Banksy

by Gordon Banks

  George appeared to be showing too much of the ball. Eric Skeels came charging in for the tackle, his left boot extended ready to sweep the ball away, while George danced joyously on his toes before making the ball do a disappearing act, once again pulling it back with the sole of his boot. Denis Smith and Mike Pejic then presented themselves for a dose of humiliation. George duly obliged, motioning towards them before curling his foot around the ball and dragging away to his left. A three-yard burst of speed and he was free. That left just yours truly between him and the goal.

  I came rushing out to cut down the angle. A goalkeeper faced with a one-on-one situation has to keep his eyes on the ball, not on the body of the opponent. George’s left boot flashed over the ball. I was on the point of going down to my right when his right boot took the ball the opposite way. I immediately adjusted my position. All my weight fell on my left leg as I prepared to spreadeagle myself at his feet. But with another drop of his shoulder, George veered away to my right. Unbalanced I rocked on the heels of my boots before flopping down unceremoniously on my backside in the muddy goalmouth. George, as if out for a stroll in the park, carried on before leisurely rolling the ball into the empty net. For a brief moment there was silence. Then the whole of the Victoria Ground burst into appreciative applause.

  George didn’t sprint over to the United supporters and strut like a peacock before them; didn’t run to his team mates for a schoolgirl embrace, then push them aside and make them play kiss-chase. He simply walked back to the centre line, his right arm half-raised in acknowledgement of the applause he so richly deserved.

  I wouldn’t have thought it possible for any player to bamboozle so many would-be custodians in such a confined space. That George did was a truly remarkable demonstration of his skills. He shook off five quality defenders the way a dog shakes water off its back, before dumping me on my arse in the mud. Such golden memories are treasured for ever, even by those on the receiving end.

  Stanley Matthews, who was at the game, always left the ground a few minutes before the final whistle to avoid the crowds. Stoke employed a commissionaire in those days, who because his job was to remain in the foyer entrance, never saw a game. As Stan made his way through the foyer, the commissionaire asked him the score. He summed it up perfectly in five words: ‘Stoke one, George Best two.’

  Among the many photographs hanging in my study is a set which shows George’s goal in sequence. I often look at them and wonder how he managed to do it and I still haven’t worked it out. I display them as a constant reminder to me of how privileged I am to have played against a man of such breathtaking brilliance.

  As is well known, for much of his career and since George lived a lifestyle that many people may view as being at odds with mine as a family man. I never think like that. I have never passed judgement on George on anything but his ability as a footballer and, as footballers go, he was a true genius. In May 1971, just two months after the wonder goal at Stoke, I was confronted with George’s genius yet again when playing for England against Northern Ireland at Windsor Park, Belfast. The first half was a very tight affair, with neither side able to break the deadlock. I had just made a save from Middlesbrough’s Eric McMordie and was preparing to kick the ball upfield.

  George positioned himself in front of me, presumably in an effort to disrupt my clearance kick. I veered around him and threw the ball in the air ready to kick it upfield. As I tossed it, George struck like a viper. He suddenly raised a boot and managed to flick the ball away from me. The ball, still airborne, headed for the goalmouth and we jostled each other like two schoolboys on sports day as we raced to reach it first. George leaned forward, extended his neck and managed to head the ball into the net. Windsor Park erupted, first with cheers and then with catcalls as the referee rightly awarded a free kick against George. He was furious and argued with the referee, saying his goal should be allowed because the ball had not been in my hand when he kicked it away. The referee was having none of his protests, however, and ruled he had been guilty of dangerous kicking.

  For days this audacious piece of opportunism fuelled much debate on television and in the newspapers, but the consensus of opinion was that the referee was right to disallow the goal. In the end England won the match with a goal from Allan Clarke, but all anyone ever remembers of that game is George’s lightning reaction to a ball tossed eighteen inches in the air. Whenever I meet George nowadays, usually at sporting dinners, I often have cause to remind him of the perfect timing he used to demonstrate on the field, particularly in that game at Windsor Park – now he’s a hopeless timekeeper and invariably turns up late!

  The 1970–71 season saw Stoke City embark upon a thrilling FA Cup run that was to end in heartache and controversy.

  We began our FA Cup trail with a 2–1 success over Millwall. We then dispatched Huddersfield Town, though only after two replays. In round five we beat Ipswich Town after a replay, and then met Hull City at snowswept Boothferry Park where the home side gave us one almighty scare.

  A crowd of 42,000 packed into the Second Division side’s ground to see Hull race into a two-goal lead, both goals coming from Ken Wagstaff. Terry Conroy gave us hope when scoring right on half time and two second-half goals from John Ritchie crowned a remarkable comeback for us. But Hull just wouldn’t lie down. In the last ten minutes they piled on the pressure. It was backs-to-the-wall stuff and I had to be at my best to deny Chris Chilton and Ken Houghton. When the referee finally blew his whistle after six minutes of injury time, it came as a blessed relief to us all.

  The semi-finals pitched us against Arsenal at Hillsborough. The Stoke fans were gripped by cup fever and our allocation of 27,500 tickets was sold out within four hours of going on sale. Arsenal were on course for a league and cup double and came into the match on the back of a run that had seen them win fourteen of their last sixteen games.

  But we didn’t fear them. After all, we’d beaten them 5–0 back in September. Tony Waddington told us to take the game to Arsenal from the start, to hustle and harass in midfield and so disrupt their rhythm. That was the way we liked to play it. The cavalier football we were known for quickly produced dividends. Denis Smith gave us the lead in somewhat fortunate circumstances when he blocked an attempted clearance from Peter Storey and the ball ricocheted off his body and into the Arsenal net. After half an hour we doubled our lead. Charlie George attempted to pass the ball back to Bob Wilson, didn’t get enough weight on it and John Ritchie nipped in.

  Though Arsenal were a team never beaten until the final whistle, I really did think we were going to do it. Then, just after half time, Peter Storey pulled a goal back for the Gunners and the jitters set in. Perhaps owing to the inexperience of many of the Stoke players of the big-match occasion, a nervous edginess entered our play. We didn’t display the calm authority required to play ourselves out of defence. We conceded possession too often and Arsenal were not the sort of side to give it back again without a struggle.

  None the less we weathered the storm and with the game deep into injury time it looked as if we were Wembley bound. With a last throw of the dice, George Armstrong played the ball into my penalty area. In jumping up to collect it, I found myself being bundled over by a marauding yellow shirt. I thought the referee, Pat Partridge from Middlesbrough, would award us a free kick for the foul on me. But to my shock I saw him point to indicate a corner for Arsenal. I and several team mates gathered round the official to protest, but referees never change their minds once they’ve made their decision, do they?

  When the corner came across, it was, typically, my old Filbert Street mate Frank McLintock who headed it goalwards. I was left stranded. John Mahoney did a passable impression of me by diving full-length and tipping the ball to safety with his hand. It was all John could do. If he had tried to intercept the ball legitimately with his head, or, boot, it would have been a certain goal – and you weren’t sent off for deliberate handball to prevent a certain goal in those days. Peter Storey stepped up to
take the penalty for Arsenal and scuffed the ground with his studs as his boot made contact with the ball. His scuffed kick deceived me, and ‘lucky Arsenal’ had their draw. I still think I was unjustly denied a free kick and that that mistake by Mr Partridge cost Stoke a trip to Wembley.

  Again, I think the inexperience of many of the Stoke players in handling the pressure of a big match had a lot to do with the result of the replay. Only Jimmy Greenhoff and I had played in an FA Cup final, and at the time I was the only current England international at the club, though Terry Conroy was a regular with the Republic of Ireland. Many of my team mates were devastated to concede an equalizing goal as a result of a controversial refereeing decision so deep into injury time. Arsenal, meanwhile, had been thrown an unexpected lifeline, which they grasped with both hands like a drowning man.

  I suppose some of us felt our best chance of reaching the FA Cup final had gone. The mental strength and fortitude a team must show to come so close, and then to have victory snatched away at the last minute, was not to be forthcoming in the replay. That tremendous letdown – however well we play, how much we deserve to win, how close we are to Wembley, it’s still not enough – must explain our poor performance at Villa Park. We never came anywhere near to repeating the sterling performance we had given at Hillsborough. Arsenal won 2–0 and were, in truth, comfortable winners.

  The following season we reached the FA Cup semi-final for a second time. Again our opponents were Arsenal. Again the match went to a replay and, incredibly, once more a terrible mistake on the part of an official was to rob us of glory.

  Having disposed of my old club Chesterfield in round three of the FA Cup, we then beat Tranmere Rovers (after a replay) and, for the second year running, Hull City, before being drawn away to Manchester United in the sixth round.

  A crowd of 54,000 was at Old Trafford to see a United team that included George Best, Denis Law, Willie Morgan, Brian Kidd and three members of the England squad of 1970, Bobby Charlton, Alex Stepney and David Sadler. Jimmy Greenhoff put us in front and for a time I thought we would resist the resultant United pressure. Minutes from time, however, a piece of magic from George Best (who else?) gave United a replay.

  A capacity crowd of 49,097 at the Victoria Ground witnessed a thrilling second encounter between the sides. That man Best (again) gave United the lead on seventy minutes that our centre half Denis Smith cancelled out only four minutes later.

  This was a personal triumph for Denis, who is listed in the Guinness Book of Records as being Britain’s most-injured professional footballer. Denis was a one-club man and in seventeen years as a player at Stoke City broke his leg five times, his nose on four occasions and his ankle and collar bones once. He also sustained a chipped spine, six broken fingers and over a hundred facial stitches. When Denis finally hung up his boots in 1982, Terry Conroy – who nicknamed Denis ‘Lucky’ – said, ‘If Lucky had carried on playing for another season, BUPA would have gone bust.’

  It says much for Denis’s character, fortitude and combative spirit that, when he wasn’t in A&E, he was a super centre half, one who never held back in a tackle. He was a rock in that Stoke City defence and is unfortunate not to have a few England caps to display in his cabinet alongside his plaster casts.

  Just before our replay against Manchester United, the injuryprone Denis ricked his back in training. It was so painful and debilitating that he was immediately declared unfit for the return tie. Like the trooper he was, however, Denis still wanted to come along and cheer us on. As he was getting out of his car on the evening of the game, he bent forward and, amazingly, his spine righted itself. Denis suddenly marched straight into Tony Waddington’s office and declared himself fit to face United!

  Denis’s equalizer took the game into extra time. I somehow managed to keep out efforts from George Best and Bobby Charlton before Terry Conroy sealed what had been an amazing night for Stoke, and Denis Smith in particular, by hitting a great half-volley past Alex Stepney to take us into the last four of the Cup.

  The FA Cup semi-final again. A packed Hillsborough again. Arsenal again… George Armstrong gave the Londoners the lead two minutes after half time. On this occasion, however, we didn’t capitulate as we had at Villa Park the previous season and concerted pressure on the Arsenal goal produced a deserved equalizer on sixty-five minutes.

  Bob Wilson had earlier been injured when collecting a cross and the forward John Radford had replaced him in goal. As I have previously said, there is little room for sentiment in football. Knowing John Radford would be nervous and uneasy about taking over in goal, we immediately put him under severe pressure. Our ploy was to test him with high balls into the box and our second such effort produced the equalizer. Peter Dobing drove a centre into the Arsenal penalty area and Radford was seemingly undecided about whether or not to come for the ball. He left it to Peter Simpson who, under pressure from Denis Smith, headed into his own net. The goal was just what we needed. We took the game to Arsenal and only some desperate defending on their part, and the width of a post, denied us the winner.

  ‘History repeats itself,’ said the eminent historian A. J. P. Taylor, ‘and that’s its biggest failing.’ Having been denied victory over Arsenal in controversial circumstances in the previous year’s semi-final, no one thought it possible that another error of judgement by a match official would once again wreck our chances of reaching Wembley. That, however, is exactly what happened in the replay at Old Trafford.

  Geoff Barnett in goal for the injured Bob Wilson was the only team change that night. In the opening exchanges Alan Ball fizzed for Arsenal. George Graham also posed problems but Denis Smith and Alan Bloor kept a tight rein on John Radford (much happier without those goalkeeper’s gloves) and Charlie George, and we rode out Arsenal’s initial pressure and began to exert a little of our own.

  On twenty minutes Jimmy Greenhoff burst into the Arsenal penalty area and was sent sprawling by the outstretched leg of Frank McLintock. Jimmy picked himself up, dusted himself down, took the penalty and nearly ripped the net off its hooks.

  Arsenal had a reputation for coming back more times than the postman, and they got back into this game in dubious circumstances. After fifty-five minutes George Armstrong cut in from the left with Peter Dobing at his side. Both players were jostling one another for possession of the ball. Arms were flailing, shoulders leaning in. Suddenly, Armstrong took a tumble and I was horrified to see the referee, Keith Walker, point to the penalty spot. To my mind, it had been six of one and half a dozen of the other. It was a highly contentious penalty award, but a penalty it was. Charlie George stepped up to take the kick and pinged the ball into my left hand corner. Arsenal were level.

  We thought ourselves hard done by, but ten minutes later worse was to follow. Following a spell of pressure from Stoke, Frank McLintock played a long ball out of defence. John Radford was offside when Frank played the ball but, hearing no whistle from the referee, John did the professional thing and ran towards my goal with the ball at his feet. I came out to narrow his angle, John swept away to my left and planted the ball firmly into the back of the net. We were furious. Radford had been clearly offside yet was allowed to continue. The referee had been caught out by the swiftness of the Arsenal counter-attack and, like most of the Stoke team, had not been up with play when Radford received the ball.

  Well, that’s what linesmen are supposed to be there for and, after our vehement protests on the matter, Mr Walker decided to consult his man with the flag, Bob Matthewson. Matthewson had been well placed to judge on Radford, and I was confident that, after consulting his linesman, Mr Walker would disallow the goal for offside. The pair exchanged a few words and I was stunned when the referee then turned and pointed to the centre circle. Goal to Arsenal.

  If we were angry before, we were livid now. I sprinted up to the referee to challenge his decision, while Jackie Marsh and a posse of Stoke players besieged Bob Matthewson. For a moment there was chaos. The Stoke supporters were incensed, the
Arsenal fans ecstatic. Press cameras popped and flashed, and Jackie Marsh subjected the beleaguered official to a verbal tirade that would have made a navvy blush. It was all to no avail. The goal stood and we exited from the FA Cup in cruel circumstances for the second successive season.

  Our dressing room was like a morgue. Jackie summed it up for everyone when he said, ‘I’d rather be beaten 4–0 and know we had lost fair and square than go out like that.’

  The TV highlights of the game conclusively proved that John Radford had been offside when receiving the ball. The programme also explained why his goal had not been disallowed.

  To avoid a colour clash, both teams had worn their second strips. Arsenal wore yellow shirts and blue shorts, while Stoke played in all white. When the ball had been played up to Radford, the linesman had apparently mistaken an Everton programme seller wearing a white overall-type coat on the far side of the pitch for a Stoke City player. Matthewson had waved Radford onside.

  It’s easy to say that it was just one of those things, simple human error. But it proved to be a very costly mistake for Stoke City, one that generated not only bitter disappointment but bitter feelings. After the match the football reporter John Bean asked Jackie Marsh when had been the turning point of the game. ‘When the linesman turned up,’ replied Jackie.

  Consolation for the Potters and their marvellous, long-suffering supporters came in the League Cup. Not only was this the first major trophy in the club’s history, but it was the first time Stoke had appeared in a Wembley final and, believe me, we really made the most of it. But our route to Wembley glory was far from easy. Including the final against Chelsea, it took us twelve matches to achieve success, a record for the competition. Our semi-final against West Ham United remains the longest League Cup tie in duration. It involved four matches, the first on 8 December, with the tie not reaching a conclusion until 26 January.