Banksy

by Gordon Banks

  Geoff’s goal had its origins more at Upton Park than the England training pitches at Roehampton. I had seen the West Ham wingers cross the ball like that many times. Martin Peters was very adept at floating the ball into the danger area between a goalkeeper and his back line, and there was no one better than Geoff at getting on the end of such a cross. So a tactic that evolved on the Hammers’ training ground won the game for England. In such a tight game we needed players capable of producing a moment of true inspiration to catch the opposition off guard. Fortunately, on this day, England had such players in Martin and Geoff.

  Our joy at winning a place in the semi-finals was tempered by Argentinian bitterness. When the final whistle blew, all the tempestuous emotion of a team who believed they could have won the World Cup was once again unleashed on the referee, who had to be escorted from the pitch by Ken Aston and a small posse of the Metropolitan’s finest.

  At this point Alf Ramsey did something that was very uncharacteristic. In the time-honoured tradition of international matches, George Cohen offered to exchange shirts with the Argentinian number eleven, Oscar Mas. The two players were in the process of doing just that when Alf intervened and put a stop to it. He was so obviously angered by the conduct of the Argentinians that he would allow no gesture of friendship or fraternization from his team.

  The photograph of Alf tugging at George Cohen’s arm to prevent him swapping shirts with Mas appeared worldwide in the press on the following day. As far as South American countries were concerned, of course, the photograph portrayed Alf as the bad guy. But even worse damage to his reputation was to follow.

  Let me explode another myth. Legend has it that, when talking to the press after the game, Alf Ramsey described the Argentinian players as ‘animals’. He didn’t. What Alf actually said was, ‘The behaviour of some players in the competition reminds me of animals.’ While the inference was clear enough from the context, he never directly referred to the Argentinians as being animals. Alf was making a general remark about some of the dirty players in the World Cup – he could equally have been referring to those who cynically and crudely kicked Pelé out of the tournament. But the damage was done. The South American press, in particular that of Argentina, widely reported that Alf had specifically described the Argentinian players as ‘animals’. The British papers picked up on this and took a similar line. Thus a myth was created and Alf Ramsey, to my mind, very badly maligned.

  For years to come this misinterpretation of Alf’s ill-advised post-match comment was to hang like a millstone around his neck whenever England came up against a South American team. Moreover, I believe the hostility aimed towards Alf and the England team in the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, was prompted by the reverberations of those notorious words, transmitted and distorted by sections of the world’s press.

  Alf took it all on the chin. Two aspects of his character that I admired were his grace and dignity. Alf must have known he had been misquoted, but he steadfastly refused to involve himself in what would have been a slanging match with the press in order to clear his name. I am only glad that this book has allowed me the opportunity to put the record straight on his behalf.

  As for the match itself, in particular the dismissal of Antonio Rattin, the whole affair was highly regrettable and, with firmer refereeing, seemingly avoidable. Herr Kreitlein must shoulder some of the blame for the way it degenerated. He was quick to punish minor infringements while allowing more serious misdemeanours to go unpunished. When players feel they are not being protected by an official, they invariably take matters into their own hands and trouble escalates. Having said that, the Argentinian players were the main culprits. Their whole attitude to the game, and the competition in general, left much to be desired. The tragedy of it all was that the Argentinians were very good footballers. Their tactics were negative because their strength was their defence, but in players such as Rattin, Oscar Mas, Ermindo Onega and Luis Artime, Argentina possessed footballers of real class. Their Achilles heel, however, was their lack of discipline.

  Following the game FIFA suspended Antonio Rattin for four international matches, and both Ermindo Onega and Roberto Ferreiro for three. The Argentinian FA was fined £83. 8s. 6d. (£88.42½p), this paltry and curious amount being the equivalent of 1,000 Swiss francs which, at the time, was the maximum fine FIFA could impose in such circumstances.

  Ermindo Onega received his ban for ungentlemanly conduct (spitting in the face of an official), and Rattin for bringing the game into disrepute. Luis Artime and Jorge Solari were both cautioned during the game. As were the Charlton brothers, Jackie and Bobby, the first and only time that ever happened. Argentina were also warned that unless they could guarantee the good behaviour of their players and officials, they could face a ban from the 1970 World Cup, although that would have been of no consequence as they didn’t qualify.

  Why did the Argentinians behave as they did? While their actions were inexcusable, they may perhaps be explicable. It may be claimed that Antonio Rattin laboured under a misunderstanding. He had been booked for a foul on Bobby Charlton and was later to claim that at the time of his dismissal he had merely wanted to complain to Herr Kreitlein about some of our tackling. The referee spoke no Spanish, so Rattin needed an interpreter. According to him, he was in the process of asking for one when the referee gave him his marching orders.

  Unlike in Europe, in South America it was quite acceptable for a team captain to speak to a referee, and even question his decisions. Rattin said he simply couldn’t understand why Herr Kreitlein took exception to this. Herr Kreitlein presumably felt that as a European he should adhere to European standards of conduct on the field.

  I believe that the meeting of two differing footballing cultures was at the root of the trouble that day. Both football cultures played to the same set of rules, but it was the way those rules were interpreted that sparked the trouble and controversy.

  There remains to this day a noticeable difference between European and South American football, despite television’s global coverage and the fact that many of South America’s top players now ply their trade in Europe, although it is far less marked today than it was during that notorious semi-final.

  The pressure on us eased somewhat with our having reached the semi-finals. The expectations of the media and the supporters had been high, but we felt we had achieved something by making it to the last four. Should the worst happen, and we were to lose, at least we would derive a modicum of satisfaction from being the first England team to have reached a World Cup semi-final and, in so doing, be ranked by FIFA among the top four sides in the world. It had been a good many years since England had been rated so highly and was indicative of the progress we had made under Alf’s management.

  If someone were to ask me which of all the games I played for England was the one I considered to be the best in terms of pure football, I would have no hesitation in saying it was our semi-final against Portugal. Portugal were the bookies’ favourites and understandably so. They had a number of world-class players at the peak of their powers, no one more so than Eusebio, a player who combined exquisite grace with explosive power. The game took place the day after the other semi-final, in which West Germany had secured their place in the final by beating Russia 2–1 at Goodison Park. The last time the Germans had reached the World Cup final had been in 1954, when Jules Rimet himself handed them the trophy that bore his name following their shock 3–2 defeat of Hungary. With their sights on a second World Cup success, the word coming back from the German camp was that they hoped England would beat Portugal because they felt they stood a better chance of beating us in the final than the Portuguese.

  The West Germans may have wanted England to reach the final but, incredibly, this view wasn’t shared by the entire nation. Following our victory over Argentina, Lord Lovat wrote a letter to The Times in which he described Argentina as a ‘small but friendly nation’. I have no qualms about that, but the noble lord then went on to say that ‘Argentinia
n players had been left jerking in agony on the pitch by English footballers’. His letter also said that ‘The Argentine were the better players and England have got through to the last four by a lucky disqualification and by crippling two Frenchmen earlier in the tournament.’ I didn’t have a clue who Lord Lovat was, or with what authority he was speaking, but I quickly came to the conclusion that he knew precious little about football. What he had written was not true and, quite frankly, his unpatriotic stance I found galling. Happily, however, the unknowledgeable peer’s view was not shared by the rest of the country, who firmly got behind England for a match that the Daily Mail believed ‘had all the ingredients for a classic game of football’.

  Alf Ramsey decided to field an unchanged team against a Portuguese side that had already earned a £1,000 bonus per man for reaching the semi-final. (Oddly, the Portuguese players would have received less – a £500 bonus each – for reaching the final, though a Lisbon bank had promised each player £750 if they won the tournament in addition to the £500 promised by the Portuguese FA.) Like my England team mates, I was simply on a £60 fee per match, though the team had been promised a £22,000 bonus should we win the World Cup.

  Portugal were, to my mind, the most complete footballing side in the World Cup. In Eusebio, the ‘Black Panther’, they had the star of the tournament. He was an exceptionally gifted player who was one of the best strikers of the ball I have ever come across. The name Eusebio equalled goals, and not of the bread and butter variety. His were invariably dramatic, always memorable and tended to overshadow the magnificent work he did in midfield.

  For Eusebio was not just a goalscorer. In the mid-sixties his peerless skills kept Benfica among Europe’s foremost clubs and Portugal, who prior to his emergence had been no menace to anyone, among the most feared teams on the international stage. Eusebio had dominated the tournament and had almost single-handedly taken Portugal into the last four. Like many great players he wasn’t tall, but he had very broad shoulders, exceptional upper-body strength and powerful legs that pumped him all over the pitch at remarkable speed. At full throttle he must have seemed like a blur to defenders. Of course that didn’t bother Nobby Stiles, who had been assigned by Alf to mark him – without his glasses, everybody was a blur to Nobby.

  At the time I didn’t wear goalkeeping gloves unless the conditions were very wet. Prior to leaving the dressing room I’d chew on two or three pieces of sugar-coated Beechnut gum and then smear some saliva into the palms of my hands. This tacky goo gave me a better grip when handling the ball, and also a degree of traction when palming it away during a diving save, so that I gained better direction. Chewing gum also helped my concentration immensely. When the dressing room buzzer signalled that we should make our way out to the Wembley tunnel, I went up to Harold Shepherdson, and asked him for some gum as usual. His slack-jawed expression told me all I needed to know: he didn’t have any. I began to panic.

  ‘I’ve got to have it, Harold,’ I told him. ‘You know how greasy a ball gets out there at night.’

  The Wembley pitch consisted of lush, springy Cumberland turf that, when damp with evening dew, gave goalkeepers all manner of problems. The ball would literally shoot off the surface and even posed problems when volleyed, because moisture clung to it, making it slip and slither in your hands like a bar of soap.

  Alf Ramsey asked why I was all dithery. ‘Harold, go and get some Beechnut. Now!’

  ‘Where the hell am I going to get it from?’ queried Harold, now sharing my panic.

  ‘I’m a football manager,’ said Alf, ‘not a bloody owner of a sweetshop!’

  It was then that one of the lads, I think it was Jack Charlton, remembered there was a little newsagent’s at the end of Wembley Way, opposite what is now the Hilton Hotel, that stayed open late at night.

  ‘Gordon simply has to have it. Move it!’ barked Alf, to poor Harold. He tore off his boots, donned his ordinary shoes and shot out of our dressing room like a track-suited rat out of a drainpipe.

  As the teams lined up shoulder to shoulder in the tunnel awaiting the referee’s signal to take to the pitch, I wasn’t in line. At one end of the Wembley tunnel are two very imposing wooden gates and set into one of the gates, is a small door. With the teams on the point of filing out of the tunnel, there was I standing peering out of the open door, anxiously awaiting Harold’s return.

  ‘Delay the referee!’ I heard Alf tell Bobby Moore who, as captain, was at the head of the line.

  As luck would have it, the band that had provided the pre-match entertainment hadn’t cleared the pitch yet, anyway. I stomped my boots on the ground in frustration, wrung my hands anxiously and willed Harold to appear. Riddled with anxiety I peered through the open door where hundreds of supporters who had been unable to find a last-minute ticket were milling about outside. In the distance I saw Harold, running for all he was worth across the Wembley car park, an arm raised in triumph. Those supporters must have wondered what on earth was going on and who I was looking for. Looking back, I often imagine the face of the newsagent as the England trainer appeared in his shop desperate for chewing gum only minutes before the World Cup semi-final!

  M. Schwinte, our French referee, blew his whistle and the teams began to walk up the tunnel just as a breathless Harold arrived at the gate. He was so out of breath that he couldn’t speak. He just thrust the gum into my hand and collapsed against one of the gates. I ripped open the waxy wrapping and threw three pieces into my mouth as I ran up the tunnel to take my place in line. The TV footage of the teams taking to the pitch shows me chomping away like mad, the commentator saying, ‘And there is Gordon Banks, chewing his gum and looking very relaxed.’ He didn’t know the half of it.

  Everybody made a telling contribution to what was a great game of football and a memorable night, though I must make special mention of Nobby Stiles, who stuck to Eusebio like bark to a tree, and Bobby Charlton, whose performance in midfield was sublime. The 90,000 crowd were solidly behind us and Wembley’s circular roof was almost lifted by the continuous chant of ‘Eng-land! Eng-land!’

  The players warmed to the atmosphere. Alf Ramsey had told us that, when we came up against a team willing to come out and play fluent football, we would hit our true form. This was just such an occasion. The result was ninety minutes of pulsating football. The game came alive right from the kick-off with Nobby Stiles remaining deep to counteract the considerable threat of Eusebio. Nobby, ably supported by Bobby Moore and Alan Ball, denied Eusebio the room to display his talent and the great man was never able to tear us apart as he had so many other teams.

  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 Euse
bio 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.