Banksy

by Gordon Banks

  The unlucky six players that Alf omitted from the squad were Ralph Coates (Burnley), Brian Kidd and David Sadler (Manchester United), Bob McNab (Arsenal), Peter Shilton (Leicester City) and Peter Thompson (Liverpool). Alf gave permission for Thompson and Sadler to remain with us under the strict instruction that neither should ‘abuse their freedom’.

  The twenty-two-man squad tasked with retaining the World Cup for England was, to my mind, a stronger selection than the one that had won it in 1966. We had greater quality in depth and more players at the peak of their powers. We all knew we had a huge task ahead of us, but to a man we firmly believed we could lift the World Cup again, and so too did Alf Ramsey.

  That we were not the most popular side in the tournament was brought home to me when we watched the opening ceremony at the Azteca stadium on television. As in 1966, each country was represented by twenty-two children. When the poor Mexican children representing England entered the Azteca, they were roundly booed and jeered by the home crowd. As Alan Mullery remarked at the time, ‘If that’s their response to children in England shirts, what sort of reception will the Mexican supporters give the England team?’

  We were soon to find out.

  We were drawn in arguably the toughest group of the lot, Group C. We were up against Romania, Czechoslovakia and, of all teams, Brazil, who were coming into the World Cup on the back of an unbeaten run that stretched back over two years. Brazil had won all six of their qualification matches, scoring twenty-three goals in the process and conceding just two. The Brazilians were a major threat to us, but as two teams were to qualify from each group, we were very confident of progressing in the tournament. In fact, for all the prowess and power of Brazil, Pelé et al., we believed we were good enough to beat them.

  Our first match was on 2 June, in Guadalajara against Romania. The hostile reception the Mexican supporters gave us when we took to the pitch was no surprise to anyone. The Mexican press had done their utmost to blacken our name and had even exhumed Alf’s misquote of 1966 when he had supposedly described the Argentinians as animals. The fact that Alf had insisted we bring our own food, chef, even our own team bus and driver to Mexico seemed to antagonize the Latin American press. They accused us of being pompous, aloof, rude, unfriendly and anti-social. In fact, all Alf had done was to set a sensible trend. In subsequent World Cups just about every team in the world would take along their own chef who prepared meals to the strict dietary requirements laid down by the squad dietician.

  Alf ignored his bad press, but such was the hostility towards him, his indifference was interpreted as aloofness. In truth his mind was too occupied with matters of football to be bothered by such peripheral matters as what the press were saying about him. Here our FA learned a valuable lesson. It was to be twelve years before England were to participate in the finals of another World Cup. That was in Spain in 1982 when Ron Greenwood was manager of England. Mindful of the bad press Alf had been given, the FA made sure Ron Greenwood had an official PR officer by his side to help him deal with questions from the world’s media.

  We failed to sparkle in our opening match against a physical and defensively minded Romanian team. Quite honestly, the game was a poor advert for international football, but we achieved our aim. We won, thanks to Geoff Hurst who latched on to a super pass from Francis Lee to score the only goal of the game with a shot that passed through the legs of their goalkeeper Adamache. Romania had been tough and difficult opponents, but we knew, and had known ever since the draw had put us in the same group, that our second game, against Brazil, would be harder still.

  The match was scheduled for 7 June, five days after our victory over Romania. The day before the game Alf made me tremble at the knees when he approached me and said, ‘Gordon, a word please.’

  A year earlier, almost to the day, Alf had beckoned me in similar fashion. That had been before the first game of our tour of Central and South America, against Mexico. The news Alf gave me that day was devastating. He quietly and sympathetically told me that he had just received a telephone call from England informing him that my father had died. Dad had been very ill for some months. As a family we had tried to prepare ourselves for the worst, but Alf’s words still came as a great shock to me. I was grief stricken. Alf offered words of comfort and condolence. The Mexico game was the furthest thing from my mind and he knew it. He told me there was no question about my returning home for the funeral.

  I caught the next available flight home and on the journey steeled myself for saying one last farewell to Dad. He had always been a tremendous source of strength and inspiration to me, not only in my career, but throughout my life. His passing hit me hard and by the time I eventually touched down at Heathrow I was emotionally drained. But I knew that I had made the correct decision to return home to be with my family, and Dad for one last time.

  A year later I was on tenterhooks, anxious to hear what Alf had to tell me. I hoped against hope it wasn’t to be bad news concerning a member of my family. However, from his body language I got a hint that the news he was about to impart wasn’t of the tragic kind.

  ‘Gordon, a gentleman is on the telephone for you,’ said Alf. ‘It is a call I think you should take.’

  I took the call and was astonished to hear a plummy voice on the other end of the line informing me that he was an equerry from Buckingham Palace.

  ‘Mr Banks, I have the considerable pleasure and duty to inform you that you have been provisionally proposed to receive the Order of the British Empire in the forthcoming honours list to be awarded by Her Majesty the Queen,’ said the voice. ‘The purpose of my telephone call is to establish if you are willing to accept the said award, and to determine if you are in a position to accept it personally at Buckingham Palace. The occasion will be most auspicious.’

  For a split second I thought it must be a wind-up. Alan Ball, Nobby Stiles, Jack Charlton and Alan Mullery were forever playing pranks and winding up other members of the team. But the fact that Alf Ramsey himself had summoned me to the telephone, convinced me the call was genuine. They wouldn’t dream of involving Alf in one of their practical jokes. Besides, I could never imagine Nobby or big Jack coming up with a word like ‘auspicious’.

  I was floating on air. I wasn’t just pleased, I was euphoric. I informed Mr Equerry that I would be delighted to receive such an honour and thanked him profusely. He swore me to secrecy, so I couldn’t share my pleasure and pride with my team mates. I couldn’t think why I had been chosen for an OBE and simply assumed the award was in recognition of my services as a goalkeeper to British football and, in particular, England. As is my way, in the end I decided not to question it too deeply and simply enjoy the moment. My joy was tinged with one sad regret: that Dad hadn’t lived to hear of my OBE. Though in all probability he would not have shown it, I know Dad would have been as proud of me as I have been to be his son.

  A couple of days before our game against Brazil, Alf Ramsey made an uncharacteristic faux pas. Following a training session he gathered us all together and told us that the eleven who had finished the game against Romania would start against Brazil. Full back Keith Newton had not recovered from the injury he had picked up against the Romanians, which meant his Everton team mate, Tommy Wright, was to continue at right back. Chelsea’s Peter Osgood had replaced Francis Lee and Ossy could not contain his joy at having been selected to face Brazil.

  Later that day we had a team meeting and Alf began talking about the roles of Francis Lee and Bobby Charlton, only for a perplexed Franny to point out that he hadn’t been selected.

  ‘But you are in the side, Francis,’ said Alf.

  For some reason Alf had completely forgotten that Peter Osgood had come on for Franny Lee against Romania. Alf was very embarrassed and Peter very disappointed. But not half as disappointed as he was going to be. Towards the end of the team meeting, Alf named our five substitutes and Peter Osgood wasn’t even among them. Ossy, needless to say, was most upset about what had been a genuine ove
rsight by the manager.

  We were staying at the Hilton Hotel in Guadalajara and hardly got a wink of sleep on the night preceding our game against Brazil. Hundreds of Mexican supporters held an all-night anti England vigil in the street outside. They constantly chanted ‘Bra-zil’, honked car horns and bashed dustbin lids together. The England party had taken up the entire twelfth floor of the Hilton but the constant noise kept us awake all night. I was sharing a room with Alex Stepney of Manchester United. At one point a group of Mexican supporters gained access to the floor and banged on our door.

  I jumped out of bed and swung the door open just in time to see half a dozen Mexicans in their late teens and early twenties being chased down the corridor by a furious Jack Charlton.

  The hotel security staff and the local police hitherto had maintained a heavy presence at the hotel. Oddly, on this night they were conspicuous by their absence. The most anyone managed was two hours’ sleep.

  The following morning at breakfast, Everton’s Brian Labone told Alf, ‘I could sleep for England.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ said Alf, ‘but what the nation wishes to know is, are you in a fit state to play football for them?’

  Brian said he was. We all were. We had snatched only a couple of hours of fitful sleep, but such was our motivation and state of mind, we couldn’t wait to get out there and face the Brazilians.

  In Brazil’s opening match against a technically accomplished Czechoslovakian team, Pelé had illuminated the proceedings from start to finish. Brazil won 4–1 and Pelé had been the focal point of every Brazilian move. I was left in no doubt. Pelé was the greatest footballer in the world. He combined effectiveness, vision and power with grace, beauty and style. Just to see him taking the ball on his chest was to witness athleticism of the highest order. When Pelé met the ball in the air, his first touch was wonderfully deft, on a par with the perfection he displayed when taking the ball on the ground. His shooting was both powerful and accurate and it was obvious he didn’t give a jot which foot he used since both were equally deadly. Physically he was very strong. His speed off the mark was like lightning. Even when running at full gallop, Pelé’s co-ordination made him appear to be marvellously relaxed. I believed him to be the great player. For years I had been looking forward to the chance of playing against him in a major competition. Now the moment had come. He was at the peak of his powers and, to be honest, such was his brilliance I didn’t know how we would be able to contain him.

  The teams filed out on to that emerald rectangle in Guadalajara. England, all in white, were Gordon Banks (Stoke City); Tommy Wright (Everton), Bobby Moore (West Ham), Brian Labone (Everton), Terry Cooper (Leeds United); Alan Ball (Everton), Alan Mullery (Spurs), Bobby Charlton (Manchester United); Martin Peters (Spurs), Geoff Hurst (West Ham), Francis Lee (Manchester City). Brazil were in their famous yellow shirts and blue shorts. This was their starting eleven: Felix; Carlos Alberto, Brito, Piazza, Everaldo, Paulo Cesar, Clodoaldo, Rivelino, Jairzinho, Tostao, Pelé. On the bench for England were Peter Bonetti (Chelsea), Emlyn Hughes (Liverpool), Jeff Astle (West Bromwich Albion), Nobby Stiles (Manchester United) and Colin Bell (Manchester City).

  When Alf received the Brazilian team sheet he noticed that the influential midfield player, Gerson, wasn’t playing. He was out with a thigh injury and had been replaced by Paulo Cesar. ‘That’s like replacing a Jaguar with a Mercedes,’ Alan Mullery remarked on hearing the news.

  Alf had reverted to 4–4–2, a system the players liked and which was more suitable to us as a squad because it allowed squad players to slot in comfortably. Colin Bell for Bobby Charlton, big Jack for Brian Labone, Nobby for Alan Mullery and so on.

  At the team meeting Alf had emphasized the roles everyone was to play. In the centre of defence Brian Labone was to pick up and mark Tostao, while Bobby Moore would sweep around the back and pick up the bits. Alan Mullery had one of the most difficult tasks. Mullers was to ‘sit in’ just in front of the back four and push up when we were on the attack. Hard work, especially as the temperature in the stadium was over 100°F. (Absurdly, the match was set to kick off at noon, to suit television schedules back in Europe. You can safely say that World Cup football was by now organized to suit the TV companies, not the fans in the stadiums – still less the players.) Bobby Charlton was going to anchor the midfield and be our playmaker, pushing on with Mullers when we were taking the game to Brazil. Alan Ball and Martin Peters were going to work up and down the flanks, with Franny Lee playing off Geoff Hurst up front, with Geoff being our target man.

  The onus was on our full backs, Tommy Wright and Terry Cooper, to overlap Bally and Martin Peters, receive the ball from our midfield and provide the crosses for Geoff. That was the plan, anyway. By and large, it was to work very well.

  A crowd of over 72,000 packed into the Guadalajara stadium. During the national anthems Iscrutinized the Brazilian line. They looked awesome, as physically strong as they were technically adept. The heat was so withering I was sweating buckets just standing in line. This was unreal. What did the man say about mad dogs and Englishmen going out in the midday sun? I remember wondering how Alan Mullery could possibly fulfil the role Alf had assigned him for a full ninety minutes.

  The opening ten minutes were spent prodding and probing at walking pace in an attempt to sound one another out. The ball was allowed to roll unhindered by the side not in possession. Each side watched the opposition pass it in triangles, waiting for a mistake, keeping possession. Tackles were few and not full blooded. Short passes, safe angles, guiding the ball with care from our box to theirs. Wright to Mullery to Charlton to Ball to Lee. Strolling players in the searing heat. It was absorbing stuff.

  Franny Lee tried to find Hurst but Brito extended a leg and Brazil leisurely wandered upfield. Brito to Paulo Cesar to Clodoaldo to Pelé. Whack! Alan Mullery dumped the great man on the ground. Mullers held up the palms of his hands to the referee in recognition of his cumbersome tackle and kept on the right side of the official by extending a hand to Pelé, offering to help him to his feet. Pelé ignored it. Mullers smiled and rubbed the top of Pelé’s head with his hand.

  ‘You OK mate?’ enquired Mullers.

  ‘I am not… your… “mate”,’ replied Pelé.

  ‘It’s best that you are,’ said Mullers, ‘believe me, yer don’t wanna make an enemy of me.’

  Pelé simply shook his head and smiled to himself.

  I watched from my privileged vantage point as the game unfolded and the Brazilians treated me to a sight I thought I would never see on a football pitch. A walking midfield. With the instep of his right boot, Carlos Alberto leisurely pushed the ball into the path of Tostao. Tostao to Rivelino to Pelé. I took to my toes, arms hanging at my sides like a gunslinger ready for a high-noon shootout. Pelé turned, hit the ball out wide to the left only for Peters to spring forward and intercept. Peters to Ball to Charlton to the overlapping Wright.

  ‘Go on, Tommy, son.’

  Wright to Lee who played the ball back. Bobby Charlton arrived from deep and at some speed. Thump! Bobby hammered the ball at head height to Hurst who had taken up a position on our right. It was as if Geoff was nodding ‘good morning’. His head dropped, the ball smacked against his forehead and it bounced once before reaching Franny Lee. Lee to Ball to Wright and back to Lee again. The Brazilians appeared to me to be overcome by a complete lack of concern. They simply watched and waited. Not one man in a yellow shirt ran towards any England player who had the ball.

  Geoff Hurst had drifted into the Brazilian penalty box, Piazza shadowing him. Franny Lee waved his foot over the ball then poked it two yards forward with his left boot before smacking it goalwards with his right. The ball covered twenty yards in no time at all. Felix in the Brazilian goal had his angles spot on and didn’t have to move an inch. He put his hands out in front of his head and gathered Franny’s effort as if someone had thrown him a practice ball in training. He threw the ball out to Carlos Alberto who stroked it down the wing to Ja
irzinho.

  Suddenly, the game exploded into life as Jairzinho took off like a rocket. We had been caught off guard by his sudden burst of speed. Jairzinho raced towards Terry Cooper and jinked as if about to cut inside. Terry put all his weight on his right foot and Jairzinho flashed past on his left-hand side. I took my eyes off Jairzinho for a split second to glance around my penalty area. What I saw spelled trouble.

  The rest is history, which I have described in Chapter 1: Tostao free at my near post, Alan Mullery trying in vain to close down Pelé, Jairzinho’s textbook centre and Pelé’s perfect header.

  Ninety-nine times out of a hundred Pelé’s shout of ‘Golo!’ would have been justified, but on that day I was equal to the task. Although I’ve tried to analyse that save as best I can in the opening pages of this book, it was really just about being in the right place at the right time – one of those rare occasions when years of hard work and practice combine in one perfect moment.

  As Pelé positioned himself for the resulting corner he turned to me and smiled. He told me he thought that he’d scored. So did I– and I told him as much.

  ‘Great save… mate!’ he said.

  The tremendous spirit of mutual respect between the teams demonstrated during that incident was to prevail throughout the rest of the match. It was a fantastic game of football. We knew we could match Brazil in the possession stakes, and our passing was as good as theirs. We held the ball up well, which is essential in such heat. We adapted our style to the slower, more methodical pace of international football, which was very much the opposite of the hell-for-leather tempo of our domestic game. On entering the dressing room at half time I was surprised to see non-playing members of the squad such as Jack Charlton and Peter Osgood, along with Peter Thompson and Brian Kidd, hacking at large chunks of ice with knives and chisels. Alf had instructed them to place broken ice in towels, which we were then told to drape around our necks to cool us down. It felt great so I asked Peter Thompson to hack off some more ice and place it in a polythene bag for me. I intended to take the bag of ice out with me on to the pitch, place it behind one of the goalposts and, when play was down in the Brazilian half of the field, use it to cool myself down.