by Gordon Banks
The coach probed deeper into the city. I was appalled by the filth on the streets. At one point we passed a dead horse lying at the side of the road. Three days later when we returned to the airport, it was still there. To us the place looked like a living hell. Unlike the wretches clinging to existence in the shanty towns, we could at least comfort ourselves with the thought that we could catch a plane out. But there was a point when we began to wonder if we would ever see the back of Bogotá.
Alf Ramsey had warned us of the possible pitfalls of life in this city. Under no circumstances were we to eat anything that hadn’t been prepared by the chef who had been appointed to cook for the England party. Alf told us to drink bottled water only, and to ensure that the bottle was opened in our presence so we could see that the contents hadn’t been topped up with tap water. We were banned from going on our customary leg-stretching walks that were a favourite way of passing the time in a foreign city before a match. We were warned of the perils of Bogotá subculture. To minimize the chances of getting into trouble, Alf told us to stay within the confines of El Tequendama. Little did he know, there was plenty of trouble lying in wait for us behind the hotel’s opulent façade.
Our friendly against Colombia proved to be a useful workout. Bogotá is 8,500 feet above sea level, some 1,500 feet higher than Mexico City, and though the rarefied atmosphere did pose problems, we coped. Every one of us was on the top of our game and fitter than we had ever been in our lives. I made an encouraging start to the match when I came off my line and saved at the feet of Garcáia, arguably Colombia’s one truly world-class player. Five minutes later I foiled Garcáia again, diving low to my right to gather a snap drive after he had turned Keith Newton. Having coped with Colombia’s initial pressure, we took the game by the scruff of the neck and began to control it. In the end we ran out comfortable winners courtesy of two goals from the ever improving Martin Peters, and one each from Bobby Charlton and Alan Ball.
On the same day Alf gave the rest of the squad a run-out under the guise of England ‘B’ against a team comprising Colombian squad members to ensure that every member of the squad had a game under their belts at altitude. In a competent and professional performance all round, a goal from Jeff Astle of West Bromwich Albion gave victory to a team that contained the likes of Peter Bonetti, Norman Hunter, Nobby Stiles, Colin Bell, Jack Charlton and Allan Clarke. Every player had been keen to do well, irrespective of which team he played in, because at this juncture the squad comprised twenty-eight players and Alf would have to trim it down to twenty-two for Mexico. Press speculation was rife as to the names of the six players Alf would send home. As it was to turn out, speculation about the ‘unlucky six’ put a strain on Alf’s relationship with the British press, yet the atmosphere between manager and journalists was to be even more sorely tested by his handling of a major crisis.
During our stay at El Tequendama a curious incident took place. Bobby Moore visited the Green Fire jewellery shop in the hotel lobby to look for a present for his wife Tina. Bobby was accompanied by Bobby Charlton, shopping for a gift for his wife Norma, together with Nobby Stiles and Liverpool’s Peter Thompson.
Minutes after leaving the jewellery shop, the manageress, Clara Padilla, approached Bobby Moore asking him to explain the disappearance of a $600 bracelet. The Colombian police were summoned. After a prolonged discussion involving both Bobby Moore and Bobby Charlton, Clara Padilla, Alf Ramsey and two FA officials Moore and Charlton put their signatures to formal statements and the matter seemed to be closed.
It was an odd incident, news of which quickly spread among the members of the squad, though none of us thought it anything more than a simple misunderstanding, which had been quickly cleared up. Alf impressed upon us all that we should not breathe a word of it to anyone, especially the press. As Alf told us, ‘This sort of incident tends to get blown out of all proportion.’
Following our game against Colombia we travelled to Quito where goals from Francis Lee and Brian Kidd gave us a 2–0 victory over Ecuador. Quito is over 9,000 feet above sea level and the air is so thin that even a modicum of physical effort leaves you panting for breath. During the game the ball deviated through the air like a cricket ball delivered by a top-class swing bowler. By now I was getting used to the increased speed and swerve of the ball and felt pleased with the fact that I managed to hang on to every shot that came my way.
Again Alf organized a ‘B’ international for the remainder of the squad, this time against the Ecuadorian champions, Liga. The in-form Jeff Astle helped himself to a hat trick in this game and a goal from Emlyn Hughes gave our second string a handsome 4–1 victory.
The favourable results were secondary to the experience gained from playing at such a high altitude. We were all becoming acclimatized by now and when we left what had been a very successful and convivial trip to Ecuador, our confidence was as high as the altitude.
The day after our game against Ecuador we set off for Mexico City and the World Cup. Our flight involved a long stopover at Bogotá where we had to change flights. Rather than having us hang around the transit lounge for the best part of a day, Alf had arranged for us to return to El Tequendama for some relaxation.
Back at the hotel Alf had arranged a film show for us in the TV lounge. I’ll never forget that film. It was Shenandoah, starring James Stewart and Doug McClure, a 1965 saga about the American Civil War and how it affected one family in Virginia. I’d seen the film twice before but, like most of the lads, Isat down to watch it again as it provided a welcome change from endless hands of three-card brag.
About halfway through the film, two suited Colombians came into the room for a quiet word with Bobby Moore, who left in their company. At the time, I never thought anything of this. In his role as captain of England Bobby was often called away to give interviews to the local press, or meet visiting officials from the British Embassy. Even when Bobby didn’t come back, we still had no reason to think there was any cause for concern.
My suspicions were still not aroused when we assembled at Bogotá airport for our connecting flight to Mexico City and I noticed that Bobby wasn’t with us. Alf Ramsey didn’t say anything about Bobby’s absence. None of the press corps questioned it, and as two FA officials were also absent, I simply believed Bobby had agreed to do some interviews for South American TV companies and that he would follow us on a later flight.
That journey to Mexico City was the most eventful and chaotic flight I have ever undertaken in my life. For a start, we ran into an electrical storm when nearing Panama City where we were scheduled to stop for refuelling. The plane rolled and dipped, and at one point dropped like a stone when we entered an air pocket. It was harrowing even for the most seasoned air travellers, of which Jeff Astle was not one.
Jeff was a nervous flyer at the best of times, and this was far from being the best of times. Jeff was riddled with anxiety and though Nobby Stiles and I were of a stronger disposition and did our best to allay his fears, poor Jeff couldn’t help himself and went into a panic attack.
‘He needs a drink to calm his nerves,’ said Nobby.
Alf had banned the drinking of alcohol, but a couple of the lads managed to procure a few miniature bottles of vodka from a stewardess. We surreptitiously mixed the vodka with lemonade and administered the ‘medicine’ to Jeff, two or three doses of which calmed him down somewhat, though he was still far from being relaxed and happy. Fifteen minutes later, the electrical storm was behind us, and it seemed a mere trifle compared to the earthquake Alf Ramsey had just triggered.
Alf took to his feet to address the players and the accompanying press corps. I found what he said completely unbelievable. Bobby Moore had been arrested in Bogotá accused of stealing a bracelet from the Green Fire jewellery shop. The accusation had been made by the manageress of the shop, Clara Padilla. Furthermore, Padilla alleged that Bobby Charlton had covered for Bobby Moore while he stole the item.
Bobby Moore a thief and Bobby Charlton his accomplice? H
e might as well have been told Mother Teresa had been arrested for cruelty to children, it was that outlandish and unbelievable.
Of course, our concern was for the welfare of Bobby Moore, in custody in Bogotá. It was a disturbing thought that someone, out to disrupt our preparations for the World Cup, may have stolen the bracelet and planted it on Bobby. We in the squad were aware of the allegations against the two Bobbys, but this was a bombshell to the press corps. On hearing Alf’s statement the journalists flapped like chickens in a hen house with a fox in residence. They were now privy to the biggest and most sensational story of the World Cup but, such was the technology of the day, being en route to Mexico City, they had no means of contacting their editors back in London.
By the time we touched down in Panama City for an hourlong refuelling stop, Jeff Astle’s ‘medicine’ had gone to his head. We tried to keep him out of Alf’s way, and did our best to smarten up his shirt and tie and make him look a bit more presentable, reasoning that it would be most unwise to provoke Alf’s ire at a time like this. But we needn’t have bothered. Alf Ramsey was like a man possessed. He paced around like a caged lion, his face inscrutable but his mind obviously preoccupied by the plight of his captain.
As soon as we entered the airport building the press boys ran to the telephones, just like in a courtroom drama when they scramble to file their reports of a sensational trial. The press found themselves in a cleft stick. Here they were, stuck in Panama en route to Mexico City when their editors wanted them back in Bogotá to cover the breaking news of Bobby Moore, no less, being accused of shoplifting. Some were told by their editors to hire a car to take them back, obviously unaware that the Colombian capital was some 2,000 miles away. By coincidence, many newspapers had assigned reporters to cover the RAC London to Mexico Rally (which can you believe it, Jimmy Greaves had entered), so several motor-racing correspondents suddenly and unexpectedly found themselves taken off the rally story and re-routed to Botogá.
When we eventually arrived in Mexico City the media were lying in ambush. The Bobby Moore story was now global news and a veritable army of TV, radio and press journalists jostled for position alongside photographers whose cameras flashed and whirred away at anyone and everyone. Jeff Astle, having been administered a little more nerve tonic, was by now unsteady on his legs and the photographers captured him looking as if he had not changed his clothes from the moment we left Heathrow over three weeks ago. Dozens of microphones were thrust in front of Alf Ramsey. Alf realized that he had to say something, so he issued a complete denial of the allegations that had been brought against Bobby Moore. I’d never seen Alf appear so uncomfortable. On all the previous occasions he had been confronted with a barrage of questions from the press, he had remained cool, calm and collected. Now his speech came in gusts, like linnets in the pauses of the wind. Alf was rattled and he wasn’t the only one.
The local newspapers had a field day. If anything, they were worse than the British press. The Mexican newspaper Esto had managed to find out that a midlands brewery had sent a case of beer to Jeff Astle. Apparently, prior to leaving England, Jeff had given an interview for a magazine in which he mentioned that this particular beer was his favourite drink. On reading this, the marketing department of the brewery dispatched a case of their product to Jeff care of our hotel in Mexico, simply as a goodwill gesture for the World Cup. Esto had been tipped off about the case of beer by a hotel worker and ran the story along with the photograph of a dishevelled Jeff (who was in truth a very moderate drinker) passing through arrivals at Mexico City airport. The brewery got more free publicity than even they had dreamed possible.
Esto linked this story to that of Bobby Moore and when Alf Ramsey was shown the headline, ‘England Arrive – a Team of Thieves and Drunks’, he nearly had a coronary. To his credit, Alf quickly regained his composure. Holding the newspaper in his hand, he walked up to Jeff who was sitting in the lounge of our hotel and uttered the words every England player dreaded: ‘Jeffrey, a word please…’
The one person to keep his cool throughout this whole sorry affair was Bobby Moore himself. Bobby refused to be rattled because his character and psychological make-up wouldn’t allow it. When the heat was on, when the game was frenetic and fraught, Bobby was immune to the pressure. Throughout this whole affair he was to remain a model of probity, and conducted himself at all times with grace and dignity.
I have no doubt in my mind that Bobby was stitched up by someone out to disrupt our preparations for Mexico, or someone out to make monetary gain from involving him in a trumped-up charge. They definitely chose the wrong man when they picked out Bobby Moore. Bobby was unflappable. He took everything in his stride and never ever lost his head. His personality and character were very strong and his unruffled self-belief enabled him to survive the attentions of the Colombian authorities. They found no chink in his armour and eventually dropped the ridiculous charges that had been brought against him.
I shudder to think what might have happened if the allegations had been made against any other member of our squad. I doubt that anyone but Bobby could have emerged psychologically unscathed from an experience like that, facing an inexplicable charge in a foreign jurisdiction thousands of miles from home. And then to go out and play arguably the best football of his career – that was the measure of the man.
The case against Bobby began to look more and more ludicrous as the investigation conducted by the Colombian police progressed. Bobby was in danger of being imprisoned by the police for the course of the investigation, but the President of the Colombian Football Association, Alfonso Senior, intervened and suggested Bobby be placed under ‘house arrest’ at his home. That was the first positive point. The FA tour party officials then received a telephone call from the Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, who said he was willing to speak to the President of Colombia himself in an attempt to clear Bobby’s name. Ultimately Mr Wilson’s proposed call was unnecessary because the case against Bobby fell apart by itself.
The Green Fire manageress, Clara Padilla, told the police that she had seen Bobby Moore slip, what now had evolved into a $3,000 bracelet sporting a large diamond, into the left-hand pocket of his England blazer. (You will recall that the bracelet was worth $600 a few pages back. Well, that’s South American inflation for you!) The problem with this tale was that our blazers didn’t have a left-hand pocket, as the Colombian police discovered when looking at Bobby’s. Padilla then changed her story, saying she had not actually seen Bobby pocket the bracelet, but had acted on the word of another customer in the shop, one Alvaro Suarez. Señor Suarez said he had seen Bobby slip what was now a $6,000 bracelet studded with diamonds and emeralds, into ‘a pocket somewhere on his person’. The Colombian police stated that, ‘having subjected Suarez to further and more intense questioning’ – one can only imagine what that may have entailed – he too changed his story. Now he ‘thought he might have seen the England captain put something in his pocket’.
Clara Padilla tried to wash her hands of the whole affair, saying that she had in fact seen nothing and had been put up to it by Suarez. Then the police discovered that, rather than being a prospective customer, Suarez was a close friend and business associate of the owner of the jewellery shop, Danilo Rojas. It seems that the Green Fire was in financial difficulties as were its owner, Rojas, and Alvaro Suarez.
When Bobby appeared in court and the so-called evidence against him was presented by the prosecution, the judge, Pedro Durado, threw the case out. Bobby was free to go and rejoin us in Mexico. Bobby was mightily relieved, though he at no time betrayed the anxiety he must have felt. He left the court displaying the same dignity and grace he had maintained ever since his arrest.
‘I have nothing against the Colombian police and authorities,’ Bobby told the waiting reporters. ‘Charges were brought against me, they simply acted on them and they did their job. Their job was to establish the truth and they achieved this. I was totally innocent of the charges brought against me and that ha
s been established. All I want to do now is join up with my fellow England players in Mexico and give my undivided attention to helping England retain the World Cup. Thank you, gentlemen.’
What a man!
Had dark forces been at work? Had there been a conspiracy to prey on visiting celebrities by desperate people in deep money trouble? You decide. Suffice to say, very soon after Bobby’s release Alvaro Suarez disappeared off the radar. Perhaps, following his exposure in the media, he simply lay low. As for Clara Padilla, she took off for the USA and, to the best of my knowledge, like me, never returned to Bogotá.
When Bobby Moore arrived at our hotel, the entire England squad lined up outside the entrance to applaud him. He hadn’t had a change of clothing for nearly a week, yet he looked as smart as if he were stepping out of a tailor’s shop after a complete makeover. His blazer, shirt and trousers were completely unruffled, as was the man himself.
As a postscript to this affair, I later found out that some eighteen months earlier a well-known Hollywood film star, a guest at El Tequendama, had been accused of shoplifting by the Green Fire jewellery store. Allegedly, a sizeable amount of money was paid by the star’s ‘people’ to hush the matter up. Bobby Moore and Alf Ramsey provided less easy pickings.