by Tim Flower
The stoppages for Da did give me opportunities to take in the atmosphere. Even on a Cup Final day, I had experienced nothing like it. Instead of two rival tribes marching towards the stadium’s twin towers, I felt as if a nationalistic tide of red, white and blue was sweeping along Empire Way. Men talked excitedly about defeating the Germans again and showing the world who’s boss. The crowd was so rousingly passionate and patriotic that, for a while, it quelled my disillusionment with England and the World Cup.
Da entered into the spirit of the occasion, despite his afflictions. He proudly bought two, rather crudely made and over-priced, England rosettes. As he was pinning one on Ma - like she’d won first in show - he saw a banner proclaiming “NOBBY STILES FOR PRIME MINISTER” and cheered manically (and then coughed similarly). When two men passed us carrying one that said, “NEXT TO LIVERPOOL, ENGLAND ARE THE GREATEST”, he insisted I call them over, just so he could shake their hands.
Having promised to check that they had found their seats okay, I left Ma and Da outside the North Stand and hurried towards the press entrance. I had arranged to meet Norman there, and I was running late.
As I approached, he called out, ‘What time do you call this, Bronislav?’ and ostentatiously tapped his watch with his forefinger.
‘Sorry, Norm. My Da has only just come out of hospital. We had to stop a few times along the way.’
‘You’d better don your disguise quick,’ he said, handing me Bronislav’s navy blue “CCCP” sweater and press credentials. ‘It kicks-off in twenty minutes.’
I shed my mac and became Bronislav.
‘Here, you’ll also need this,’ he said, taking a battered-looking camera from a bag and slinging it around my neck. ‘It’s an old Hasselblad. But it looks just like a Russian Kiev.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Norm.’
He scanned me up and down like an anxious parent on his son’s first day of school. ‘If you don’t open your mouth or try to operate the camera, they might just believe you’re Bronislav Plotnikov,’ he said with minimal conviction. ‘I’ll go first, introduce you and explain you don’t know any English like. You just play dumb, okay?’
‘Because I’m supposed to be a smudger, you mean?’ I winked.
Unfortunately, we presented ourselves to almost certainly the only camera obsessed official in the whole stadium. Pointing at my midriff, he asked Norman, ‘What’s a Ruski doing with a Hasselblad 1600 F?’
Forgetting Norman’s instruction, I chirped up, in a voice somewhere between Blofeld and Bluebottle, ‘Not Hasselblad. Ziss is a Russian Moscow,’ and gave the camera an affectionate pat.
From the look on Norman’s face, you would have thought I had just admitted to being a communist spy. ‘Like I said, Mr Plotnikov’s English is rubbish,’ Norman spluttered. ‘He means a Russian Kiev. They’re closely modelled on the 1600 F. It’s almost impossible to tell them apart.’
The official wasn’t convinced. ‘Why’s it say Hasselblad on the front, if it ain’t one?’
Although I knew I wasn’t meant to have understood his question, I couldn’t resist inspecting the camera. This produced another horrified glare from Norman.
‘It’s short for Hasselbladski,’ Norman riffed. ‘Some later Kievs were labelled that - as kind of a joke like.’
The official stared, in turn, at the camera, me and Norman. Then, seeing that a queue had formed, he gave Norman a “count yourself lucky“ look and reluctantly waved us through.
Norman left to take up his pitchside position, and I hurried upstairs to the Royal Box, only to find my way barred by another official.
I tried walking past him as if, like the Queen, I had a prerogative to enter that made presentation of a ticket unnecessary. He didn’t buy it.
‘Oi! Where do you think you’re going?’ he said, grabbing me by the shoulder.
I showed him my (or rather Bronislav’s) press credentials. Recognising a clean-cut man in his thirties standing below me in the box, I pointed to him and said in my best Blofeld, ‘I photo Yuri Gagarin. Yah? For Russian newspaper.’
‘Is that bloke Gagarin?’ the official said, with a mixture of reverence and incredulity.
‘He look different in spacesuit and helmet yah?’
The official made a brief assessment, gently nodded and said, ‘You’d better be quick. Any minute, they’ll all be on their feet for Her Majesty The Queen.’
I had learnt just one word of Russian from Nell and took this opportunity to use it. ‘Spasibo (Thank you), comrade,’ I said and trotted down the steps of the stand toward Gagarin.
I almost immediately spotted Ma’s bright yellow turban, which stood out in the mainly monochrome crowd surrounding her like a belisha beacon. As soon as the official’s attention was taken by his next customer, I put on my mac, stuffed the camera in its bag and turned sharp left towards where she and Da were sitting.
Before I could reach them, however, the really important people in the first few rows, below me, got to their feet. This triggered a wave of standing up that soon engulfed me, impeding my progress. Moments later, when everyone retook their seats, I noticed that Ma was no longer the box’s only occupant with yellow headgear. In one of the previously empty seats in the middle of the front row was now a diminutive figure, wearing a primrose coloured, feathered hat and matching coat, who I took to be the Queen.
On her left, I recognised Sir Stanley Rous’s full head of white hair. The next seat but one to her right was unoccupied and I couldn’t see the PM’s grey head and trademark pipe anywhere. The country had to be in trouble, I thought, for Harold to miss seeing England in the World Cup Final.
The stadium was full to capacity and the sense of excitement and anticipation was palpable. As if to release some of the tension, the crowd gave a rendition of, “Oh when the whites, go marching in...”, seemingly forgetting that, when in any minute the teams filed out onto the pitch, the West Germans would be the ones wearing white.
After apologetically shuffling along the row and reaching the non-regal yellow hat, Ma greeted me with an excited, ‘Have yer seen, luv? That’s the Queen over there.’ Then she leaned towards me and whispered, ‘We ain’t in the wrong seats, are we?’
‘No Ma, these are right. Good view isn’t it?’
Before Ma could respond, Da chimed in with, ‘Ramsey’s picked Hurst, not Greaves. Have you seen?’
‘But Jimmy Greaves is our most talented player and our greatest ever goal scorer.’ I had checked the stats: he had scored forty-three goals in fifty-one appearances for England. Our Rog had managed a very creditable fifteen goals in eighteen appearances. Hurst has only scored twice in seven. ‘This has to be England’s biggest match of all time. You can’t not play Jimmy Greaves.’
Da didn’t want to debate this. Stifling a cough, he said, ‘We’re playing wingless again, just like I said.’
I nodded. Having learnt that Ramsey had picked Hurst, this didn’t surprise me.
‘You ain’t forgotten, have yer? We win today, you owe me a bluey.’
‘No, I haven’t forgotten.’ In fact, I was very conscious of it, having had to borrow an extra five pounds from Norman, so I could, if necessary, pay Da.
Suddenly, there was a huge roar from the crowd. I instinctively turned in the direction of the tunnel and saw England in their changed red shirts and West Germany in black & white marching in line out onto the dog track, towards the immaculate, lush green pitch. Right on cue, the sun broke through the cloud and spotlit the cacophonous bowl.
“Clap clap; clap clap clap; clap clap clap clap, ENGLAND!” resounded around the stadium.
‘I’d better go, Da. I’ll come back for you both at full-time. Okay?’
As I shuffled back along the row, in front of those who I guessed were players’ wives, girlfriends and other guests, Da called after me, ‘Don’t forget me winnings, son.’
I had just reached the aisle when a sweet voice from behind me said, ‘Hello Harry?’
It was Rita. I gl
anced anxiously back at Ma and Da, to check if they had seen her. I don’t know why: they wouldn’t have known her from Adam. Anyway, it wasn’t illegal to be acquainted with a girl from Number 10.
She gave a warm smile and said, ‘How did you manage to wangle a seat here?’
‘I didn’t, Rita. I’m here with a photographer. I’m helping him out.’
‘That’s nice.’
‘Mum and Dad have got tickets here though,’ I said, nodding in their direction. ‘My mum’s the one in the yellow hat.’
‘How lovely.’ She pointed to the empty seat beside her and grimaced. ‘I’m here with the Fox. One of the PM’s guests had to drop out: too much going on.’
I nodded knowingly.
Her expression switched to profound apology. ‘I’m so sorry about our dinner. I rather spoilt it, didn’t I?’
A familiar voice from two rows in front said, ‘She did rather, didn’t she Harry?’
I spun round to see Nell looking up at me and grinning like a Bond villain.
She had told me FIFA had invited her to the match; and it wasn’t altogether surprising that Rita had been given a complementary ticket. But there would have been a hundred thousand tickets sold for the Final, I thought: why, in God’s name, had the two of them been allocated almost adjacent seats!
‘So I get to meet the famous Rita,’ Nell said. She turned her head to address her subject. ‘You work with my husband, I understand?’
Rita shot me a panicked glance.
I jumped in with, ‘Yes, Rita is one of our copytakers, aren’t you Rita?’
She nodded obediently, whilst her eyes pleaded for help.
Fortunately, we were both saved by the ticket holders arriving to take up their seats in the row in front. Whilst they momentarily interrupted Nell, I announced, ‘It looks like they’re lining up for the anthems. I had better go.’
As I left, I mouthed to Rita, “I’m sorry” and, not looking where I was going, literally bumped into a man, causing him to drop the two match programmes he was holding.
‘Watch where you’re going, would you,’ he said.
Recognising first the voice then the face, I said, without thinking, ‘Sorry, Mr Forsyth.’
He glared at me as if I had accused him of treachery over the stadium’s tannoy.
Before he could vocalise his annoyance, however, Nell called out, ‘Oh hello Mr Forsyth. I’m Nell, Harry’s wife. Harry tells me you work at the paper too, as a photographer.’
Forsyth stared at her, glared at me and then, sounding both annoyed and offended, said, ‘I do no such thing, Madam. You must be mistaking me for someone else.’
Nell replied, ‘Oh, very sorry,’ and smirked at me, as if to say, “There, that puts pay to your Rita’s photographer boyfriend story”.
I was saved from making what would have undoubtedly proved a counterproductive attempt to explain away Forsyth’s denial by the Royal Marine Band introducing God Save the Queen and all the occupants of the box standing to attention. I seized the opportunity to retreat up the aisle and down the steps, away from the nightmarish assembly. I hurried in the direction of the pitch, stopping briefly to - Bruce Kent style - take off my mac, put on my camera and re-assume the identity of Bronislav Plotnikov.
By the time the West German anthem had finished, and the officials and two captains had gathered in the centre circle for the toss, I was in position. It was only a damp patch of grass, but it was one of the best seats in the house: to the left of the goal at the eastern end of the ground, just a couple of yards behind where the freshly whitewashed six-yard box and goal line intersected.
As the two countries took their positions for the kick-off, I noticed that the co-operation between them and FIFA had extended to allowing West Germany’s best player and leading scorer, Franz Beckenbauer, to take part, despite his having received two cautions. With their accomplice having become their opponent, I consoled myself with the thought that neither side would now be favoured by the other. And with Gottfried Dienst refereeing, one of them would have to beat, for the first time in the knock-out stages, a full-strength team, fair and square. I didn’t, for one moment, anticipate what was to follow.
During the first half of the match, I was acutely conscious, above all else, of not doing anything that would betray my true nationality and/or incompetence with a camera. I was in a close line of photographers, who were instinctively operating their equipment, literally without taking their eyes off the ball. In contrast, a good deal of my attention was taken up by my fellow smudgers, as I tried to mimic them, and by Norman’s camera, as I struggled to figure out how to wind on the film.
Nonetheless, I did witness the two key moments of the half. The first happened at the other end of the pitch, where Norman was stationed, so I saw little more than a blonde-haired player in white (who I correctly guessed was Helmut Haller) shoot and then wheel away punching the air. That West Germany had just opened the scoring was, however, confirmed by an English smudger near me yowling like a cat and his neighbour attempting to consoling him by pointing out that the side scoring first in a World Cup final had never gone on to win.
Six minutes later, the smudger should have sounded much happier. Only yards away from us, Geoff Hurst - Greaves’ replacement - headed England an equaliser. However, the feline photographer had chosen the seconds it took for Bobby Moore to flight a perfect, forty-yard free kick and for his West Ham teammate to guide it deftly past West Germany’s stranded goalkeeper, to change lenses. So he greeted this goal too like a puss in pain.
At half-time, with the scores still level, I found Norman and got a late lesson on how to operate a Hasselbladski.
He also gave me his forthright opinion on England’s opponents.
‘Did you see the way Wolfgang Weber rolled around on the floor like he’d been hit by Cassius Clay?’
‘I didn’t actually, Norm. I was probably trying to find your camera’s shutter-release.’
‘There was nothing wrong with him! Typical bloody Kraut. And what about Overath on Bally? And him tripping Moore - you know, what led to our goal, like?’
‘Were they bad? I only saw Moore’s free kick and Hurst’s header.’
‘They’re dirty bastards. It deserved ‘em right.’
From Norman’s perspective, West Germany had undoubtedly assumed the Latin teams’ role of violent cheats. But from my end of the pitch, there seemed little to choose between the way the two sides played for the first forty-five minutes. Both had been pushing, shoving, jostling and niggling - and when that didn’t work, fouling. Neither appeared to believe they could prevail because they possessed superior skills or technique. It didn’t seem like a world football final: more a battle between old foes.
The second half was almost a mirror image of the first. For most of it, the twenty-two players tussled and tumbled, scuffled and scrambled, but fought in vain for a decisive advantage. But then, thirteen minutes from time, Martin Peters pounced on a deflected shot towards the far goal and appeared to stab the ball into the back of the net. Whilst the cat-man went crazy, his neighbour claimed foresight that playing on Wembley’s lush, expansive and unfamiliar playing surface, West Germany would tire in the last twenty minutes.
The know-it-all had a point. One or two of the Germans had been cramping up and others were clearly labouring. England were two-one up and in control of the match. I thought it was all over. But it wasn’t.
With a minute left, Jack Charlton committed a clumsy foul, some thirty yards from where I sat. The hurriedly taken free kick was fired in my direction, into a throng of players. The ball fell to a German, whose shot was deflected by a teammate’s arm across the face of the England goal. Just a few feet away from me, Wolfgang Weber got to it first and hooked it into the England net.
The goal was so sudden and unexpected that it stunned the cat-man into silence. As the West Germans celebrated, he just stood staring at the orange ball, which had rebounded off the net and was rolling slowly back across the goal
line. Even when the know-it-all informed him that a German, Schnellinger, had handled the ball and the goal shouldn’t stand, he didn’t react.
Gottfried Dienst blew the full-time whistle and, whilst the players and officials prepared for thirty minutes of extra-time, I visited Norman.
‘It had to be that cheating cunt Weber!’ he raged. (England being deprived of victory in the last minute hadn’t muted him.)
‘It looked like handball to me - before it got to him,’ I said, with no real complaint. For, at the same time, I was wondering whether the footballing gods were punishing Forsyth for manipulating the preceding matches. Was their punishment for mortals who dared to corrupt our “beautiful game”, to bring the desired outcome within reach and then cruelly whip it away in the eighty-ninth minute? Had Forsyth, far from securing England's victory, doomed them to be losers?
‘I still fancy we’ll do it. Home ground. Home crowd. And the Krauts look knackered,’ Norman said, nervously.
‘We’ll soon see.’
After more anxious chatter, I left Norman beside the goal West Germany would attack in the first period of extra-time and wandered back along the side of the pitch towards the opposing one.
On the way, I saw Tofiq Bahramov, the linesman with the Stalin moustache from somewhere unpronounceable in the Soviet Union, who Nell had helped the Pole to brief. He must have seen the “CCCP” on Bronislav’s sweater, for he approached me and said something incomprehensible in what I assumed was Russian.
Since I had no idea what he had just said, I couldn’t risk replying “thank you”. So I responded in the only way I could. I stepped back and took his picture. Rather than appearing nonplussed by this, he looked strangely perturbed: like I was Blofeld and it had just dawned on him that he might be my next victim. I gave him a curt smile, mumbled ‘Spasibo’ and hurried back towards my spot beside the goal. When I got there, I discovered it had been taken. So I took up a position further left of the goal, at the end of the row, next to a smudger who, seeing my CCCP jersey, said (no doubt thinking I wouldn’t understand him), ‘Don’t cramp my style Trotsky.’