by Tim Flower
In the first period of extra-time, England looked the stronger. In particular, Alan Ball - with his socks down around his ankles - made repeated runs deep into German territory, as if he had been playing for only nine minutes rather than ninety.
On one such run, Ball hared down the German’s left flank - like a winger Ramsey had eschewed - and crossed the ball to Hurst, less than ten yards out from their goal. What happened next was to have profound and lasting implications for our nation.
Hurst turned his back to goal to receive the ball, spun round and, losing his balance in the effort, rifled it high towards the German goal. The ball was almost glowing orange in the, by now, bright summer sunlight, as it crashed into the underside of the goal’s roof and ricocheted down vertically. As it bounced back up off the turf, Our Rog - England’s nearest player - turned away with his arm in the air, before a German defender headed the ball over the bar.
Both sets of players looked expectantly at the Swiss referee, who was in the middle of the pitch, some distance away. He signalled neither a goal nor a corner. Instead, he started trotting toward Bahramov, who was running the line at my end. Standing just a few yards from the corner flag, he was the only official who could possibly judge whether, at some point in its flight from Hurst’s foot to being headed out of play, the whole of the ball had crossed an imaginary, wafer-thin plane extending vertically from the inner edge of the crossbar down to the inner edge of the goal line - in other words, whether England had scored. Of course, even Bahramov had to make this judgement based purely on what he saw in the fraction of a second it took for the ball to hit the top and bottom of the goal’s perimeter. Although I was only the length of a cricket pitch away and two yards behind the crucial line, all I saw was a streak of orange cannon down from the top of the goal and bounce out. I had no idea whether Hurst had scored or not.
I jumped up and looked for Bahramov’s signal. If he had decided it was a goal, the appropriate way for him to signal this was to lower his flag, walk back towards the halfway line and, with his other hand, point to the centre spot. Alternatively, if he believed at least a part of the ball had remained on Hurst’s side of that wafer-thin plane, he should signal a corner kick, by standing near the goal line and pointing down forty-five degrees towards the corner flag.
Bahramov wasn’t moving towards the halfway line. He was stationary, near the corner of the pitch, so in the right position to signal a corner kick. And, although he wasn’t obviously showing it with his flag, I thought this was what he was signalling.
I glanced at the England players. Hurst appeared to think so too. When he saw Bahramov, he dropped his arms, which he had thrust high in the air in celebration of what he believed - or at least hoped - was a goal, and slumped forward.
The grumpy smudger had apparently interpreted Bahramov’s body language in the same way. ‘The Ruski lino is saying no goal,’ he declared, to no-one in particular.
His other neighbour responded, in a foreign accent I couldn’t place, ‘I saw a flash of white on the ball. It did not cross the line.’
This angered Mr Grumpy. ‘What are you talking about?’ he sneered. ‘It was way over the line.’
By the time Dienst had navigated his way past beseeching players and reached Bahramov, I had left the smudgers arguing and scurried along the edge of the pitch and taken up a position just a few paces behind the tall, erect figure. It was both an instinctive move and an irrational one: as if I thought, by getting myself in line with Bahramov, I could somehow see what he saw of the incident.
Dienst stood on the pitch, a couple of yards in front of Bahramov, and said nothing to him initially. Instead, he conveyed “Well, was it a goal or not?” by simply staring at him with raised eyebrows. (I assumed this was because they didn’t share a common language.)
The crowd behind me were in no doubt. They were screaming “Goal”, “It was a goal, Ref”.
Bahramov, who was wearing exceptionally long baggy shorts secured with a contrasting belt, appeared to think otherwise. He shook his head and mumbled something which could have been in any language. Peering over his left shoulder at the roof and floor of the West German goal, I concluded that, whilst he should have had a decent view of incident, he wasn’t close to being in line with the plane of the goal, which made a precise determination of whether the ball crossed it impossible.
Dienst sought to clarify. With a heavy accent, he asked Bahramov, ‘Goal or No goal?’
Before he could respond, a cultured voice from behind me shouted, ‘Bahramov: remember Stalingrad.’
Glancing over my shoulder, I saw a tall, slim policeman. I looked closer, spotted the scar on his right cheek and realised it was the Pole. He was standing in a belligerent pose, with his helmet in his hand, glaring at Bahramov. I looked back to see the linesman register alarm, first at the Pole, then at me - or rather the “CCCP” across my chest.
He turned away and stepped onto the pitch, nearer to Dienst. Straining to catch their exchange, I heard Bahramov repeatedly say what sounded like “In net”, whilst making emphatic gestures upwards. I understood him to be saying that the ball had ricocheted, not off the bar, but the top of the net. If this was in fact what had happened, it wouldn't matter whether the ball came down on the line or behind it: a goal would have already been scored.
I couldn’t see how, from his position, he could have made this judgement. I looked again at the approximate spot, some fifty or more yards away, where the ball struck the goal. He couldn’t possibly be truly satisfied, I told myself, that the ball had cleared the inside of the crossbar.
Not surprisingly, Dienst wanted confirmation of what Bahramov was telling him. ‘So, Goal yes?’
Bahramov nodded.
Dienst blew his whistle, and both gestured towards the centre circle.
As the English players hugged each other, the West Germans stormed up to Bahramov, and the crowd broke into Rule, Britannia!, I must have been the only Englishman in the stadium not celebrating. For a few moments, I stood frozen, staring at the scene of delight and disgust on the pitch, stunned by what I had just witnessed. Then I spun round to face the bogus bobby. I was furious. I intended to confront him: tell him I knew who he was, that he was working for Forsyth and the two of them had rigged the tournament and faked the trophy’s theft.
But I couldn’t. He had disappeared. I ran onto the dog track that surrounded the playing area. There were several uniformed policemen there, but none of them were the Pole. He had probably escaped down the tunnel, I thought, or melted into the crowd.
I wandered back to my spot by the eastern goal, telling myself that, with a whole period of extra-time still to be played, the footballing gods had an opportunity to put matters right. Yet, looking at the West German players it was obvious they were out on their feet. There was no way they were making another comeback. This time it really was all over.
Except, with thirty seconds of the match left and almost all the West German team in attack and too exhausted to retreat and defend, Bobby Moore floated a long pass forward to Geoff Hurst, who started running towards the far goal like he was fleeing a crime scene (in a sense, he was). At the same time, bizarrely, a few spectators came onto the pitch - apparently thinking the game had finished - and ran in the opposite direction towards the other England players. The next thing I saw was the crowd behind the West German goal go wild with delight and Alan Ball hugging Hurst. I took it that Greaves replacement had scored a hat-trick. As I looked up at the scoreboard, I saw it change to “ENGLAND 4 GERMANY W. 2”.
Whilst seemingly the rest of the stadium’s occupants celebrated England becoming World Champions, I sat at the side of the pitch and brooded over their crucial third “goal”. If I could satisfy myself it was in fact a goal, it wouldn’t lance the boil that was Operation Jules Britannia, but it might just quell my loathing for the Pole’s corrupt provocation of Bahramov. I decided the only way I could possibly do this was to get Our Rog’s insight. He was only some four yards away from t
he ball when it ricocheted down from the top of the goal. As you would expect of a leading goalscorer, he had tracked the ball and was in the goalmouth ready to tap it in the net, should it rebound off the keeper, a post or the bar. Yet, when the ball bounced up off the turf, in front of what was an open goal, he hadn’t attempted to head it in. He had turned away and raised his arm in celebration. I wanted to ask him why. Was it because he had seen the whole of the ball cross the line, so there was no need to play on?
I spotted Our Rog standing, fourth in line behind a tearful Bobby Charlton, ready to mount the thirty-nine steps to where Her Majesty, The Queen would present the Jules Rimet trophy - or least a Jules Rimet trophy - to their captain, Bobby Moore. Having joined my fellow smudgers beneath the Royal Box, I noticed that the empty seat to the Queen’s right was now occupied by Harold Wilson. I was curious as to when he had taken his seat. Had it only been, I wondered cynically, when Forsyth advised him that victory had been secured?
I searched above The Queen and to the right for Ma’s yellow hat; but I couldn’t see it. I imagined she or Da had tossed it in the air in celebration and lost it. I looked back to the front row of the Royal Box to see Bobby Moore courteously wiping his hands on its velvet-covered parapet, before shaking The Queen’s white-gloved hand and accepting from her the modest, gold-coloured trophy. To Harold Wilson’s visible delight, England’s captain raised it high in the air and the crowd responded with a huge roar, followed by repeated renditions of “We’ve won the cup; we’ve won the cup; ee aye addio, we’ve won the cup”. I was surprised the Prime Minister didn’t join in the singing.
As the England players did a lap of honour to celebrate their victory, I followed Our Rog from a distance. I only got an opportunity to speak to him once he had left the pitch and gone down the tunnel. I called after him and he beckoned me into the home dressing room.
A toothless Nobby Stiles and the giraffe-like Jackie Charlton were standing just inside the door, quietly examining the trophy. Whilst several of the squad and staff were larking around, yelling and laughing, with others looking on approvingly, they seemed to be somewhere else, processing what had happened, as if they couldn’t quite believe it.
Our Rog circumvented a maul of manic teammates and slumped onto the bench beneath his peg. He looked knackered and in no mood to chat. So, after congratulating him, I came straight to the point.
‘Rog, I’ve got to ask you about Geoff’s second. You reacted by turning away and raising your arm. You didn’t try to put in the rebound.’
He gave me a weary nod.
‘Was that because you saw it go in - you knew Geoff had scored?’
‘To be honest, Harry, all I remember is the ball ricocheting down from the roof of the goal and me turning away - expecting it to bounce up into the roof of the net - and then holding up my hand to claim it.’
‘You must have actually seen the ball go over the line then?’ I said hopefully.
‘I don’t know… I suppose so. Still, if I thought I could’ve beaten Weber to the rebound, I’d have made sure. But I couldn’t have: he was closer than me.’
‘So are you saying you thought it was a goal, but you can’t be certain?’
He hauled himself up off the bench and pulled off his shirt. ‘Look, I’ve told you what I saw, Harry. And what I did was what any player would’ve done in my position.’
I sensed he thought I was critical of the way he reacted. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Rog. I’m not saying you — ’
He interrupted me. ‘Harry, I’ve told you what I remember. The ref gave it and that’s all that matters.’
He was right. That was all that mattered - except if you were me or West German.
Behind me, Alan Ball shouted to his captain, in his high, hoarse voice, ‘Look Mooro: Nobby’s being nicked!’
I looked round and saw the back of a tall, uniformed policeman bending forward, whispering in Nobby’s ear. Then he took the trophy Stiles was still minding, swapped it for an identical one he produced from a chubby black briefcase and left.
By the time I had thanked Our Rog for his help, congratulated him again and got outside, the mystery officer was nowhere to be seen. He could have been the Pole: I didn’t get a proper look at his face; but he was of the right height and build. With England’s pitch celebrations over, I was conscious Da and Ma would be waiting for me. So, although keen to, I had no time to search for him. Instead, I walked briskly through the East Stand towards the Royal Box.
As I did so, I recalled rumours I had heard about powerful Argentinians or Brazilians - incensed by what they saw as the ‘fixing’ of the World cup - engaging professional criminals to steal the Jules Rimet trophy. Had I just witnessed the Pole swapping the real trophy with the replica to avoid that risk, I wondered? Walking up the steps to the Royal Box, I couldn’t help smiling at the thought of a Latin gang trying to get the trophy off Nobby.
In the absence of an official checking tickets, I walked from the gloom of the stairs straight out into the sunlit Royal Box, with my fiver in hand ready to give Da. The stadium was by now largely empty: the VIPs had all vanished and just a few dozen England fans wandered the terraces, not wanting the occasion to end.
I looked over to where Ma and Da had their seats. But I could only see Rita, who was gazing into the distance.
As I approached her, I said jovially, ‘Has the Fox abandoned you?’
She bowed her head but didn’t otherwise respond.
‘You don’t know where my mum and dad went, do you? I said I would meet them here at the end, but I got waylaid.’
As she lifted her head, I could see her face was ashen. ‘I think you’d better sit down.’
‘Why? What’s happened?’ I said, perching on the back of a seat in front of her.
‘It’s your dad.’ She paused and wiped her nose with a hankie she had scrunched up in one fist. ‘He was taken ill during the match.’
‘Oh no. I thought this might happen. He’s been taken to hospital, has he? Has Ma gone with him?’
Rita stared at me with frightened eyes and shook her head. ‘Harry, your dad has passed away.’
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
‘I’m so sorry, Harry. The St John’s Ambulance men came very quickly. They did everything they could.’
I looked down at the, by now, crumpled fiver in my hand and felt my stomach, chest and throat constrict, tears well behind my eyes and blood rush to my head. I had an urge to rage. But instead of screaming and shouting, I heard myself say, calmly and politely, ‘Rita, where’s my mum?’
‘Your wife has taken her back to your house, Harry. She said she’ll stay with her until your mum’s ready to go home.’
‘That’s good.’
I laid Da’s five pound note across the top of my thigh and, with the palm of my hand, smoothed it out as best I could and then folded it neatly into four.
‘Did you say he was taken ill during the match?’
She nodded.
‘He did he know England won?’
‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ she said with a compassionate smile. ‘He collapsed just before the end of normal time. As I said, the ambulance tried everything, but they couldn’t revive him.’
‘Did he see West Germany equalise?’
‘No, he couldn’t have done. Your mum said he jumped up when the referee blew for a foul just before that goal, thinking it was the final whistle and England had won. That’s when he collapsed.’
‘So he missed all the drama in extra time.’
‘I’m afraid so, Harry.’
‘Actually, that’s just as well. He died thinking England had won fair and square.’ I tucked Da’s fiver away in my wallet, behind a photograph of Nell and Alison. ‘You know what, Rita? I really envy him that.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
TWENTY SIXTEEN: Thursday, 28th July
The final month of meetings with Harry was intense and difficult. He took progressively longer to relate his story, seemed to fi
nd concentrating for sustained periods increasingly difficult and, towards the end of each day, would become less articulate and more irritable. I did suggest revising our timetable, shortening the length of our sessions and taking more breaks; but he wouldn’t hear of it.
We reached the end of his story, just three days before I was due to pay him for it. That I met my deadline at all was thanks, in no small part, to Alison. She ensured Harry ate properly and was otherwise looking after himself. She would also locate and organise the materials he needed for our meetings. If she had to leave for work, she would set him up with a sandwich lunch and a large flask of tea. If able to stay, she would not only cater for Harry, but assist him in his increasing struggle with his memory, vocabulary and multi-tasking.
I had planned for the conclusion of his story to be an account of how he reacted to England’s triumph and his father’s death on that Saturday. However, at our final meeting, in the week of the fiftieth anniversary of those dramatic events, I discovered he had no recollection of the days that followed, and his last shorthand note, dated 31st July 1966, was uniquely brief and sketchy.
All Harry could tell me was that, on that Sunday, Ma travelled back to Merseyside to stay with her sister and Nell returned to her parents. He presumed he met Norman for a drink, because his note included a quote from him about England’s Saturday night celebration at the Royal Garden Hotel.
“Anyone would think bloody Wilson had won the World Cup - I mean Harold not Ray [the England left-back]. The smug git downed a glass of champagne, replaced a fat cigar with his pipe and led the team out onto the balcony to greet the crowd like he was fucking Bobby Moore.”
He surmised that otherwise he had spent the day distracting himself with the Sunday papers, the Light Programme and, in the evening, the TV. These were his usual Sunday pastimes, he explained, because back then there wasn’t much else you could do.