Banksy (21 page)

It was an encouraging start to the new campaign, and our form was to get even better. We lost only one of our next nine games, Leicester’s best start to a First Division season since 1925–26. Things were looking up.

Leicester’s chief scout, Bert Johnson, having completed his FA coaching course at Lilleshall, was appointed first-team coach. Bert’s input had an immediate effect. As a team we became better organized and the individual talents of the players were at last moulded into a cohesive pattern of play. Jimmy Walsh and Davie Gibson were encouraged to track their opposite numbers back to our penalty area to provide extra cover when the opposition were on the attack. The midfield rotated to greater effect, so that
more protection was available should our attack break down. Previously it was carte blanche who did this, even as to whether it was done at all. Bert Johnson ensured we had a set pattern of rotation, so that individuals knew who was to move across and supply cover in accordance with which player had pushed on. For example, Graham Cross for Frank McLintock and vice versa, Mike Stringfellow for Davie Gibson and so on.

European lesson number one was implemented, and instead of taking the game to opponents as had always been our policy, we became more patient in our build-up. Confident of our defensive qualities, we were content to soak up pressure and, once possession was regained, use the speed of Mike Stringfellow and Howard Riley to launch a swift counterattack before the opposition had time to fall back and reorganize in defence.

We spent a lot of time with Bert at the training ground working on dead-ball situations, both in defence and attack. Bert introduced a variety of cunning corner kicks and I remember one in particular that proved highly successful. When we were awarded a corner on our right, Howard Riley would take it. As Howard prepared to take the kick, Ian King, Colin Appleton and Jimmy Walsh would gather together on the far side of the penalty box just inside the angle of the area, as if waiting for Howard to deliver. Ken Keyworth, however, would take a position just outside the area, in line with the goalpost nearest to Howard. As Howard stepped back as if about to take the corner, Ken would run to the near post screaming for the ball to be played to him – only Howard would hesitate in taking the corner. Having seemingly made a fruitless run to the near post, Ken would then pretend to berate Howard for not playing the ball in early and trot back out of the penalty area. As Howard once again prepared to take the corner, Ian King, Colin Appleton and Jimmy Walsh would signal that Howard should play the ball to one of them. The opposition, alerted to this, would often forget Ken Keyworth, who having left the penalty area, would then jog to a point just outside the left-hand side of the area, almost parallel
to Ian, Colin and Jimmy. Just as Howard was on the point of striking the ball, Ian and Colin would run to the near post and Jimmy to a point just beyond the penalty spot. Howard Riley would then drive the corner kick to the far post into the space Ian, Colin and Jimmy had created, where Ken Keyworth would come charging in to fire a header at goal.

This ploy worked a number of times for us. Ken’s late run into space often meant he was unmarked when he connected with the ball. If Ken didn’t score and his effort on goal was blocked, there were Jimmy, Colin and Ian to pick up on the rebound. We scored a number of goals from this set piece, though of course, it didn’t take long before opposing teams got wise to it. But I cite this as an example of Bert Johnson’s input into our play as evidence that, though football was still dominated by individualists, team tactics were assuming greater importance.

‘Tactical awareness’ was the new big thing on training pitches up and down the country, as coaches thought up ways to counteract the latest game plan. Nowhere was this more the case than at West Ham United. When the Hammers’ manager, Ron Greenwood, switched an unpromising wing half, Geoff Hurst, into the attack he also introduced a tactical innovation. Rather than Geoff Hurst taking up an orthodox position at the far post for a cross from the wing, Geoff would play deep, then time his run so that he stayed onside and continue past the advancing defenders to meet the cross which was played into the space between the opposition’s goalkeeper and the defence. It worked a treat for West Ham. This produced goals not only for West Ham, but also for England when Geoff and clubmates Bobby Moore and Martin Peters played together in Alf Ramsey’s team. Geoff’s goal for England in the 1966 World Cup quarter-final against Argentina, and his first in the final against West Germany, were pure Ron Greenwood.

Of course, once the First Division’s bright young coaches put their minds to it, they got wise to what West Ham were doing and tried to counteract the danger of Hurst by assigning a player
to track him into the box. Geoff, however, was formidable in the air and timed his run so well that the long ball from the flanks was never easy to defend. Especially for goalkeepers who didn’t want to come out and be beaten to the ball and leave Hurst with an open goal at which to aim. Leicester tried to stifle this West Ham tactic by closing down quickly on the wide player whose job it was to make the cross. Not only him, but also any West Ham midfielder who was attempting to pass to their wide man, which in 1962–63 was usually Peter Brabrook on the right and Tony Scott on the left.

The evolution of coaching skills was becoming more rapid. Tactics bred tactics as the former students of the FA’s coaching school at Lilleshall such as Bert Johnson, Ron Greenwood, Bob Paisley, Tommy Docherty, Dave Sexton, Phil Woosnam and Jimmy Adamson pitted their wits against one another. No sooner had one tactic been seen to work, than another evolved to counteract it. Then another would emerge to overcome the counteracting tactic. The origins of organized football date back to the Victorians, but the origins of the game we know today can be traced back to the work of those Lilleshall graduates of the early sixties.

The first of the winter snows came to the north of England in late November. It was cold in the midlands but we didn’t experience snow until December when most of the country rejoiced in a white Christmas. Joy soon turned to frustration as the snow piled up and temperatures plummeted to wreak havoc across the nation. On Boxing Day we enjoyed a 5–1 victory over Leyton Orient in the swirling snow at Filbert Street. That win moved us up to third position in Division One, the title well within our sights.

The snow that had fallen previously was nothing compared to what followed. Blizzard begat blizzard. Snow fell on snow. One morning just after New Year I opened my front door to be confronted with snow that was almost waist high. No one could
remember anything like it. Nor was there to be any respite from what the newspapers dubbed the ‘Big Freeze’ until April. Of course, the football fixture list was decimated, no complete programme of football being possible between 8 December and 16 March. Only three of the thirty-two third-round FA Cup ties were played on the day they were scheduled. Fourteen ties were postponed ten times or more, the match between Lincoln City and Coventry City being postponed a record fifteen times while the tie between Middlesbrough and Blackburn Rovers, originally scheduled for early January, wasn’t played until mid-March. Only four Football League games took place on 5 January and five on 2 February. On 9 February six games took place in England but the entire Scottish League programme was postponed. Bolton Wanderers went the longest period without a match in the history of a football season. Following their 1–0 win over Spurs on 8 December, the Bolton players were not in action again until 16 February. Over 400 matches fell victim to the weather. The final league games of the season were not completed until June.

With this period of enforced inactivity in the winter of 1962–63, some clubs went for weeks without a match and consequently were deprived of their main source of income from home (and a proportion of away) gate receipts. There were increasingly desperate attempts to beat the weather. Queens Park Rangers left their home ground at Loftus Road to play for a time at the aptly named White City in the hope the pitch there would prove more playable. Halifax Town, with their pitch at The Shay covered in a three-inch layer of ice, at one point opened it as a skating rink! Blackpool used army flame-throwers on the pitch at Bloomfield Road while Chelsea employed a highways tar burner. Birmingham City rented a snow-shifting tractor from Denmark and Wrexham covered their pitch at the Racecourse Ground with 80 tons of sand. They were fighting a losing battle.

At Leicester we managed to avoid too much disruption owing
to a combination of good luck and sheer determination. The previous summer the Filbert Street pitch had been relaid with top soil treated with a combined chemical fertilizer and weed-killer. This generated a little heat that helped keep the frost at bay. The Leicester groundsman augmented this effect by placing oil drums filled with burning coke at various points around the pitch, which raised the air temperature enough to ward off the severest frost. A nightwatchman sat up throughout the Friday night to ensure all was safe. These braziers remained on the pitch until around eleven on a Saturday morning when the groundsman, his assistant and an army of junior players would then remove them. An hour later when the match referee arrived to inspect the pitch it was playable, and the game was given the go-ahead.

In all honesty many of these games should never have been played because, without the braziers, the pitch had partly frozen over again come three o’clock, especially the end that lay in the shadow of the club’s towering double-decker stand. Aware that one half of the pitch was just playable, and the other half frozen, I used to run out for games wearing odd boots. On my right foot I would have my normal boot with hammer-in leather studs, while on my left I’d wear a boot with moulded rubber studs that offered better footing on hard surfaces. Under my arm I would carry the other two odd boots. Once I knew which end we were to defend in the first half I would change one boot to make a pair. As the sun began to set the entire pitch would freeze over once again.

Another trick I employed was to file down my leather studs, exposing the nails that attached the studs to the sole of my boots. The exposed nail-heads gripped the freezing ground better. I have to emphasize I was always careful not to expose them in such a way that they would cause injury. Unlike now, match officials never checked the condition of a player’s studs before a game, let alone at half time. We would never get away with this dubious ploy today.

Our house in Kirkland Road was typical in that it was uninsulated, had no central heating and coal fires downstairs only. The bedrooms and bathroom would have been ideal refrigerators! To offset the cold, Ursula made more hot dinners than normal and of ever increasing size. That winter I put away countless stews and dumplings, roasts and hotpots. As photographs of the time show, I piled on my own form of insulation.

Though we didn’t play a match from Boxing Day to 9 February when the brazier idea was implemented, we then began an unbroken run of matches when other clubs were still struggling to beat the elements. The fact that we were playing regularly when other teams were not must have given us an edge as far as match fitness was concerned. Whatever, we embarked upon an unbeaten run of sixteen league and cup games of which fourteen were won. On 8 April a 1–1 draw at Blackpool saw Leicester City at the top of Division One for the first time since 1927 and with an FA Cup semi-final to come, we had high hopes of achieving the double.

Our excellent run of form ended at Easter, at West Ham, when Bobby Moore’s side beat us 2–0 courtesy of two goals from Alan Sealey. But we immediately bounced back to earn a 2–2 draw against Manchester United on Easter Monday, and the following night beat United 4–3 in front of a packed Filbert Street in the return fixture, a result that saw us regain top position in Division One. Following our next game, a 1–1 draw at Wolves, we set off for Hillsborough, the venue for our FA Cup semi-final against Liverpool.

Hillsborough was packed to the rafters, a capacity crowd of 65,000 roaring their approval as both teams took to the pitch. I remember looking up to the alp-like terracing and being amazed at the sight of that heaving and swaying mass of humanity. The noise was deafening, an alarming, volatile collective roar that made me feel the hair on the back of my neck was standing on end. As I took up my position in the goalmouth for the pre-match kickabout, I did so to a backdrop of bedlam. The Leicester
fans repeatedly sang ‘Cit-eee – Cit-eee’ while the Liverpool supporters replied with the recent Beatles hit ‘From Me To You’.

When the game got under way the mosaic of red and blue banked up on the terraces once again erupted. It was pandemonium and such a highly charged atmosphere communicated itself to the players. The early exchanges were fast and furious. Liverpool pressed all-out for an early lead and within minutes I found myself called into action time and again. We defended valiantly; we had to, the Liverpool pressure was relentless. There was no opportunity for us to put into practice the free kicks and corners we had rehearsed with Bert Johnson on the training pitch. In order to do that we first of all had to take possession of the ball and move it into the Liverpool half of the field and we just couldn’t.

I dived low to my right to collect a shot from Ian Callaghan. Moments later I was at full stretch to save from Ian St John. Then Peter Thompson tried his luck, St John again, then Roger Hunt and Ron Yeats. I felt as if I was performing at the back of a fairground shooting range.

After about twenty minutes of incessant Liverpool attacks we eventually broke out of our own half. Howard Riley and Graham Cross interchanged a series of passes on our right and when the ball was eventually played into the Liverpool penalty area, Mike Stringfellow rose majestically to head the ball into the net. After so much pressure on my goal I couldn’t believe we had taken the lead with our first attack. Even more unbelievably, that first attack was also, more or less, our last.

Our goal served only to annoy Liverpool, who then laid siege to my goal in their efforts to equalize. Liverpool’s army of supporters roared them on, while the City supporters were no less vociferous in their encouragement of our rearguard action. Liverpool poured forward and my team mates in the Leicester defence went into overdrive to keep the red tide at bay. Legs were outstretched, necks strained, bodies were flung in the way of countless efforts from a seemingly endless procession of
Liverpool players. As the pressure built up, so did the frustration of the Liverpool players. The onslaught on my goal was punctuated by the short sharp flare-up of fraying tempers, a flurry of desperate tackles and the wince-inducing clash of heads as the giant Liverpool centre half, Ron Yeats, fought for aerial supremacy with Ian King. Somehow we survived until half time.