by Gordon Banks
On the morning of the game my condition improved somewhat. I was slightly cheered at the thought that my body had seemingly purged itself of all the poison and rubbish that had been making me feel so ill. I couldn’t face a normal breakfast, but I did manage to keep down two slices of dry toast and some bottled water.
Alf asked how I was feeling.
‘A bit better,’ I said.
‘Fit enough to play?’
‘I’ll give it a go,’ I said doubtfully.
Alf suggested I go back to my room and change into my training gear ready for a fitness test. I’d seen Alf’s fitness tests before; they were quite rigorous workouts and I knew that if I passed the test in reasonable shape, I’d be fine for the game against West Germany.
There was no practice pitch at the hotel, but on one side of the building was a strip of lawn dotted with acacia trees and that’s where Alf and Harold Shepherdson took me. My stomach was still delicate and to be truthful I was also feeling weak, but with over three hours to go before the game I felt that, if my improvement continued, I might be OK.
‘Gordon, will you jog over to the far tree and back again, please?’ said Alf.
I jogged in a leisurely manner to an acacia tree some twelve yards away and returned.
‘How do you feel?’ Alf asked.
‘OK.’
‘Will you do that again for me, please?’ asked Alf.
I slowly jogged over to the same tree and back again.
‘How are you now?’
‘Still OK.’
‘Excellent! Excellent!’ said Alf, a beaming smile appearing on his face.
I didn’t share Alf’s great optimism. Two leisurely jogs to a tree twelve yards away and back again hardly constituted a fitness test in my book.
‘Harold will now give you some ball work,’ announced Alf. This was more like it, I thought to myself, this would really test me.
Alf asked me to walk to a point some eight yards away. As best I could, I bounced up and down on my toes. I did some arm stretching and then spat into the palms of my hands ready for the expected shooting practice.
Harold Shepherdson rolled a ball underarm across the lawn, like a father to a toddler. There was so little power behind the ball it only just reached me. I bent down and picked the ball up and threw it back to Alf.
‘Good. Very good,’ Alf said. ‘And again Harold, if you please.’
Harold rolled another ball underarm in my direction, if anything, with even less momentum than before. It had all but stopped rolling when I bent down and picked it up.
‘How d’you feel?’ asked Alf.
‘OK, I think,’ I replied, wondering when the fitness test was going to begin.
‘Splendid!’ said Alf. ‘You’re playing.’
I couldn’t believe it. What I had been subjected to was a fitness test designed for an 80-year-old. I returned to my room unconvinced of my fitness but hopeful that Alf knew what he was doing. I lay down on my bed hoping to get an hour’s sleep but after only ten minutes the sickness gripped me again. I hoped this latest bout would be the final fling of the bug that had laid me so low. But it wasn’t to be.
There was no lounge or conference room in the hotel available to Alf, so he summoned us all to his room for a team meeting. We all crammed in and I sat down on the floor by the door. As Alf began speaking, I began groaning. The stomach cramps had returned and with a vengeance. I’d hardly eaten a thing and there can’t have been anything more to come. I felt dreadfully sick, my shirt clung to my body with my own perspiration, great beads of sweat formed on my brow then ran in rivulets down my face. As Alf talked to the squad he kept glancing over in my direction. Eventually he addressed me in person.
‘Well?’ Alf enquired.
I shook my head. ‘Not well,’ I replied.
Alex Stepney and Nobby Stiles helped me to my feet. I heard Alf tell Peter Bonetti that he was playing in place of me, and I walked out of the team meeting and out of the World Cup.
Once again we were handed a noon kick-off time to accommodate TV audiences in Europe who were watching it in the early evening. To play in the heat of midday is unwise at the best of times; for me it would have been suicidal. It was also broadcast on Mexican television, but with a time delay of fifty minutes, presumably to maximize ticket sales. Thus, when the game kicked off on the television in my hotel room the teams at the stadium were about to come out for the second half.
I was feeling dreadful but my spirits soared as I watched Alan Mullery, with his first goal for England, give us a 1–0 lead at half time. Five minutes into my televised broadcast of the second half, my joy turned into euphoria as I watched a low cross from Keith Newton converted at the far post by Martin Peters. I rubbed my hands with glee: 2–0! The lads were doing England and me proud.
About twenty-five minutes from time the door of my room opened and in shuffled Bobby Moore, Brian Labone, Alan Mullery and Alan Ball. Their faces were grim, but I wasn’t falling for another of their practical jokes. After all, on the telly we were still two up…
‘How’d we get on?’ I asked.
‘Lost 3–2, after extra time,’ said Bobby glumly.
‘You’re having me on, how’d we really do?’ I asked.
‘We’re out, Banksy. We’re going home,’ said Bally.
‘Pack it in, lads,’ I said, ‘I’m not in the mood.’
Then Bobby Charlton came into my room and I froze. Tears were streaming down his face – and at last the penny dropped. This was no wind-up.
I swung my legs out of bed, tottered across the room and turned off the television with us still leading 2–0. That’s how I remember our game against West Germany. We are still leading 2–0. I didn’t watch the remainder of the broadcast, nor the edited highlights that were shown later in the day. I just couldn’t bring myself to sit and watch it and endure the pain. To this day I still haven’t seen the match in its entirety.
A lot has been said about Alf’s tactics and substitutions that day, and about the performance of Peter that day. Since, as I say, I’ve not seen the whole game, it would be wrong of me to comment. In his defence I can say that Peter was a first-class goalkeeper and that both Alf and I had every confidence in his ability. As my deputy since 1966, Peter had played just six times in four years for England when Alf told him, at the last minute, that he was to play against West Germany. Perhaps Peter felt deep down that, though a regular member of the England squad, he would never get his chance, that he might always be ‘number two’. In not expecting to play there is a case for saying that he was given no time to prepare mentally for what was the biggest game of his life. Only Peter himself can say with any degree of certainty whether his performance suffered as a result.
What I do know for certain is that Alf was desperate for me to play against West Germany. The ridiculous fitness test apart, Alf is on record as saying, ‘The one player I could not do without against West Germany was Gordon Banks.’ If he couldn’t envisage losing me, then he clearly couldn’t bring himself to tip Peter the wink that he might be needed in the quarter-final, so providing him with some vital extra time to focus on deputizing for me.
After the game the football writer Ken Jones, then of the Mirror, went looking for Alf. (Ken Jones was held in high regard by the players because he wrote objectively about our games and, though he didn’t pull his punches, was sensitive to the feelings of managers and players in defeat.) Ken found Alf in his room, very morose and with a few drinks inside him–both quite out of character for him.
‘I don’t know what to say to you, Alf,’ said Jones. ‘Me, the rest of the press lads… we feel for you.’
Alf told him to pour himself a drink. ‘It had to be him,’ said Alf to the bottom of his glass. ‘Of all the players to lose, Ken, it had to be him!’
I am flattered that Alf seemed to think so highly of me, though whether my presence would have made any difference to the result of that game is impossible to say.
Likewise, I can’t
say for sure that the bottle of beer, suspected to have been the source of my illness, had indeed been tampered with.
It irks me when some people resort to conspiracy theories to explain a bad result. Following England’s 1–0 defeat of Argentina in the 2002 World Cup some Argentinian supporters alleged that England, FIFA and the referee had conspired and contrived to produce an English victory as compensation for Maradona’s ‘Hand Of God’ goal in 1986. That, of course, is absolute rubbish, the sort of theory that belongs to a fifth-rate thriller movie.
Similarly, I can’t bring myself to believe that anyone could have been so determined to prevent me playing for England against West Germany in 1970 that they resorted to poisoning me, even though I had eaten the same food as my team mates and drunk from the same case of beer. Still, stranger things have happened – and I was the only player to be taken ill. Concrete proof simply won’t be produced after this length of time.
Everyone was devastated after the Germany game, no one more so than Peter Bonetti. Peter believed he had let every one down, though we all tried to persuade him otherwise. No one blamed him for what had happened. For six years the England players had adhered to a philosophy of collective responsibility: ‘We’ll all work together and battle together, and come what may, we’ll either celebrate or die together.’ Or, to put it more succinctly, ‘All for one and one for all’ – precisely the quality that continental teams say they fear and admire about English football. Rather than placing blame at the door of individuals, the spirit and great camaraderie among the players ensured we accepted defeat as a team. Though that didn’t make our defeat any easier to swallow as we packed our bags to return ‘Back Home’.
In their semi-final West Germany lost 4–3 to Italy who, in turn, lost 4–1 to Brazil in the final. Brazil’s performance in the World Cup final of 1970 was a master class. On that day Brazil firmly planted their flag on the summit of world football, a peak to which all other teams must aspire. Their success was a triumph for adventurous football of the most sublime quality. The day when the most attack-minded team came up against arguably the best defence in the world. Samba soccer took on catenaccio and effortlessly swept it aside.
Brazil’s triumph was also that of Pelé and of football in general. Following his bitter disappointment of 1966, Pelé had a World Cup swansong to remember. The ‘beautiful game’ had a beautiful final in which we witnessed what is probably the most complete performance by the most complete team in the history of international football.
It would be twelve years before England were to compete at another World Cup finals. As far as the international team was concerned, England were about to enter a prolonged decline. At the time, if anyone had told me that England were to spend the seventies and beyond watching from the wings and sliding down FIFA’s international rankings, I would have laughed, believing it to be nonsense. As a new decade was finding its feet we had not only very good international players, but a number who were world class. No one could foresee how our fortunes would plummet.
When we arrived home, Alf gathered us together for one last chat.
‘You’ve all done me proud and you’ve done yourselves proud,’ he said. ‘You didn’t deserve what happened in León. Let me tell you all, I am so very, very proud of you. As England manager, it has been an honour and a privilege to have you in my charge.’
He then shook every one of us by the hand and thanked us for our efforts, before slipping quietly away.
Some of the older players such as Jack and Bobby Charlton and Nobby Stiles saw this gesture as an epitaph to their international careers. Looking back now, perhaps Alf could see dark clouds on the horizon, and intended it as his own.
17. The Agony and the Ecstasy
It was the belief of Sir Stanley Matthews that Stoke City, although never fielding what he classed as a great team, had two that he judged to be ‘very good’. Those were the team that was pipped for the League Championship on the last day of the season in 1947, and Tony Waddington’s side of the early seventies.
I was lucky enough to be a member of the latter when Stoke City suffered agonizing defeats in two FA Cup semi-finals and won the League Cup. Cruelly, I was to be denied a place in the side that went so very close to winning the First Division title in 1974 for the first time in the club’s history, but more of that later.
At the time I joined Stoke City it was because I believed they were a good side with the potential to be even better. By 1970–71 that potential had been realized under Tony Waddington and Stoke were competing for honours with the best.
We began the 1970–71 term modestly enough. A goalless draw on the opening day of the season against Ipswich Town was followed by two victories and three draws in our next eight league matches. On 26 September, however, we started to believe in our own ability. Arsenal, who boasted the meanest defensive record in the First Division, came to the Victoria Ground and we took them apart. Arsenal had made a habit of winning games 1–0, earning their ‘boring Arsenal’ tag to go with the ‘lucky Arsenal’ that they had been saddled with since way back in the thirties. While they may have lacked the flamboyance of Manchester United, the flair of Liverpool and the zest of Leeds United, in truth this Arsenal team, containing players such as my old Leicester City team mate Frank McLintock, John Radford, Ray Kennedy, George Graham and Charlie George, were a great side (as they were to prove by going on to win the League and Cup double that season). And on that day we thrashed them.
Stoke City were absolutely humming and the normally resolute Gunners defence had no answer. Two goals from John Ritchie and one each from Terry Conroy, Jimmy Greenhoff and Alan Bloor gave us a convincing 5–0 victory and sent the statisticians searching their records for the last time Arsenal had conceded so many goals in the course of a game.
Terry Conroy’s was a marvellous goal. His stinging drive from all of twenty-five yards followed a six-man passing movement and was voted Match of the Day’s Goal of the Season. (By coincidence the Arsenal goalkeeper Bob Wilson was being sounded out as a potential presenter by the BBC and had been invited on to the programme that evening to talk about the game. On his TV debut poor Bob had to sit and pass comment on the five goals he had just conceded!)
Our fine victory over Arsenal gave the team an immense boost in confidence, though it was to be in the FA Cup rather than the League where our self-belief was to have an impact on our performances that season.
Stoke finished the campaign in mid-table, though we did enjoy some memorable results. Leeds United arrived at the Victoria Ground as leaders of the First Division, and in front of Alf Ramsey we sent them away with their tails between their legs, two goals from John Ritchie and one from Harry Burrows giving us a 3–0 victory. We also earned a fine goalless draw at Fortress Anfield at a time when few sides ever left with anything more than a cup of tea. I was pleased with my own performance in this Boxing Day game. Liverpool put us under almost constant pressure and I had to be at my best to deny John Toshack, Phil Boersma and Steve Heighway, all three of whom had me at full stretch.
The Kop gave me a terrific reception as I ran into the penalty area for the pre-match kickabout. When I acknowledged their applause with a wave they applauded even more. I found the Kop’s sporting reception very gratifying, though by no means unique. At most grounds I was given a rousing welcome by the home fans, which never failed to leave me feeling humble. Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton and Geoff Hurst told me they too received similar approbation from the opposition’s fans. That’s how it was in 1970. Supporters of opposing teams, appeared to me, to appreciate the efforts of top players, in particular those who had excelled for England.
It narks me no end to hear someone like David Beckham being booed every time he touches the ball at grounds all over England. Though these boo boys are in the minority of all football fans, there have been occasions when the reception David Beckham has received has bordered on hatred. Not only is that unjust, it is also unwarranted. To his credit, David had risen above it all w
ith dignity, and is all the more appreciated by true lovers of the game as a result.
Supporters were no less fanatical followers of their team in the sixties and early seventies. Arguably, given the spartan conditions in which they watched matches, their support was even more committed. However, these bedrock supporters of clubs were also lovers of football as a sport, and quick to acknowledge good play on the part of the opposition and the achievements of visiting players. Sadly, all that was to change as the seventies unfolded and moronic tribalism infested a great many of our football grounds to the great detriment of the game. The discerning fan has always appreciated the efforts of a player, irrespective of what colours he wears. Happily, in recent years, as football has reverted once again to being a family game, I’ve seen ample evidence of supporters appreciating the efforts of players of opposing sides. Long may that attitude prevail throughout the country.
In March 1971 Stoke City entertained Manchester United at the Victoria Ground. For all my efforts and those of my team mates, there was no stopping George Best. In this game George was simply scintillating and his wizardry on the ball caused us all manner of problems from start to finish. Wilf McGuinness had just been sacked as United manager and Sir Matt Busby had returned to take temporary charge of the team. Perhaps this inspired George, for the Victoria Ground lit up like a Catherine wheel as George displayed his staggering array of skills to the full, culminating in what I believe to be the best ever goal scored against me.
We were defending the Boothen End. George received the ball just outside our penalty area and junked along our defensive line in search of an opening. Faced with Jackie Marsh and Alan Bloor, George dropped his left shoulder and made as if he was about to sprint off to his left, only to drag the ball back with the sole of his boot and move to his right. It was as if someone had just played Chubby Checker on the Tannoy. Jackie and Alan twisted their bodies this way and that as they frantically sought to block his way.