by Gordon Banks
At the final whistle the Portuguese players were devastated but, to their eternal credit, highly sporting in defeat. Eusebio was inconsolable and wept unashamedly. It had been a classic game which the Portuguese coach, Otto Gloria, summed up perfectly when asked which team he thought would win the final. ‘Surely,’ said Gloria, ‘this was the final tonight.’
Football may have been the winner that night. But it was England who were in the final of the World Cup.
13. Alf’s Final Word
People say there is no room for sentiment in football. By and large they’re right, but sometimes you just can’t avoid it. Jimmy Greaves and the World Cup final was a case in point. Jimmy had been a key member of the England team for seven years, during which time he had been his country’s most prolific goalscorer, but Alf Ramsey – ever the pragmatist – decided to play the same team that had done so well against Argentina and Portugal. Obviously I was delighted for Geoff Hurst, but I couldn’t help feeling desperately sorry for Jimmy.
Of course, Alf’s decision was the correct one and, deep down, I think Jimmy knew from the moment he was injured against France that his chance of playing in the World Cup final had effectively gone. The Argentina game had been just three days after Jimmy picked up his debilitating shin injury against France, and he also realized that with the semi-final scheduled only three days after that, he wouldn’t make it for that match either. Jimmy was of the opinion that should we reach the final without him, Alf wouldn’t change a winning team. Though I’m sure that he did cling on to a secret slender hope. Characteristically, when Alf announced an unchanged team Jimmy immediately wished Geoff Hurst the best of luck.
The myth about English people being quiet and reserved went out the window on 30 July 1966. The England team were carried on an unprecedented tidal wave of enthusiasm to victory in the World Cup, but it was far from plain sailing.
On the morning of the match, I joined half a dozen of the lads on a walk down Hendon High Street, both to stretch our legs and kill some time. We’d all got up early and had long hours to fill until going off to Wembley. Even at 8.30 a.m. the streets were buzzing and countless people came up to us to wish us luck.
I bought a paper, but back at the Hendon Hall Hotel my mind was so concentrated on the game ahead that I kept rereading the same paragraph without taking it in. Finally I cast the paper aside. When the time came at last for the squad to leave for the stadium, I was taken aback. I had been told that there were a few wellwishers outside waiting to wave us off, but on leaving the hotel I was staggered to see a crowd well in excess of two thousand people gathered around the forecourt. ‘The whole country’s behind you,’ someone called as I made my way to the team coach.
I hoped against hope we wouldn’t let everyone down.
We were confident, but Alf Ramsey had ensured we weren’t complacent. Alf had the knack of putting everything in perspective. He’d done his homework on West Germany and had made us aware of their strengths without making us fearful of them. Since 1965 England had played twenty-two internationals and lost only once. As a team we were on a roll and really believed we could go on and become world champions, as Alf had always maintained.
All those little dressing-room rituals take on extra significance when you’re killing time before a big game. And they don’t come any bigger than the World Cup final. I must have tied my boot laces at least three times before I was happy that the knot was comfortably secured at the side of the boot and not across the lace holes, where I might be aware of its presence when kicking the ball. The strips of bandage that served as tie-ups also came in for undue attention: in binding them around my stocking tops they must lie flat, not twisted. I paid more attention than usual to making sure that my goalkeeper’s top was tucked smoothly down into my shorts: not crumpled, not bunched so that the base of my back felt exposed. I could have no distractions, even of the most minor sort. No irritations. No excuses for myself.
I warmed up with a series of stretching and bending exercises. Then pummelled a ball against the wall of the warm-up room, repeatedly catching it on the rebound until my hands were accustomed to the feel of it. That done, I repeated the ritual preparation of my strip and boots.
Nobby Stiles traipsed across the dressing room and into the toilet for the umpteenth time. Jack Charlton stood in front of a mirror applying Vaseline to his eyebrows. Ray Wilson dipped into Les Cocker’s kit bag, found a little jar of Vicks VapoRub, smeared some around his nostrils, then applied a dollop to the front of his red shirt. Bobby Moore sat impassively, his socks rolled to his ankles as Harold Shepherdson rubbed copious amounts of liniment into his legs. Bobby Charlton and Geoff Hurst held a conversation as both made last-minute adjustments to their boots, Bobby seated on the bench, bending down, Geoff checking the tie-ups on his casually crossed legs. Nobby, back from the loo, sat with his arms folded and legs outstretched. Martin Peters sipped tea from a white china cup, the sort you used to see in British Rail buffets. George Cohen, ready and willing, sat leafing through the special-edition matchday programme. He paused at a page listing details of past finals, and started to read. How could he, at a time like this? How could he take anything in? Why would he want to? Roger Hunt leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped, his eyes focused on the floor. Suddenly he sat upright, clapped his hands together and sniffed, then resumed his leaning posture, elbows on his knees, hands clasped and found something else of interest in the concrete floor. Nobby passed me on his way to the loo again.
I intermittently took deep breaths, trying to stay calm, as Alf said his piece, but my mind was roller-coasting. Much of what he wanted to say he had said in the days before, particularly during the Friday team meeting. So he didn’t say much now. He didn’t have to.
‘Jack, be hard and competitive… Nobby, get a foot in… Is that stud longer than the others? No. It’s the floor. It’s not flush… Alan, work and work and work up and down that line. Always be looking to play the ball in early… That left tie-up seems a bit tight. If I just extend that leg… that’s better… Long ball, short ball, it doesn’t matter, Martin, as long as it’s the right ball… Bobby, control the middle… Must look for Bobby for an early throw out… Bobby, be aware of Seeler; he can get up high for a little fellow… Not in my bloody box he won’t… George and Raymond… Raymond??? I’ve never called him Raymond. Suppose that’s his proper name though… When Gordon has the ball, go wide, give him the option… Yes, be looking for them… And –’
Burrrrrrrrrrrr!
That’s it. We’re off !
‘Good luck to you all.’
And you, Alf.
‘Best of luck… Best of luck… Best of luck… Good luck… Good luck… Come on. Come on! Let’s go!’
Even though I had planned to wear gloves, Harold Shepherdson still gave me chewing gum. It tasted really good in my dry and caked mouth. I spat into the palms of my hands anyway as I followed Alan Ball out of the liniment-scented warmth of the dressing room into the cool Wembley tunnel. The West German players were already in line, bobbing up and down, jiggling arms, keeping leg muscles loose. Their studs on the concrete floor chattered away like eleven Volkswagens having tappet trouble. The German goalkeeper Hans Tilkowski extended a hand. I wiped my hands down the front of my jersey, tentatively shook his hand, then chewed way like mad on the Beechnut again to conjure up a good gob of goo.
Standing in line, I noticed just how tidy Alan Ball’s hair was. How red it was. How much shorter than me he was. I could gaze down on his scalp, which had tiny freckles on it. I wondered if he knew they were there.
Somewhere away in the distance I heard a band playing. Then no band. From the head of the line came the shrill blast of a whistle. The lads in front of me began to walk up the slight incline towards the rectangle of light I could see at the mouth of the tunnel. What a tunnel. I never realized it was so long. My legs kept walking but the light at the end of the tunnel didn’t seem to come any closer. It was like a dream in which I’d walk
or run, but get nowhere. A sudden and deafening roar swept down the tunnel and assailed my ears. The rectangle of light grew bigger. Bigger still. I walked out into sunshine so bright that I had to squint. A cacophony of noise avalanched down from the undulating masses on the terraces. The volatile sound of Wembley in full cry.
I glanced up to where I thought my parents, my brothers, my wife Ursula and our son Robert might be and raised an arm in that direction. They would think I had seen them. I imagined Ursula saying to Robert, ‘There, Daddy has seen us. Picked us out from all these people. I told you he would.’
Flanked by Alan Ball and Roger Hunt I stood guardsmanlike as the bands played the national anthems. I didn’t normally sing out with gusto, but I did on this occasion, happy to have some release from the nervous tension that had built up inside me.
Then a hurricane of hurrahs from the terraces. A sea of Union Jacks. The constant collective chant of ‘Eng-land! Eng-land!’
Both sides fidgeted nervously as the long wait neared its end. The presentations seemed to take an age as the dignitaries passed along the teams. In red shirt, white shorts, red stockings, the England team: Gordon Banks; George Cohen, Bobby Moore, Jack Charlton, Ray Wilson; Alan Ball, Nobby Stiles, Bobby Charlton, Martin Peters; Roger Hunt, Geoff Hurst. And the West Germans, in white shirts, black shorts, white stockings: Hans Tilkowski; Horst Hottges, Willi Schulz, Wolfgang Weber, Karl-Heinz Schnellinger; Helmut Haller, Franz Beckenbauer, Wolfgang Overath, Siggy Held; Lothar Emmerich, Uwe Seeler.
*
We kicked off under gold-leaf sunshine, though previous heavy rainfall had made the pitch soft and greasy. In such conditions errors of judgement were inevitable, especially where the pace of the ball was a factor. But an error of a different kind gave West Germany the lead.
One of our prime strengths was our resolute back line, but it was an uncharacteristic mistake in defence that allowed West Germany to open the scoring after just thirteen minutes. Ray Wilson went up to meet a centre but his header lacked power and length. The ball fell to Helmut Haller who, from my left, shot across the face of goal.
Although Haller’s shot lacked pace, Jack Charlton’s defensive position between Haller and myself momentarily unsighted me. I saw the ball late. Before I could adjust my positioning it had passed me and crept into the right-hand corner of my net.
I was devastated. Having been on the losing side in two FA Cup finals at Wembley, for a split second I could see it happening all over again. My disappointment at conceding an early goal, however, was quickly replaced by resolve and determination. The game was still young and I knew we had plenty of time to assert ourselves. What’s more, I was convinced we would do just that.
West Germany could have put up the shutters then and defended their lead. To their credit, they instead continued to play with purpose and poise and it was clear to me that they were hunting a second goal.
Five minutes later we caught them napping. Wolfgang Over-ath committed a foul on Bobby Moore on our left-hand side. Bobby quickly got to his feet, looked up to see where Geoff Hurst was, then floated the free kick into the West Germany penalty area. Before the Germans had sensed the danger, Geoff ghosted into their penalty box and, free from a white shirt, headed the equalizer. It was almost a carbon copy of Geoff’s goal against Argentina. Wembley filled with noise and I skipped up and down in my penalty box punching the air with my fist at the joy of it all.
Level once again, both teams settled down to play competitive but entertaining football, much to the appreciation of the packed terraces. Nobody pulled out of a tackle, yet no one opted for brute force and ignorance, each team matching the other in technique and intelligence.
As the game proceeded neither team was able to get on top. Prompted by Bobby Moore, we took the game to the Germans only for them to come straight back at us. Alan Ball seemed to be the epitome of perpetual motion. Unflaggingly buzzing up and down our right channel he was having the game of his life and causing the German left back Schnellinger all manner of problems.
Deep into the second half it was Alan who won the corner that led to our second goal. Schnellinger looked glad of the rest but there was no respite for Alan, who raced over to take the corner himself. He swung the ball over for Geoff Hurst to hammer it towards Tilkowski’s goal. Schulz lunged at the ball but didn’t strike it cleanly. The ball ballooned into the air. As it dropped, Martin Peters stepped forward to rifle it into the net. There was a pleasing symmetry about the timing of the goal – having fallen behind after thirteen minutes, we were now in the lead with thirteen minutes left.
Those minutes ticked away, each one seeming like an hour. But we were going to win – I could sense it. Then, with the game in its dying embers, the Swiss referee Herr Dienst penalized Jack Charlton for a foul on Siggy Held.
It looked like a harsh decision to me and big Jack wasn’t happy about it either. In his view the foul should have been given the other way for backing in. Lothar Emmerich drove the free kick into my penalty box, which was a sea of red and white shirts. I thought I saw Schnellinger help the ball on with his hand. (Although I was too busy to notice it at the time, the linesman must have thought so too because he raised his flag briefly, then inexplicably lowered it again.) The ball bounded across the face of goal towards my left-hand post with me in hot pursuit. Wolfgang Weber came sliding in. I saw that Ray Wilson had extended a leg in an attempt to block the ball should it come low, so I threw myself towards the post, with my outstretched arms above Ray’s leg. One of us was bound to block Weber’s effort.
Wolfgang Weber was a highly intelligent footballer. He was quick off the mark, but his mind was even quicker. As Weber slid in to meet the ball he glanced up, assessed the situation immediately and lifted the ball with the toe of his boot. Ray tackled fresh air, I grasped at nothing and the ball shot over both of us and into the net. The disappointment I felt was matched only by my disbelief.
For all Weber’s skill, however, the goal should never have been allowed to stand. Although the referee failed to spot it in the goalmouth mêlée, I am quite certain that the ball was handled. As soon as Schnellinger’s hand touched the ball both Bobby Moore and Martin Peters appealed, but Herr Dienst would have none of it. The goal stood. Seconds later, Herr Dienst did blow his whistle – to send us into extra time.
I felt as if the bottom had dropped out of my world. Glory had been snatched away when I practically had it in my hand. All manner of emotions swept through me. In a matter of moments I felt deep disappointment, only for that to be displaced by anger, then self-pity and, last of all, gritty determination. I reminded myself that we hadn’t lost. That game and the World Cup were still ours for the taking. I told myself that I must apply myself totally, both mentally and physically, for another thirty minutes. That was all. I knew I could do that. I convinced myself that on this day, of all days, I could do anything. I would do whatever it takes and hang the consequences. If the boots were flying, I’d dive in. This was the World Cup final and I wasn’t about to start calculating the risk of injury. Wounds heal, but do you ever get over disappointment and failure?
During the interval Alf took to the pitch and issued to us all, the challenge of our lives: ‘You have won the World Cup once,’ he said, ‘now you must go out and win it again.’
I looked across to Bobby Charlton, Nobby Stiles and Alan Ball. Their heads were nodding, their faces a mixture of strain and determination. Bobby Moore clapped his hands together.
‘We’re gonna do it, come on. We’re gonna do it,’ he urged us.
After a gruelling ninety minutes on a stamina-sapping pitch such as Wembley’s, the pace of a game usually drops in extra time. Not in this game. I looked on in amazement, wondering how anyone could maintain such a tempo. Alan Ball was everywhere, his appetite for the ball as greedy as the jaws of a lion. Bobby Charlton glided as if the match were only ten minutes old. Nobby Stiles made his previous performances in midfield look like a warm-up run. Roger Hunt criss-crossed Wembley like a pinball.
Big Jack was imperious in defence and Bobby Moore… Well, Bobby was Bobby. In the frenetic pace of the game he remained as cool as a bank of snow, elegantly and seemingly effortlessly controlling our back line, though his sweat had stained his shirt as red as a Kansas school house.
Luckily I managed to hold on to everything the Germans threw at me – and Held, Seeler and Haller threw a lot. With ten minutes of extra time on the clock, Nobby Stiles played a long ball down our right wing. Who chased it? Alan Ball, of course. Alan hit a low ball into Geoff Hurst, who was some ten yards from Tilkowski’s left-hand post but facing the touchline. Geoff swivelled and hit a rising drive. The ball cracked on to the underside of the crossbar and bounced almost vertically downwards before being headed away by Wolfgang Weber.
I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was watching football history in the making. Roger Hunt, following up Geoff’s effort, was in no doubt that the ball had crossed the line. The West German players were equally convinced that it had not. Encouraged by the Germans to take a second opinion, Herr Dienst walked over to the Russian linesman, Tofik Bakhramov. For what seemed like an age, the two conferred as an anxious silence descended on Wembley. German players stood hands on hips, Geoff Hurst was on tenterhooks and the crowd was treated to the rare sight of Alan Ball standing still. Eventually Herr Dienst turned away from his linesman and pointed to the centre spot. Wembley erupted once more. It was a goal.
And it was a goal. I am convinced. True, I was standing at the other end of the pitch, but Roger Hunt’s reaction and subsequent testimony have left me in no doubt as to the legitimacy of Geoff’s effort. Roger was a prolific goalscorer, he alone was right there when the ball crashed down from the crossbar into the goalmouth. Believe me, if Roger Hunt had thought for one moment that the ball had not crossed the line, he would have knocked it in himself. He didn’t, because he knew it was a goal.