Banksy (42 page)

John Ritchie was in his second spell at Stoke and Tony Waddington had signed him on both occasions. The first time had been in 1961, when John was a part-time professional at Kettering Town. (He actually took a drop in pay to play league football because the money he earned from his job in a shoe factory and his Kettering wages were more than Stoke were offering.) John quickly adapted to life as a full-time professional and his goals for Stoke led to a £80,000 move to Sheffield Wednesday in 1966. When Danny Williams took over as manager at Hillsborough, John found himself out of favour and Tony Waddington had no hesitation in paying just £28,000 to bring him back to Stoke. What a bargain he turned out to be. John scored 176 goals for Stoke in 343 appearances. He played alongside Jimmy Greenhoff, signed from Birmingham City in 1968 for £100,000, to form a striking force that was to figure significantly in the renaissance of Stoke City that would see us challenging for the League Championship, FA Cup and League Cup.

The turning point for Stoke City came in 1970–71 and it followed another important stage of my own career, for in the summer of 1970 I played in another World Cup for England. It turned out to be a highly memorable tournament, one in which Brazil more than made amends for their lacklustre showing in 1966 by producing the greatest team performance in the history of international football. A World Cup in which I was, at last, given the opportunity to pit my wits against the man I believed to be the greatest footballer in the world – Pelé.

It always gives me great pleasure to tell my grandchildren that I had a number one hit. The England squad recorded ‘Back Home’ (with another catchy little number on the B-side, ‘Cinnamon Stick’) prior to leaving for the 1970 World Cup in Mexico and the record-buying public liked it in sufficient numbers to make it number one in May of that year. ‘Back Home’ spent a total of sixteen weeks in the charts and was replaced at number one by a band called Christie with ‘Yellow River’.

Also in May, on the day the England squad left for Mexico, there was news of another kind from a more exalted level of the pop world. To general disappointment and great sadness it was announced by their record company that the Beatles were splitting up. It was, said one radio DJ, ‘the end of a glorious era’. Little did I realize, that statement would soon also be applied to English football.

England’s pre-tournament match schedule began with a game against Colombia in Bogotá. We had spent the previous two weeks in Mexico, gradually building up our training programme to acclimatize us to the searing heat and condition us to the thin air of high altitude. The heat was stifling but initially it was the altitude I found particularly difficult to cope with.

We stayed at a hotel in Guadalajara with a lift that wasn’t working. I carried my suitcase and bags up two flights of stairs and by the time I reached my room, my lungs were heaving like forge bellows. The altitude also had an effect on the ball itself. It took me some time to grow accustomed to the quicker pace and swerve of the ball in the rarefied atmosphere. As a goalkeeper my problems were compounded by the sublime quality of the light. It was so bright I often lost sight of the ball as it came
towards me through the shadows cast by the stadium, or even by players. I was left in little doubt that the conditions in which this World Cup was to be played would have a huge bearing on my individual performance and that of the England team. I was happy that I had addressed every possible eventuality regarding weather and conditions, but there was one aspect of Mexican life that I had overlooked, an oversight that was to have a crucial bearing not only on my World Cup but also England’s hopes of winning it.

The Mexico acclimatization fortnight was tough graft. Alf and Harold Shepherdson pushed me to the limit in training and, along with some of my team mates, gave me numerous rigorous shot-stopping sessions. I felt that I was on top form and playing the best football of my career. During one of these sessions, Bobby Charlton turned to me after I had saved yet another of his thunderbolts and said, ‘Gordon, I’ve run out of ideas of how to beat you.’ Coming from a player of Bobby’s prowess and stature, that was praise indeed. I felt really great. The confidence I had in my own ability was sky high and, looking back, my performances in 1970 were, I think, my best ever. As a goal keeper, I could get no better.

After one shot-stopping session I went into the dressing room for my daily medical and weight check, and discovered I had lost seven pounds in weight that day alone. By the end of the fortnight I weighed twelve and a half stone, the lightest I’d been since I was seventeen.

Alf Ramsey had organized two warm-up matches against Colombia and Ecuador, as he believed teams used to playing at sea level would be disadvantaged in Mexico unless they had experience of playing at high altitude. Oddly, his opinion was seemingly not shared by the West Germans, who, notwithstanding their reputation for wonderful organization on the pitch and off it, did not arrive in Mexico until eighteen days before the tournament began. I believe Alf was right to organize the trips to Colombia and Ecuador, despite subsequent events. It
wasn’t his fault that our presence in Colombia turned into a nightmare.

From the moment I set eyes on it I didn’t like Bogotá. We had been booked into El Tequendama Hotel which, I’d been told, was the best in Colombia and on a par with any top hotel in any principal city in the world.

On the drive from the airport, however, rather than looking forward to five-star hotel service, I found myself struggling with my conscience. I hadn’t just seen poverty as a child, I’d experienced it. But the poverty I had known was nothing compared to what I saw on the streets of Bogotá. On the outskirts of the city we passed cardboard shanty towns where exhausted mothers clutched babies with distended stomachs and stick-like limbs. Knots of ragamuffin children stood about here and there at the side of the road to watch us pass by. Their faces shocked me: children of around seven or eight years of age who looked like old men and women. They were dressed in grime-ridden shirts and filthy trousers or shorts, and many of the younger children were shoeless. As our team coach flashed by we looked down into rows of vacant, expressionless eyes staring back at us.

The coach probed deeper into the city. I was appalled by the filth on the streets. At one point we passed a dead horse lying at the side of the road. Three days later when we returned to the airport, it was still there. To us the place looked like a living hell. Unlike the wretches clinging to existence in the shanty towns, we could at least comfort ourselves with the thought that we could catch a plane out. But there was a point when we began to wonder if we would ever see the back of Bogotá.

Alf Ramsey had warned us of the possible pitfalls of life in this city. Under no circumstances were we to eat anything that hadn’t been prepared by the chef who had been appointed to cook for the England party. Alf told us to drink bottled water only, and to ensure that the bottle was opened in our presence so we could see that the contents hadn’t been topped up with tap water. We were banned from going on our customary leg-stretching walks
that were a favourite way of passing the time in a foreign city before a match. We were warned of the perils of Bogotá subculture. To minimize the chances of getting into trouble, Alf told us to stay within the confines of El Tequendama. Little did he know, there was plenty of trouble lying in wait for us behind the hotel’s opulent façade.

Our friendly against Colombia proved to be a useful workout. Bogotá is 8,500 feet above sea level, some 1,500 feet higher than Mexico City, and though the rarefied atmosphere did pose problems, we coped. Every one of us was on the top of our game and fitter than we had ever been in our lives. I made an encouraging start to the match when I came off my line and saved at the feet of Garcáia, arguably Colombia’s one truly world-class player. Five minutes later I foiled Garcáia again, diving low to my right to gather a snap drive after he had turned Keith Newton. Having coped with Colombia’s initial pressure, we took the game by the scruff of the neck and began to control it. In the end we ran out comfortable winners courtesy of two goals from the ever improving Martin Peters, and one each from Bobby Charlton and Alan Ball.

On the same day Alf gave the rest of the squad a run-out under the guise of England ‘B’ against a team comprising Colombian squad members to ensure that every member of the squad had a game under their belts at altitude. In a competent and professional performance all round, a goal from Jeff Astle of West Bromwich Albion gave victory to a team that contained the likes of Peter Bonetti, Norman Hunter, Nobby Stiles, Colin Bell, Jack Charlton and Allan Clarke. Every player had been keen to do well, irrespective of which team he played in, because at this juncture the squad comprised twenty-eight players and Alf would have to trim it down to twenty-two for Mexico. Press speculation was rife as to the names of the six players Alf would send home. As it was to turn out, speculation about the ‘unlucky six’ put a strain on Alf’s relationship with the British press, yet the atmosphere
between manager and journalists was to be even more sorely tested by his handling of a major crisis.

During our stay at El Tequendama a curious incident took place. Bobby Moore visited the Green Fire jewellery shop in the hotel lobby to look for a present for his wife Tina. Bobby was accompanied by Bobby Charlton, shopping for a gift for his wife Norma, together with Nobby Stiles and Liverpool’s Peter Thompson.

Minutes after leaving the jewellery shop, the manageress, Clara Padilla, approached Bobby Moore asking him to explain the disappearance of a $600 bracelet. The Colombian police were summoned. After a prolonged discussion involving both Bobby Moore and Bobby Charlton, Clara Padilla, Alf Ramsey and two FA officials Moore and Charlton put their signatures to formal statements and the matter seemed to be closed.

It was an odd incident, news of which quickly spread among the members of the squad, though none of us thought it anything more than a simple misunderstanding, which had been quickly cleared up. Alf impressed upon us all that we should not breathe a word of it to anyone, especially the press. As Alf told us, ‘This sort of incident tends to get blown out of all proportion.’

Following our game against Colombia we travelled to Quito where goals from Francis Lee and Brian Kidd gave us a 2–0 victory over Ecuador. Quito is over 9,000 feet above sea level and the air is so thin that even a modicum of physical effort leaves you panting for breath. During the game the ball deviated through the air like a cricket ball delivered by a top-class swing bowler. By now I was getting used to the increased speed and swerve of the ball and felt pleased with the fact that I managed to hang on to every shot that came my way.

Again Alf organized a ‘B’ international for the remainder of the squad, this time against the Ecuadorian champions, Liga. The in-form Jeff Astle helped himself to a hat trick in this game and
a goal from Emlyn Hughes gave our second string a handsome 4–1 victory.

The favourable results were secondary to the experience gained from playing at such a high altitude. We were all becoming acclimatized by now and when we left what had been a very successful and convivial trip to Ecuador, our confidence was as high as the altitude.

The day after our game against Ecuador we set off for Mexico City and the World Cup. Our flight involved a long stopover at Bogotá where we had to change flights. Rather than having us hang around the transit lounge for the best part of a day, Alf had arranged for us to return to El Tequendama for some relaxation.

Back at the hotel Alf had arranged a film show for us in the TV lounge. I’ll never forget that film. It was
Shenandoah
, starring James Stewart and Doug McClure, a 1965 saga about the American Civil War and how it affected one family in Virginia. I’d seen the film twice before but, like most of the lads, Isat down to watch it again as it provided a welcome change from endless hands of three-card brag.

About halfway through the film, two suited Colombians came into the room for a quiet word with Bobby Moore, who left in their company. At the time, I never thought anything of this. In his role as captain of England Bobby was often called away to give interviews to the local press, or meet visiting officials from the British Embassy. Even when Bobby didn’t come back, we still had no reason to think there was any cause for concern.

My suspicions were still not aroused when we assembled at Bogotá airport for our connecting flight to Mexico City and I noticed that Bobby wasn’t with us. Alf Ramsey didn’t say anything about Bobby’s absence. None of the press corps questioned it, and as two FA officials were also absent, I simply believed Bobby had agreed to do some interviews for South American TV companies and that he would follow us on a later flight.

That journey to Mexico City was the most eventful and chaotic flight I have ever undertaken in my life. For a start, we
ran into an electrical storm when nearing Panama City where we were scheduled to stop for refuelling. The plane rolled and dipped, and at one point dropped like a stone when we entered an air pocket. It was harrowing even for the most seasoned air travellers, of which Jeff Astle was not one.

Jeff was a nervous flyer at the best of times, and this was far from being the best of times. Jeff was riddled with anxiety and though Nobby Stiles and I were of a stronger disposition and did our best to allay his fears, poor Jeff couldn’t help himself and went into a panic attack.

‘He needs a drink to calm his nerves,’ said Nobby.

Alf had banned the drinking of alcohol, but a couple of the lads managed to procure a few miniature bottles of vodka from a stewardess. We surreptitiously mixed the vodka with lemonade and administered the ‘medicine’ to Jeff, two or three doses of which calmed him down somewhat, though he was still far from being relaxed and happy. Fifteen minutes later, the electrical storm was behind us, and it seemed a mere trifle compared to the earthquake Alf Ramsey had just triggered.