was his brilliance I didn’t know how we would be able to contain him.

The teams filed out on to that emerald rectangle in Guadalajara. England, all in white, were Gordon Banks (Stoke City); Tommy Wright (Everton), Bobby Moore (West Ham), Brian Labone (Everton), Terry Cooper (Leeds United); Alan Ball (Everton), Alan Mullery (Spurs), Bobby Charlton (Manchester United); Martin Peters (Spurs), Geoff Hurst (West Ham), Francis Lee (Manchester City). Brazil were in their famous yellow shirts and blue shorts. This was their starting eleven: Felix; Carlos Alberto, Brito, Piazza, Everaldo, Paulo Cesar, Clodoaldo, Rivelino, Jairzinho, Tostao, Pelé. On the bench for England were Peter Bonetti (Chelsea), Emlyn Hughes (Liverpool), Jeff Astle (West Bromwich Albion), Nobby Stiles (Manchester United) and Colin Bell (Manchester City).

When Alf received the Brazilian team sheet he noticed that the influential midfield player, Gerson, wasn’t playing. He was out with a thigh injury and had been replaced by Paulo Cesar. ‘That’s like replacing a Jaguar with a Mercedes,’ Alan Mullery remarked on hearing the news.

Alf had reverted to 4–4–2, a system the players liked and which was more suitable to us as a squad because it allowed squad players to slot in comfortably. Colin Bell for Bobby Charlton, big Jack for Brian Labone, Nobby for Alan Mullery and so on.

At the team meeting Alf had emphasized the roles everyone was to play. In the centre of defence Brian Labone was to pick up and mark Tostao, while Bobby Moore would sweep around the back and pick up the bits. Alan Mullery had one of the most difficult tasks. Mullers was to ‘sit in’ just in front of the back four and push up when we were on the attack. Hard work, especially as the temperature in the stadium was over 100°F. (Absurdly, the
match was set to kick off at noon, to suit television schedules back in Europe. You can safely say that World Cup football was by now organized to suit the TV companies, not the fans in the stadiums – still less the players.) Bobby Charlton was going to anchor the midfield and be our playmaker, pushing on with Mullers when we were taking the game to Brazil. Alan Ball and Martin Peters were going to work up and down the flanks, with Franny Lee playing off Geoff Hurst up front, with Geoff being our target man.

The onus was on our full backs, Tommy Wright and Terry Cooper, to overlap Bally and Martin Peters, receive the ball from our midfield and provide the crosses for Geoff. That was the plan, anyway. By and large, it was to work very well.

A crowd of over 72,000 packed into the Guadalajara stadium. During the national anthems Iscrutinized the Brazilian line. They looked awesome, as physically strong as they were technically adept. The heat was so withering I was sweating buckets just standing in line. This was unreal. What did the man say about mad dogs and Englishmen going out in the midday sun? I remember wondering how Alan Mullery could possibly fulfil the role Alf had assigned him for a full ninety minutes.

The opening ten minutes were spent prodding and probing at walking pace in an attempt to sound one another out. The ball was allowed to roll unhindered by the side not in possession. Each side watched the opposition pass it in triangles, waiting for a mistake, keeping possession. Tackles were few and not full blooded. Short passes, safe angles, guiding the ball with care from our box to theirs. Wright to Mullery to Charlton to Ball to Lee. Strolling players in the searing heat. It was absorbing stuff.

Franny Lee tried to find Hurst but Brito extended a leg and Brazil leisurely wandered upfield. Brito to Paulo Cesar to Clodoaldo to Pelé. Whack! Alan Mullery dumped the great man on the ground. Mullers held up the palms of his hands to the referee in recognition of his cumbersome tackle and kept on the right side of the official by extending a hand to Pelé, offering to
help him to his feet. Pelé ignored it. Mullers smiled and rubbed the top of Pelé’s head with his hand.

‘You OK mate?’ enquired Mullers.

‘I am not… your… “mate”,’ replied Pelé.

‘It’s best that you are,’ said Mullers, ‘believe me, yer don’t wanna make an enemy of me.’

Pelé simply shook his head and smiled to himself.

I watched from my privileged vantage point as the game unfolded and the Brazilians treated me to a sight I thought I would never see on a football pitch. A walking midfield. With the instep of his right boot, Carlos Alberto leisurely pushed the ball into the path of Tostao. Tostao to Rivelino to Pelé. I took to my toes, arms hanging at my sides like a gunslinger ready for a high-noon shootout. Pelé turned, hit the ball out wide to the left only for Peters to spring forward and intercept. Peters to Ball to Charlton to the overlapping Wright.

‘Go on, Tommy, son.’

Wright to Lee who played the ball back. Bobby Charlton arrived from deep and at some speed. Thump! Bobby hammered the ball at head height to Hurst who had taken up a position on our right. It was as if Geoff was nodding ‘good morning’. His head dropped, the ball smacked against his forehead and it bounced once before reaching Franny Lee. Lee to Ball to Wright and back to Lee again. The Brazilians appeared to me to be overcome by a complete lack of concern. They simply watched and waited. Not one man in a yellow shirt ran towards any England player who had the ball.

Geoff Hurst had drifted into the Brazilian penalty box, Piazza shadowing him. Franny Lee waved his foot over the ball then poked it two yards forward with his left boot before smacking it goalwards with his right. The ball covered twenty yards in no time at all. Felix in the Brazilian goal had his angles spot on and didn’t have to move an inch. He put his hands out in front of his head and gathered Franny’s effort as if someone had thrown him
a practice ball in training. He threw the ball out to Carlos Alberto who stroked it down the wing to Jairzinho.

Suddenly, the game exploded into life as Jairzinho took off like a rocket. We had been caught off guard by his sudden burst of speed. Jairzinho raced towards Terry Cooper and jinked as if about to cut inside. Terry put all his weight on his right foot and Jairzinho flashed past on his left-hand side. I took my eyes off Jairzinho for a split second to glance around my penalty area. What I saw spelled trouble.

The rest is history, which I have described in Chapter 1: Tostao free at my near post, Alan Mullery trying in vain to close down Pelé, Jairzinho’s textbook centre and Pelé’s perfect header.

Ninety-nine times out of a hundred Pelé’s shout of ‘
Golo!
’ would have been justified, but on that day I was equal to the task. Although I’ve tried to analyse that save as best I can in the opening pages of this book, it was really just about being in the right place at the right time – one of those rare occasions when years of hard work and practice combine in one perfect moment.

As Pelé positioned himself for the resulting corner he turned to me and smiled. He told me he thought that he’d scored. So did I– and I told him as much.

‘Great save… mate!’ he said.

The tremendous spirit of mutual respect between the teams demonstrated during that incident was to prevail throughout the rest of the match. It was a fantastic game of football. We knew we could match Brazil in the possession stakes, and our passing was as good as theirs. We held the ball up well, which is essential in such heat. We adapted our style to the slower, more methodical pace of international football, which was very much the opposite of the hell-for-leather tempo of our domestic game. On entering the dressing room at half time I was surprised to see non-playing members of the squad such as Jack Charlton and Peter Osgood, along with Peter Thompson and Brian Kidd, hacking at large chunks of ice with knives and chisels. Alf had instructed them to
place broken ice in towels, which we were then told to drape around our necks to cool us down. It felt great so I asked Peter Thompson to hack off some more ice and place it in a polythene bag for me. I intended to take the bag of ice out with me on to the pitch, place it behind one of the goalposts and, when play was down in the Brazilian half of the field, use it to cool myself down.