Moore, Hurst and Peters – the holy trinity for West Ham supporters of a certain age (the age that means you have to start watching your cholesterol and hills seem steeper than they once did). Not only had West Ham provided the captain of a world-conquering team, we had come up with the goal-scorers too.
Naturally, I had pictures of all three of them on my bedroom wall. By the time the World Cup was won I wasn’t allowed posters because my dad didn’t like the way Sellotape stripped off a piece of the wallpaper when you took one down for whatever reason (such as an elder brother inking in a Hitler moustache on a favourite player in retaliation for some perceived offence by a totally innocent party). Instead, I had framed photographs. The 10x8 prints were supplied by Typhoo Tea in return for a set number of packet tops. The frames – and the glass that prevented any further acts of sibling vandalism – were provided by my old man, who was a dab hand at that sort of thing.
The pictures, hanging on pukka picture-hooks, were aligned with perfect precision – my father was the sort of man who insisted on using a spirit level for jobs like that.
For me, there was a similar and equally pleasing alignment between my club and my country at that time. With Moore, Hurst and Peters being automatic selections for the national side, supporting England was merely an extension of following West Ham.
The three of them remained on my wall, quite content to be there, for the following four years. West Ham never quite enjoyed the success they should have done in that period but I knew it was only a matter of time before we won another trophy. Besides, all three were such an integral part of Alf Ramsey’s plans I happily regarded England as my ‘other’ team. And a very good team it was too. They were certainly going to win a major tournament again soon.
Had I given the matter any thought as I entered my teens, I suppose I would have told you I expected West Ham’s World Cup heroes to remain on their hooks where my dad had hung them for years to come. It never occurred to me that any of them might want to leave Upton Park. And I couldn’t have dreamt that I would one day feel very differently about England.
The first picture to come down was Martin Peters. To be honest, I wasn’t all that upset. In fact, after I’d removed his photo and filled in the holes left by the hook under the watchful eye of my father – who couldn’t understand how I could make such a mess with a little dab of Polyfilla and a trowel – I actually wrote a letter to Goal magazine expressing my delight at the deal that took Peters to Tottenham and brought us Jimmy Greaves in exchange.
It certainly didn’t change the way I felt about England. This was 1970, and the three lions were preparing to defend the World Cup in Mexico. The fact that Martin Peters no longer played his club football in claret and blue mattered not one bit. I was desperate for England to retain the trophy.
They might just have done it too. It would have meant beating a brilliant Brazil team that boasted the likes of Pelé, Jairzinho and Carlos Alberto. But this was the best England side the country had ever produced – better even than the ’66 team – and with the defensive brilliance of Moore and the tactical genius of Ramsey anything was possible. Trouble was, we never got to find out. On a Sunday afternoon that was to graze my soul, Sir Alf’s strategic acumen deserted him and after taking a two-goal lead – including one from Peters – some dodgy substitutions, coupled with some even dodgier goalkeeping by Peter ‘The Cat’ Bonetti, saw England crash out 3–2 to West Germany in the quarter-final.
Two years later the picture of Geoff Hurst came down. My dad, having given up all hope of teaching me how to do handyman-type jobs, filled in the holes himself and finished off the job with a splash of paint that matched the wallpaper.
Hurst left West Ham to join Stoke in August 1972. Not only would he never wear the claret and blue again, he’d played his last international as well. In the April of that year he’d been substituted with twenty minutes to go as England went down 3–1 at Wembley to the nation he had put to the sword in the World Cup final. That was his forty-ninth cap for England. There would be no fiftieth.
That defeat effectively ended England’s hopes of being champions of Europe, but the tournament then had nothing of the prestige it does today and supporters of the national side shrugged off the disappointment then turned their attention to qualification for the next World Cup in West Germany.
The good news was that Bobby Moore was still at the helm – both for West Ham and England. His face, now hanging proudly alone, looked out over my bedroom with a knowing serenity that assured me all was well.
On Valentine’s Day in 1973 he was awarded his 100th cap for England before we Sassenachs demolished Scotland 5–0 at Hampden Park. There was no telling how many more caps he would win as England sailed through the qualifying games and then set about the more serious challenge of negotiating the group stage of the World Cup finals. Then there would be the knock-out encounters – quarter-final; semi-final; maybe even the final in Munich itself …
It didn’t appear to be a difficult qualifying group. England, Poland and Wales. Finish top of the pile and book the plane for Germany: what could be more straightforward? England started well, beating Wales in Cardiff. Poland, on the other hand, lost to the Welshmen. This was practically in the bag. The first feelings of foreboding came in the Polish city of Katowice. The great Bobby Moore – the rock upon which the England side was founded – had an absolute shocker, getting caught in possession to gift the home side their second goal in a 2–0 defeat.
When the Poles came to Wembley in October 1973, England had to win if they were going to qualify. Those of us who cared about the nation’s prial of lions were nervous, but far from overawed by the challenge. Then came the bombshell news: Sir Alf Ramsey had dropped Bobby Moore. And that was the moment I fell out of love with England.
Of course I wanted England to beat Poland. The World Cup finals without England was unthinkable. But what was ‘England’ now? Representing my hopes were players I regularly abused when they turned up at Upton Park to represent the likes of Leeds, Liverpool and Spurs. Norman Hunter; Emlyn Hughes; Martin Chivers – I loathed them when they wore their club colours. Now I was supposed to cheer them on in a side that – for the first time in my life as a football supporter – contained no West Ham players. It didn’t feel right at all.
After being told he had been dropped, Moore asked Ramsey if that was the end of his international career – only to be reassured that he would still be required to captain the side when they had made it to the finals. That, of course, never happened.
In the event, Moore played one more game for England – his 108th international appearance – in a friendly against Italy a month after being left out of the side. Five months later Sir Alf was sacked – and any hope that the West Ham captain had of re-establishing his place in the national side went with him. Not that it would have been much consolation to the great man at the time, but Robert Frederick Chelsea Moore kept his place of honour on my bedroom wall while the rest of the country turned its back on him. He didn’t come down until he finally said goodbye to West Ham and retired to Fulham. If I remember correctly, my dad took the opportunity to completely redecorate soon after.
With Moore dropped for the Poland game the only remaining member of the ’66 World Cup-winning side still in the England team that night was Martin Peters. He took over as captain, in fact.
This, of course, was the man Sir Alf had famously described as being ten years ahead of his time. Yet I had written to Britain’s leading soccer magazine to say I was perfectly happy to see him leave West Ham. That letter has troubled me ever since.
I don’t really do football memorabilia. My ‘collection’ consists of some old programmes, a ball signed by Hurst and Peters and an autographed framed photo of the world’s greatest ever defender that hangs in our downstairs loo, aka the Bobby Moore Suite. But if I did I would be a regular customer of the wonderful Matchday Memories, run by a boing-boing Baggy named Dave. It was Dave who patiently sifted through his back
catalogue of Goal mags and found the issue that featured my letter. You, sir, are a gentleman.
What really worried me was that Goal had published my letter in full. Because I was pretty sure that not only had I written in praise of the incoming Jimmy Greaves, but had taken the opportunity to point out Martin Peters’ shortcomings as well. In the event, it appears I was saved from myself by a kindly sub-editor who took his red pen to the more extreme parts of my correspondence. (As someone who went on to become a kindly sub-editor myself I am better placed than most to appreciate his intervention.)
What appeared under the one-word headline ‘Boom!’ was:
I strongly believe West Ham will be back where they belong – at the top – next season. It will not be by strong-arm tactics or sacking Ron Greenwood but because of Jimmy Greaves.
His presence on the field inspires confidence in the players around him, and that is exactly what West Ham needs.
Jimmy could well be the spark that lights the gunpowder – and there’s going to be quite an explosion.
I was really proud of that letter – it was the first thing I’d ever had published. I showed it to all my mates at school.
For the record, my prediction fell some way short of the mark. The following season West Ham finished twentieth out of twenty-two, narrowly missing relegation. It’s fair to say I’m not all that hot at this forecasting malarkey. Perhaps that’s why the country’s leading bookmakers send me a Christmas card every year.
On reflection, what I should have done was thank Mr Peters for his fantastic contribution to West Ham. It is often said that he played in every position for my beloved Hammers – including goalkeeper – but in fact he never wore the No. 2 shirt. Not that that detracts from his talent and versatility in any way. He made 302 appearances for West Ham and scored eighty-one times, including a hat-trick against Dave’s West Brom that is among my earliest memories.
Peters was the complete player: two-footed, good in the air, an eye for goal and strong in the tackle. Greaves, to put it politely, was in the autumn of his career.
Mind you, that didn’t stop him scoring on his debut – just as he had done for Chelsea, AC Milan, Tottenham and England. In fact he scored twice in his first game in claret and blue as we thumped Man City 5–1 in a quagmire at Maine Road. Geoff Hurst got a couple as well. There’s a fantastic photograph of the two of them celebrating on the back page of my recently acquired copy of Goal. Due to the strange camera angle at which the picture was taken Sir Geoff appears to have three legs! Now that would have gone on my wall if it hadn’t been for my dad’s poster ban.
I loved Goal. Thursdays couldn’t come quickly enough. I’d often wait by the front door for the newspapers to drop through the letterbox, hurriedly separate my periodical from the rest and scan it over breakfast before going to school. Then, for the next few days, I’d re-read it time and again – savouring every word and memorising every picture with an application that would have astonished my teachers, who were tearing their hair out at my unwillingness to show similar levels of concentration in French, biology, religious instruction and the similarly pointless subjects I was expected to study while in their care.
When Dave sent me issue No. 91, for 2 May 1970 – in return for a couple of measly pound coins plus postage – I read it with the same devotion I displayed forty years ago. (Although I did resist the temptation to do the spot-the-difference puzzle on page forty-six.)
I turned to my letter first. I had been hoping to win the £2 prize for the Star Letter in Goal Lines but I was pipped by Miss Heather Harrington from Blackpool, who had written in praise of women’s football (and, as well as the money, earned herself a very condescending remark from the editor asking ‘but who will look after baby on a Saturday afternoon?’ for her pains).
It should be pointed out that two quid was not to be sniffed at in 1970; at today’s value it’s worth more than £25. It would certainly have been enough to buy me a good deal of the merchandise on offer in the magazine’s adverts.
There is actually an ad for football boots (or, to use the manufacturer’s description, ‘soccer slippers’) that features Martin Peters still wearing a West Ham shirt – several weeks after he had moved to Tottenham. Advertisers would have a fit if that happened today.
The Goalpost advertising page offered several replica kits for boys. Back then, replica kits were always for boys. Grown-ups didn’t wear it. A basic set for a child cost 32s 6d (that’s a fraction over £1.60 in today’s coinage) which would have given me change of 7 shillings and sixpence from my £2 if I’d won the prize for Star Letter. For that you got the shirt, shorts, socks – and a club badge! Had I wanted the iconic West Ham away strip (the light blue shirt with the two claret hoops) I would have had to fork out an extra 5s 6d (27.5p), which would have still left me two bob to the good if Ms Harrington hadn’t written a better letter.
There is loads of other good stuff for sale too – but I had all of it. The enamel badge, the shoulder bag, the pen: everything in club colours, of course.
No one was left in any doubt about who I supported when I went to school. I was a walking advert for West Ham United. Which made it all the more galling when I was called up before the deputy headmaster and accused of defacing a desk in the name of Liverpool FC. It was true that I did have some form when it came to writing on desks, but I’d paid my debt to society over five nights of detention and, as I pointed out to Mr Crittenden, I was hardly likely to write ‘Liverpool are Great’ when I clearly followed another team.
I pointed to the badge on my school jumper; I showed him my bag; I rummaged around inside it to find my pen. I even offered to go to the cloakroom and fetch my elongated claret and blue scarf. But he was having none of it. I was guilty as charged and should prepare myself for another stretch of staying behind after school with sandpaper and elbow grease to atone for my misdemeanour.
I wasn’t unduly worried: I knew who had done it. Naturally, I wasn’t going to grass him up but I was certain that when he heard I’d been falsely accused he’d step forward and do the decent thing. We weren’t the closest of friends but there is a universal etiquette about these matters. Or so I thought. Miserable toerag – he let me take the rap without the slightest qualm. He went on to play rugby for Wasps. Which just goes to show: never trust a rugger bugger.
Edition No. 91 of Goal led on the forthcoming European Cup final between Celtic and Feyenoord, with a confident prediction that the Glasgow side would be victorious. Seems I’m not the only one who’s a bit shaky in the crystal ball department.
There were also a number of articles looking ahead to the World Cup in Mexico the following month. A particularly good feature pointed out how Geoff Hurst had become a target for ‘the cloggers’. And there was an update on the London-Mexico rally that preceded the tournament. Jimmy Greaves and his co-driver lay tenth at the time. They went on to finish sixth – which was probably the most noteworthy thing Greaves did in his time as a West Ham player. As with any World Cup build-up, there was an underlying air of optimism about English prospects.
The quarter-final exit at the hands of West Germany was, for me, as painful as any defeat I had experienced supporting the Hammers. (As a fourteen-year-old I had yet to see West Ham get relegated; nor had we thrown away a magnificent FA Cup final victory in the final minute.) Gerd Muller’s extra-time winner felt like a rusty breadknife had been plunged into my essential organs. I was stunned for days afterwards.
Little did I know then that it would be twelve years before we would see England in the World Cup finals again. By the time Bryan Robson led out the team in Spain in 1982 I felt differently about the three lions. There was once more a West Ham connection – England were managed by Ron Greenwood and Trevor Brooking had been brilliant during the qualifying tournament – but I knew the national side’s eventual exit from the tournament wouldn’t affect me the way it had in Mexico. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt as much as watching the Irons get beaten.
Despite the
wrench of Bobby Moore’s departure I saw a few internationals at Wembley in the wilderness years that followed the Ramsey era. A more depressing experience is hard to imagine.
Watching England on the telly is one thing. Watching them live is something else. The old Wembley was a terrible place for supporters. The journey up the Metropolitan line to get there was a nightmare: the pitch was miles away from the terracing, the facilities were inadequate and some of the football that was served up by a country that had once ruled the world in the game it invented was woeful.
Three years after Martin had played his last game for England I looked on, more in sorrow than anger, as another Peters scored twice at the so-called home of football. This one was called Jan and he played for Holland alongside the likes of Neeskens, Rep and a certain Johan Cruyff. The Netherlands won 2–0 that night but in truth they could have scored however many they liked. The gulf in class was breathtaking.
Don’t ask me to explain precisely why, but I could never feel part of things at Wembley the way I did at Upton Park. There’s something very different about an England crowd, which I don’t really understand and – if I’m going to be totally honest here – don’t like very much. Some countries seem to be able to take their sporting nationalism and turn it into a party. The English can’t.
It’s been argued that many of the people who follow the national side regularly do so because their club sides are in the lower leagues and international football offers an opportunity for some glory on a bigger stage, but that doesn’t hold water for me. Whenever my club has been in a lower division my sole focus is on seeing them promoted – what supporter doesn’t want to see their team win whatever division they are in?
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