Banksy

by Gordon Banks

  Not only that, but the linesman, Bakhramov, was up with play and looking along the goal line. So the two people best positioned to judge whether the ball had crossed the line said that it had. That there were some whose position did not afford them such a privileged view, who swore that the ball had not crossed the line, is of little consequence. And that was the view taken at the time by the referee.

  None the less, the debate concerning the legitimacy of England’s third goal continues to this day. I can understand the Germans wanting to continue their efforts to prove the ball did not cross the line (though no concrete proof has ever emerged), but I cannot for the life of me fathom what motivates the many English people who assist them in their campaign. Professors and boffins from the Institute of Rear-End Speech have wasted countless hours of computer time trying to show that the ball never crossed the line. It galls me that some of my countrymen should spend so much effort trying to prove that the goal, which to all intents and purposes won the World Cup for England, should have been disallowed. What is the point? And where’s their patriotism? To the best of my knowledge, no Argentine has protested with such vehemence against Maradona’s ‘hand-of-God’ goal against England in the 1984 World Cup, or tried to prove that Sol Campbell’s disallowed effort for England against them in France ’98 should have stood.

  The devastating blow we had received seconds from the end of normal time was almost repeated in the final minutes of the extra period. Not once, but twice. With little over a minute of the game remaining, Siggy Held latched on to a pass from Emmerich and dispatched a fiery shot towards the left-hand corner of my net. Fortunately I’d taken up a good position and my angle was spot on. I hit the ground as though felled by a sniper’s bullet and gratefully clutched the ball to my chest. Moments later West Germany were back. Held nodded the ball across the face of goal and caught me wrong-footed. As I quickly attempted to readjust my balance I watched helpless as Uwe Seeler’s lunge was only the width of a bootlace from making contact with the ball. That, however, was only a prelude to the climax of what had been a cliffhanger of a game.

  Once again the ball was delivered into my penalty area only for the imperious frame of Bobby Moore to chest it down and move upfield with seemingly effortless authority. Bobby momentarily looked up, spotted Geoff Hurst some ten yards inside the German half of the field and chipped the most exquisite pass in his direction. Bobby’s limbs must have been experiencing crippling weariness, but you’d never have known it from the way he played that ball downfield. To this day I find it hard to believe that, so late in the game, Bobby could emerge from defence with such élan and have the vision to execute such a deft pass over such a distance – in the last minute of extra time in the World Cup final. Who else could have done that?

  Geoff took the ball on his chest. At first I thought he was going to saunter towards the corner flag to kill time, but suddenly his legs began to pump and, unimpeded by flagging German defenders, he took off towards Tilkowski’s goal.

  Famously, three supporters came on to the pitch thinking that the referee had blown for time. Where are they now? Who were those lads who took to the pitch thinking it was all over? Their anonymous presence has seeped into the fabric of history.

  Hans Tilkowski did what he had to do. He came out to narrow the angle, but Geoff summoned what dregs of strength remained in his body and blasted the ball goalwards. The roof of the net bulged and what followed was unforgettable.

  I ran to the edge of my penalty area and punched the air in a display of complete and utter joy. Bobby Charlton dropped to his knees. Nobby Stiles and George Cohen unashamedly hugged one another. Alan Ball ran five paces before doing a cartwheel across the pitted emerald turf. Jack Charlton looked up to the heavens and appeared to say ‘Thank you’. Roger Hunt leapt in the air, both hands outstretched above his head.

  Seconds later, it was indeed, all over. When the whistle blew, Bobby Charlton cried like an innocent man suddenly released from jail. Nobby danced his famous toothless jig. Alan Ball ran and whooped around the pitch like a Comanche. Martin Peters saluted the crowd. Me? I felt as Christopher Columbus must have felt when realizing he hadn’t sailed over the edge of the world. Jimmy Greaves came on to the pitch and hugged Nobby Stiles. Ron Flowers grasped me to his chest. Meanwhile, Alf Ramsey remained a model of dignity and grace, refusing to be drawn into what he obviously regarded as the greatest moment in the lives of his players, although the success was as much his as ours.

  Bobby Moore eventually led us up the thirty-nine steps to the royal box and the World Cup. Before shaking the hand of Her Majesty the Queen and receiving the trophy, Bobby had the good grace to wipe the palms of his hands on his shorts. A captain in every sense of the word.

  England’s dream of winning the World Cup had been realized and so too had mine. As I descended the steps from the royal box clutching the medal every player in the world yearns for, I couldn’t believe the journey I had made. The road from Tinsley Rec to a World Cup final had been long and winding, but the difficulties I had encountered along the way suddenly evaporated as my whole being was engulfed with euphoria.

  The England post-match banquet was held at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington Gardens. The Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, called in to see us, then joined in the singing with the crowds outside. The speeches were made, wine and champagne flowed. Cars flying Union Jacks honked around London until the small hours of the morning. Alf Ramsey, the architect of our success, took the arm of his wife Vickie and travelled back to their home in Ipswich to ‘make ourselves a decent cup of tea’. It was all over, like the man said, but the memories will reside with me for ever.

  Alf, later and deservedly Sir Alf Ramsey, was sheer class. He was in a class of his own. Some managers are tactically aware. Some excel in coaching. Others are good at motivation and man management. Alf’s strength was that he was strong in all departments. That’s what made him so special. That’s what made him the manager who won the World Cup for England.

  Always fair in his dealings with players, always scrupulously honest, he was a man of unyielding integrity and absolute loyalty. Alf put his job on the line for Nobby Stiles when some people had called for Nobby to be dropped. Alf remained steadfast in supporting Nobby, and he was to all his players, and his loyalty was reciprocated. He was devoted to the team ethic, yet at pains to point out that no one was indispensable. He bore no grudges and he had no favourites. Alf’s unrivalled knowledge of the game and the opposition were complemented by superb tactical acumen, yet his instructions to us as a team were always clear and simple.

  How best to sum him up? At the post-match banquet, the Secretary of the Football Association, Dennis Follows, introduced Alf as ‘a great man’. When Alf took to his feet, he was at pains to correct that statement: ‘With all due respect to the Secretary of the Football Association, there are no great men,’ said Alf, ‘only men.’ Alf Ramsey may have been just a man, but there is no doubt that he was one possessed of an extraordinary talent.

  I have never felt that Alf received the recognition he truly deserved for having planned and guided us to victory in the World Cup. Why did the Football Association never think fit to have an extra winner’s medal struck and presented to him? Why no statue in his honour outside Wembley? Whatever the reason, it’s a shame, it really is, for had it not been for Alf Ramsey we would never have won the World Cup.

  The team received the promised bonus of £22,000 from the Football Association. We all agreed that the team’s success should be shared by the whole squad. So we decided to divide the bonus equally among all twenty-two members. That meant we received £1,000 each; in practice, after the deduction of 40 per cent income tax, we were richer to the tune of £600 each for winning the World Cup. Still, we didn’t play just for the money.

  By contrast, it’s interesting to note that during the official pre-tournament photocall, a London street vendor blagged his way past security and joined the press in taking photographs of the England players. He
then had those photographs screen-printed on to T-shirts and sold them outside Wembley before our games. He told us he made over £1,500.

  The late Kenneth Wolstenholme, the commentator who during his BBC broadcast famously said, ‘Some people are on the pitch; they think it’s all over. It is now!’ had the good sense to copyright those words. Ken told me that over the years he made more money from the royalties than the entire team earned for winning the World Cup.

  But this is just a footnote; a comment. It certainly isn’t sour grapes. I and every other member of the team would have played for nothing. Money was of no importance to us. The glory of winning for England was paramount, and the joy we felt and still feel from knowing we had brought so much happiness to so many people is something money could never buy.

  14. The Leaving of Leicester

  Winning the World Cup in 1966 was a watershed for English football. Things were never to be the same again. But although winning the World Cup certainly had a profound effect on our domestic game, other factors unrelated to football also played their part.

  The consensus of opinion is that the success of Alf’s 4–4–2 formation in the final brought to an end, almost overnight, the use of orthodox wingers in English football. The truth is somewhat different.

  Prior to the ’66 World Cup, many coaches (including those early graduates of the FA’s coaching school at Lilleshall discussed earlier) had been asking wingers to adapt to a new pattern. While still operating on the flanks, wingers had increasingly been asked to play deeper. The success of Alf Ramsey’s 4–4–2 and 4–4–3 systems served to make the four-man midfield more common. The difference after 1966 was that 4–3–3 and 4–4–2, variations of which had previously been common in the professional game, filtered down through semi-professional football to park teams.

  If anything, our success in the World Cup served as a convenient benchmark for the myriad changes that were affecting not only football, but the whole of society at that time. Following England’s historic 6–3 home defeat against Hungary in 1953 and the subsequent success of Real Madrid in the 1960 European Cup final, it had taken some time for English football to get its house back in order. The changes undertaken in the late fifties gathered momentum following Real’s sublime performance at Hampden, and finally bore fruit in the mid-sixties. Our success in the World Cup final was not so much a new beginning as a grand finale to ten years of gradual modernization and change.

  Though I had no idea at the time, change was to be very much in prospect for me when the 1966–67 season got under way. Winning the World Cup had spawned a sharp rise in league attendances. A crowd of nearly 50,000 saw Leicester City’s opening-day defeat at Liverpool, and the healthy gates were to continue throughout the season. In 1965–66 just over 12 million people had passed through the turnstiles at First Division grounds. In 1966–67 that figure increased by 2 million. The knock-on effect of our success in the World Cup was that English football was once again rated the best in Europe, if not the world, and the growth in attendances reflected that.

  Manchester United, Tottenham Hotspur, Nottingham Forest, Leeds United and Liverpool were locked in a battle for the Championship, though Leicester were never far behind. For much of the season we fluctuated between fifth and eighth, a performance that considering the size of the club and its financial resources, was no mean achievement.

  I was also on the top of my form in goal. My development continued apace and at twenty-nine I was looking forward to at least six more years of top-flight football. So it came as something of a bombshell to me when the Leicester manager, Matt Gillies, told me he believed my best days as a goalkeeper were behind me.

  The portents had been there in March 1967 when Gillies suddenly – and in the eyes of the City supporters, controversially – sold Derek Dougan to Wolves for £50,000. The Doog was a cult figure at Filbert Street, as he would later become at Molyneux. His contribution to the team had been significant and he was enjoying playing First Division football again. Wolves were in the Second Division, though on course for promotion. Derek wasn’t keen to move, but when your club would rather have the money you can generate in the transfer market rather than your contribution to the team, you might as well move on. And that’s how Derek saw it. As it was to turn out, the move proved to be to his advantage. The Doog enjoyed the best days of his playing career with Wolves, forming a prolific scoring partnership up front with John Richards.

  With the benefit of hindsight I suppose the signs were plain enough. The Leicester board had lost little sleep when they let one icon go, and I was only too aware that in Peter Shilton the club possessed a reserve goalkeeper of considerable promise. Peter was only eighteen, but I had seen enough of him on the training ground and in reserve matches to know he had all the makings of a great goalkeeper.

  I never feared for my place. Why would I? After all, I was England’s number one and we had just won the World Cup. The French sports paper, L’Équipe had ranked me as the number one goalkeeper in the world. What’s more, FIFA had published their best eleven from the ’66 World Cup and I had secured the goalkeeping position. I firmly believed that my best days as a goalkeeper were ahead of me. History was to prove that I wasn’t wrong. My mistake was to believe that Matt Gillies and the Leicester board were possessed of similar foresight.

  It was a Tuesday morning in April. In our previous match we had fought a hard earned goalless draw with a Leeds United side that needed points for their championship challenge. I felt I had played well in that game, so after training when Matt Gillies called me over for a ‘wee chat’, I had no idea what was to come.

  ‘Gordon, the directors and I have been talking,’ said Matt. ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, we think your best days are behind you, and you should move on.’

  I was speechless. Dumbfounded. Shell-shocked. It took a few moments for me to gather my thoughts. Even then all I could think of was to ask Matt to expand on his statement.

  ‘What are you saying, gaffer? That I’m finished here?’

  ‘I think it’s best for all concerned,’ he said.

  I drove home in a dream. I felt rejected, unwanted. I had that dreadful feeling one has with the realization that though you believed yourself to be popular, others had been talking with a view to undermining your position. My anxiety sprang not only from this sudden rejection, but also the total surprise. In two sentences my world had been turned upside down.

  When I told Ursula what had happened she couldn’t make sense of it either. The following day at training, I told my Leicester team mates; though it was news to them, I gained the impression that they were not shocked or surprised. Later in the day, things became clearer. Richie Norman told me that Peter Shilton had issued an ultimatum to the board: unless he played in the first team, he would leave the club. Richie was my best pal and I didn’t doubt his word. Indeed, other team mates I spoke to that day backed up Richie’s version.

  I would like to go on record as saying that I hold nothing against Peter for approaching the board and stating his own case in such explicit terms. From the moment I became aware of his potential, I believed he would eventually succeed me in the first team – I just didn’t think it would be so soon. Even at eighteen, Peter had tremendous confidence in his own ability. He did what he had to do to further his career. I wasn’t surprised by his ultimatum to the board. What surprised me was the board’s eagerness to comply.

  Matt’s ‘wee chat’ signalled the end of the road for me at Leicester City. I was placed on the transfer list at the behest of the club with the fee set at £50,000 (the same as for Derek Dougan), and I awaited developments.

  A number of clubs showed interest. West Bromwich Albion, Manchester United, Liverpool and West Ham United all made enquiries. For reasons unknown to me, both West Brom and Manchester United never followed up their initial approach. I quite fancied Liverpool and for a time I thought a move to Anfield might be on. The Liverpool manager, Bill Shankly, had told me on a number of occasions th
at, should Leicester ever wish to sell me, he would be in for me like a shot, but when push came to shove, Shanks didn’t take up the option. The lack of interest on the part of Manchester United and particularly Liverpool had, I believe, much to do with the fact that many managers still didn’t fully appreciate the worth of a good goalkeeper to their team. Some years later, after I had played a game at Anfield, I asked Bill Shankly why he hadn’t signed me.

  ‘I wanted to sign you, Gordon, son,’ Bill told me, ‘but the board here wouldn’t let me. They said it was too much money for a goalkeeper. Jesus Christ, son, what do directors know, eh?’

  I never knew whether to believe Bill or not. Even in 1967 he was a legend at Anfield, a patriarch who ran the club his way – the Liverpool board had a reputation for never interfering in team affairs. I think that if he had really wanted to sign me, he would have won round his sceptical directors.

  For years the top clubs like Manchester United and Liverpool, thought little of paying big fees for outfield players, but never for a goalkeeper. Manchester United had been happy to shell out big money for players such as Gordon McQueen, Martin Buchan and Joe Jordan, but in the late seventies and early eighties when Peter Shilton and Pat Jennings were seeking moves, United never came in for them, seeming to be content with Gary Bailey in goal. Now Gary, like his successors at United, Jim Leighton and Les Sealey, was a fine keeper, but in all truthfulness not in the same class as Shilton, Jennings, or Ray Clemence. For years Manchester United tried and failed to repeat their League Championship success of 1967. I firmly believe if they had invested in a top-class goalkeeper it would have paid handsome dividends and they wouldn’t have had to wait twenty-six years between Championships. The fact that when Manchester United did eventually win the Premiership in 1992–93, they had the excellent Peter Schmeichel in goal, only reinforces my point. Sir Alex Ferguson, like many other managers now, fully realized what a difference a top-class goalkeeper could make to a team.