by Gordon Banks
Elsewhere in the first round of group matches, the goals everyone had been hoping for flowed. West Germany posted their intent with a 5–0 victory over Switzerland. Two of Germany’s goals were scored by a 19-year-old who stole all the headlines that day for his assured performance against the Swiss. It was the first time that the vast majority of us had ever heard the name Franz Beckenbauer. Brazil too got off to a flyer. Goals from Pelé and Garrincha gave them a 2–0 victory over Bulgaria in front of a crowd of over 47,000 at Goodison Park. Both Brazilian goals came from trademark ‘banana’ free kicks but a superb match was marred by the rough treatment meted out to Pelé. He was man-marked, at times ruthlessly, by Bulgaria’s Peter Zhechev and picked up an injury that put him out of Brazil’s next game against Hungary. In Group Four Russia gave ample evidence that they too would be a force to be reckoned with, beating North Korea 3–0 at Ayresome Park. After such a disappointing and turgid start, the goals flowed and the ’66 World Cup began to take on a life and identity of its own.
Following our game against Uruguay, we returned to our base in the Hendon Hall Hotel where, between training sessions at the Bank of England ground in Roehampton, we watched the tournament unfold on TV. Much of our pre-tournament preparation had taken place at the FA’s coaching school at Lilleshall in Shropshire, but as all our group games were at Wembley it had been decided we would be London based. Hendon is hardly a backwater, but quite often I would join other players for a stroll down the high street and at no time were we pestered by the press, or even unduly bothered by over-enthusiastic fans.
Not having our every move scrutinized by the media, our base at the Hendon Hall Hotel took on a very relaxed atmosphere. What spare time I had was spent reading newspapers or watching television in the TV lounge – hotels in those days didn’t have sets in every bedroom. At 10.30 every night Alf would join us in the lounge. So regular was he, you could set your watch by him. He’d simply say, ‘Goodnight gentlemen,’ and that was our signal to go up to bed.
After a day on the training pitch I was ready for bed then anyway. Not that television offered much incentive to stay awake. There were only three channels: BBC1, BBC2 and ITV. There was little daytime television other than Watch With Mother and some specialist schools programmes. Programmes for grown-ups began on BBC1 at 5.55 p.m. with a ten-minute news bulletin followed by regional news programmes. Those of a certain age might remember the BBC’s early and disastrous football soap called United!. This saga followed the on- and off-field antics of a fictitious team called Brentwich United. United! was certainly not from the hard-hitting school of soaps such as EastEnders and Brookside and its early-evening slot ensured that whatever drama unfolded was strictly family viewing. The Brentwich United players all had comic-book names, such as Jimmy Stokes (played by George Layton), Curly Parker (Ben Howard) and Vic ‘Hotshot’ Clay (Warwick Sims). It was the brainchild of the writer, Brian Hayles, and the technical adviser was Jimmy Hill!
United! had a curiosity value though it never took off as a soap. Scenes portraying Brentwich in action were shot at actual league matches. Brentwich – or so it appeared, as this was black and white television – played in red and white stripes and white shorts. For added realism, footage of Sunderland or Stoke City in action (both these teams wore the same strip as Brentwich) were cut into the matchday scenes. Such editing was rarely convincing and led to some odd and unintentionally humorous moments, such as when George Layton as Jimmy Stokes would be seen leading the Brentwich team out of their dressing room, only to cut to footage of Sunderland’s Charlie Hurley running down the tunnel. These surreal images didn’t help the credibility of the series at all and together with storylines that portrayed the mundane side of life at a football club – ‘Holiday time is over, so it’s back to work for the players of Brentwich United’, and ‘Deirdre (Beverley Jones) runs short of envelopes in the club office and Gregg Harris (Graham Weston) is worried about being fit for Saturday’ – saw the series disappear after little over a year.
BBC1 closed down at 11.40 p.m. with the Epilogue, a fiveminute sermon given by a guest broadcaster from one of the faiths. BBC2 also ceased transmitting at around that time with Late Night Line-Up, a series which looked at the world of the arts and popular culture featuring the analysis of such worthies as Denis Tuohy, Joan Bakewell and Tony Bilbow. ITV also ceased transmitting programmes at around 11.30, so even if Alf had allowed us to stay up to watch television, there was nothing to watch. And of course there wasn’t the all-night social life that you find in cities today. Last orders in the pubs was 10.30, ten o’clock on Sundays, while nightclubs were an innovation barely heard of by young working folk. The routine of people’s lives had still to change: most went to bed at around 11 p.m. and the streets were safe at night, simply because few people were out and about by then.
As we sat in our rooms whiling away the hours until we could get out there and show that the Uruguay match was not our true form, Alf was analysing his strategic options. Blackburn’s John Connolly had played on the left against the South Americans, in a more or less orthodox wing role. Now, when he announced his team for our second match against Mexico, Alf revealed his new thinking. There was to be an important change to our formation – and our personnel.
12. Rattin Gets Ratty
Against Mexico, Alf Ramsey brought Martin Peters into the team on the left side of midfield in place of John Connelly. Alan Ball was also replaced, his position on the right being taken by Southampton’s wide man Terry Paine.
Martin Peters was a midfield player rather than an orthodox winger like John Connolly. Replacing midfielder Alan Ball with winger Terry Paine was a balancing move: in dropping one winger, Alf had brought another one in on the other flank. The selection of Terry Paine indicated to me that, even at this stage of the proceedings, Alf obviously still thought there was a need for an orthodox winger in the team. Perhaps he believed such a player would stretch opposing defences, creating space and opportunities for Bobby Charlton. Though the side was more or less settled, it was obvious that Alf was still not one hundred per cent certain about his best eleven, or even what the preferred formation should be.
Prior to the Mexico game we enjoyed a day out at Pinewood film studios. Being a big movie fan, this was a cracking treat for me as well as a good ploy on the part of Alf. He had noticed how down we were after the Uruguay game; we needed something to brighten our spirits and bring some fun back into the general mood of the camp. As Alf said when announcing the trip, ‘Laughter is contagious.’
Before we went down to Pinewood we had a training session at Highbury during which Jack Charlton and Alf exchanged words, and I was dragged in to their disagreement. With the training over, all the players were keen to get away, have some lunch and relax. Jack, however, had a point to make to Alf and was adamant it would be made. We had all watched Brazil beat Bulgaria, with both goals coming from free kicks. Jack took Alf to task about what we would do to counteract free kicks should we come up against the Brazilians. Jack believed the best way was for one of our defenders to stand between me and my goal line. Alf asked me what I thought of this and I immediately said I was against it.
‘A player in front of me? That’ll obstruct my line of vision,’ I complained, ‘which is the last thing I want.’
Jack couldn’t see this at all. The debate raged on and on with Jack becoming more belligerent as it progressed. The more we debated the issue, the more it annoyed and exasperated the other players. After forty-five minutes of this, Bobby Moore stepped in.
‘Alf, you told us earlier that laughter is contagious. Well, let me tell you, the three of you have just found the cure.’ Bobby’s intervention immediately prompted Alf to wrap things up.
‘Gordon is in charge of his own penalty area,’ Alf said sternly. ‘Gentlemen, the matter is closed.’
The trip to the Pinewood studios was highly enjoyable. They were filming the new James Bond movie, You Only Live Twice, and we all met Mr Bond himself, Sean Connery. The B
ond movies had taken cinemas by storm. Though there had been a thaw in the Cold War, spies and espionage were still very much a part of the news. The space race between the USA and the Soviet Union was continuing apace as both countries strove to be the first to land a man on the moon. The reality of real-life spies such as Kim Philby, the ‘Third Man’ (after Burgess and Maclean) who defected to the Russians in 1963, was one of a dreary, alcohol-fuelled paranoia, a far cry from the speedboats, careless violence and sex without guilt of James Bond.
The James Bond films purveyed the fantasy that government took a laissez-faire attitude to Bond’s penchant for bedding any amount of delectable women. His promiscuity mirrored the increasingly liberal attitude to sex among young people who were the first generation to have the contraceptive pill. The sophistication of the James Bond character, not only with regard to gadgets, but also food and drink, because something to which the masses could aspire. All of which made the Bond films a highly popular product of their time.
The stunts 007 pulled off in his films, however, were nothing compared to the one Ray Wilson managed during our visit to Pinewood, where a buffet lunch was supplemented by a copious amount of bottled beer. As soon as Alf saw the beer on offer, he immediately restricted everyone to one bottle each. Ray Wilson somehow managed surreptitiously to consume about eight during the lunchbreak. As the afternoon wore on, Ray became more and more outrageous and loud. We managed to keep him out of trouble, though it was touch-and-go at times. Ray didn’t help his cause, especially when we met Yul Brynner, who told us that he was soon to appear in the theatre in Newcastle reprising his role in the musical The King And I.
‘What’re they calling it up there, then?’ asked Ray, much to the amusement of himself. ‘The King and Why Aye?’
We spent the afternoon trying to keep Ray as far away from Alf as possible. If Alf had ever discovered what state Ray was in, he would be in big trouble and may even have been dropped from the squad.
Mexico and France had played out a 1–1 draw in their opening game, which was a good result for us. It meant that we went into our game against Mexico with every team in the group level on points.
Mexico were not right out of the top drawer of international football, but were a useful side whose main strength was their very organized and effective defence. Against England they opted for a sweeper, Jesus del Muro, who played his club football for Cruz Azul. Del Muro started the game playing behind a back four with 22-year-old Ignacio Calderón of Guadalajara in goal. For nearly forty minutes we floundered on Mexico’s resolute back line. I remember thinking that it was going to take something special for us to breach their defence. No sooner had I thought this, than Bobby Charlton conjured up a piece of football magic that was very special indeed.
Bobby received the ball deep in our half of the field and, like a thoroughbred racehorse, glided down the pitch with the Mexicans conceding midfield and falling back around their penalty area. Bobby kept the ball under immaculate control and, when looking up some thirty-five yards from goal, saw his way barred by a blanket of olive shirts. He took the ball on another five yards, no more, then, without breaking stride and with hardly any backlift, hit a thunderbolt of a shot with his right foot. The ball cut through the air like a bullet and was still rising as it ballooned the back of Calderón’s net. Wembley erupted and I dare say millions of people across England leapt from their armchairs. It was a tremendous goal in the true Bobby Charlton tradition. We were off the mark, and how!
All these years later, Bobby’s thunderbolt against Mexico is still considered to be among football’s all-time greatest goals, and rightly so. In the dressing room after the game we heaped praise on Bobby for his marvellous effort only for Bobby’s brother, Jack, to intervene impishly.
‘You’re full of compliments for our kid,’ laughed Jack, ‘but what you’re all forgetting is, it was me who made the two-yard pass that set him on his way!’
Ominously, in Group Two, Argentina were involved in a bad-tempered match with West Germany. Over 47,000 turned up at Villa Park expecting to see a vibrant encounter between two fancied teams. What they saw was a dull, defensive battle littered with fouls. Argentina’s Jorge Albrecht received his marching orders following a very reckless challenge, though many thought that several of his countrymen should have followed him. Argentina had beaten Spain 2–1 and knew a draw against the Germans would be enough to see them progress to the quarter-finals. West Germany, whose attack had ravaged Switzerland, were choked by a ten-man Argentine defence well marshalled by their skipper, Antonio Rattin. The behaviour of the Argentinian players left much to be desired and their dirty tactics and petulance resulted in a warning from FIFA about their future conduct. As we were to find out, it went unheeded.
In Group Three Portugal coasted to a 3–0 victory over Bulgaria, which ended the Bulgarians’ hopes of further progression, while at Roker Park one blinding flash of genius from I gor Chislenko of Moscow Dynamo gave Russia a 1–0 win over Italy. Against Russia, Italy left out their ‘golden boy’ Giovanni Rivera of AC Milan, and their leading goalscorer, Paolo Barison of Roma. The casual approach of the Italians suggested they believed they had some divine right of qualification. The Italians believed their defeat against Russia to be of little consequence, as their remaining tie was against North Korea, a team the star-studded Italians expected to beat easily. Such optimism would prove to be misplaced for one of the greatest World Cup upsets of all time was in the offing.
The day before our victory over Mexico I joined my England team mates to watch what was without doubt one of the best games of the qualifying stage. That night, to the accompaniment of 52,000 wildly cheering fans at Goodison Park, I witnessed the demise of Brazil. Their conquerors were Hungary by three goals to one, and the Hungarian victory was well deserved.
The Brazilian team was a mixture of youth and experience, welded together by the great Pelé. Pelé, however, was injured and watched from the stands as his team mates were torn apart by a rampant Hungary who, in Ferenc Bene and Florian Albert, possessed players of lightning speed whose direct running caused Brazil all manner of problems.
It was an exhilarating game, the speed and tempo of which laid bare the defects of the Brazilians. Sadly, old hands such as Bellini, Djalma Santos and even the great Garrincha, had no answer to the pace of the Hungarians, while the younger members of the side – Jairzinho, Tostao and Alcindo – lacked the necessary experience.
When Portugal finally put paid to Brazil by the same scoreline in their next game, it came as no surprise. The press hailed it as the end of an era. With the benefit of hindsight, it wasn’t. Brazil were merely a team in transition. They had too many players over the age of thirty and too many youngsters. The notable exception was Pelé, who at twenty-five, though yet to reach his prime, had already won two World Cup winners’ medals. Though substitutes were still not allowed, teams could name a non-playing reserve. For their games against Hungary and Portugal, the Brazilian reserve was Edu, who at sixteen was the youngest player in this World Cup. His inclusion was indicative of a Brazilian team in the throes of major change and whose sights were set on the future.
Pelé didn’t fail in the ’66 World Cup, he was kicked out of the competition. The great man returned against Portugal, but the treatment meted out to him by Oporto’s João Morais was more brutal than that which had resulted in his injury against Bulgaria.
Pelé’s injury after half an hour put an end to what the press said would be ‘a contest to decide the world’s greatest player’ between him and Eusebio. Everywhere he went Pelé was surrounded by three Portuguese defenders who were none too subtle in dealing with him. The leniency with which referees viewed physical and robust play in this era was evidenced by a scything tackle from Morais that made no contact with the ball and took Pelé out at the knee. The referee, George McCabe of England, simply awarded a free kick, as probably most referees of the time would have done. Football was considered to be primarily a physical game. When a foul was
committed, a free kick was given and that was usually the only action deemed necessary. The players accepted this lenient view as did those who watched the game. Only in exceptional circumstances was a player sent off. When a player did receive his marching orders it was usually for persistent foul play, or for one tackle that was considered by the referee to be career-threatening to the victim. The tackle from behind was an accepted part of the game, certainly by Europeans, and body-checking was part of the football culture of South America. Football may have been emerging as the beautiful game, but it still followed a very hard and sometimes cynical script.
The players who fouled Pelé received at most a ticking-off from the referee, to which the common response was a knowing smile. That foul was nothing personal, the smiler implied, I’m just doing my job.
Pelé was kicked out of the World Cup, but even if he had been fully fit and firing on all cylinders, Brazil would have had little chance of winning the World Cup. They were simply not good enough for that. The supporters, however, had paid good money to see the world’s greatest footballer in action and they should not have been robbed of that sight by such cynicism. Portugal’s approach against Brazil baffled me, quite simply because they had no need to resort to such shabby tactics – they were good enough to beat Brazil with their sheer footballing craft. In Eusebio they possessed the one player who could come anywhere near Pelé’s brilliance.
The 1966 World Cup produced many memorable images of great, golden moments. In contrast to that is the haunting photograph of Pelé’s exit from the tournament. With a coat draped round him, he looks sadly over his right shoulder as he limps from the Goodison Park pitch. His expression seems to be asking, ‘Why?’ At the same time there is something in his eyes that suggests he was also thinking, ‘I’ll be back.’