Banksy (45 page)

And so we returned for the second half. We waited and we waited. We hung about on the pitch under the pitiless sun for nigh on seven minutes, waiting for Brazil to take to the field. The delay was never explained, but I was pretty sure that the Brazilians were employing an old tactic of theirs.

My mind flashed back to a friendly we had played against Brazil in Rio de Janeiro in June 1969. On that occasion they had employed delaying tactics before the game. Following the signal from the referee, we had been ready to take to the pitch only for an official from the Brazilian FA to tell Alf Ramsey that his team were not ready. We hung about kicking our heels for five minutes before Alf asked the Brazilian official what was going on.

‘The Brazilian team are almost ready, Mr Ramsey.’

Another ten minutes elapsed before Alf summoned the official once more.

‘The Brazilian team are almost –’

Alf cut him short.

‘If the Brazilian team are not out in this corridor, ready to take to the field in thirty seconds,’ said Alf tersely, ‘I will order my players to change back into their clothes and we will return to our hotel.’

The official burst into the Brazilian dressing room, slammed the door behind him and within twenty seconds their team emerged.

On this occasion, however, there was little we could do but endure the burning sun and wait.

Less than ten minutes into the second half we were on the attack so I went over to the polythene bag anticipating a brief
but welcome dip into my store of ice. I couldn’t believe it. All I found was a bag of tepid water. In little over ten minutes, every chunk of ice had melted.

As if it weren’t hot enough, Brazil contrived to turn up the heat still further. Bobby Moore, who was having the game of his life, came across to challenge Tostao. That left a gap in the centre of our defence which Alan Mullery filled. Brian Labone was marking Pelé, but now without the back-up of Mullers. Martin Peters arrived to support Brian, but as he did so Pelé jinked one way, then the other, and found the space to roll the ball into the path of Jairzinho. Terry Cooper was on to Jairzinho in a flash but in his eagerness lost his footing on the lush turf. Jairzinho sidestepped to his right and I came quickly off my line to cut down his view of the goal. I was just beyond the left-hand angle of my six-yard box when Jairzinho stubbed the toe of his boot at the base of the ball. It lifted over my spreadeagled body and into the opposite corner of my net.

‘Yeaaaaaaaah,
Go-olo
!’ Jairzinho screamed.

He whirled away and all I could do was watch disconsolately as he jumped so high in the air it looked as if he were attempting to touch the roof of one of the stands.

We gave it everything we had. Bobby Moore was imperious. Alan Mullery indefatigable. Alan Ball unlucky when he cut in from our left and saw his shot cannon off the Brazilian crossbar with Felix well beaten.

Towards the end, I thought we would deservedly equalize. Jeff Astle had only just come on as a substitute when he found Felix in no man’s land and the Brazilian goal at his mercy. Everaldo and Piazza had collided when going for the ball. Everaldo recovered first but played the ball across the face of the Brazilian goal and Jeff was on to it in a flash. Jeff had finished the season as the leading goalscorer in the First Division and he had been presented with the sort of chance that was normally meat and drink to him. Whether it was because he had only just arrived on the pitch and was yet to be properly adjusted to the pace and
intensity of the game, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, he missed the sort of chance he normally gobbled up. With Felix stranded, Jeff scuffed his effort wide. The chance was gone, as was our chance of taking something from an even and exhilarating game.

Following the final whistle, after shaking hands with Brian Labone, Pelé went across to Bobby Moore, grabbed his face with both hands and gave it an affectionate squeeze. They then hugged one another and exchanged shirts. I think that gesture on the part of Pelé summed up the entire game, and in particular, the performance of Bobby Moore. It was, I am sure, Bobby’s intention to go up to Pelé and congratulate him. But the Brazilian beat him to it. The victor saw fit to lavish praise upon the vanquished, because Pelé knew Bobby had been outstanding, and that Brazil had been as fortunate to win, as we had been unlucky to lose.

There had been little to choose between the two teams, but there had been one telling difference. Finishing. Brazil had taken their best chance and we had missed ours. At that level of football the consequences of missing a chance can be catastrophic. To be fair to Jeff Astle, although he missed our best chance, we did have other good opportunities to score. That we didn’t proved to be our own downfall. None the less, we emerged proud in defeat. Brazil took both points, but the real winner that day was football.

That save from Pelé is considered by many to be the greatest I ever made. It is certainly a save I am very proud of, one that gave me a lot of satisfaction. As for being my best ever? Such opinions are always subjective. I believe the reason my save against Pelé has received so many accolades is largely due to the fact that it was made in a very high profile match in front of a global TV audience. The following day I made newspaper headlines across the world and my name as a ‘world class’ goalkeeper was made. That’s really something for others to judge, but
immediately following the Brazil match, Alf Ramsey put it into a broader context, and got it about right. When asked to comment on my performance, Alf told the football writer, Bryon Butler, ‘His performance today was a continuation, rather than the culmination, of the standards he set himself over the years.’

It’s hard to judge, but a save I made in 1971, during a match between Stoke City and Manchester City at the Victoria Ground, is one that I consider to be better than the one I made in Guadalajara.

Wyn Davies was a superb header of the ball, a centre forward who leapt to a phenomenal height. The Stoke defenders Denis Smith and Alan Bloor had unwittingly blocked my line of sight. When the ball was crossed from the wing to the far post I thought it had been overhit and would carry on and run out of play. Suddenly, there was Wyn towering above the ball some eight yards from my goal line. The ball cannoned off his forehead and headed for the left-hand side of my goal at head height. In such circumstances, with ground to make up, a goalkeeper has to think himself into the space. I took off immediately I saw Wyn about to make contact with the ball and somehow made up the ground. I not only got my hands to the ball but managed to hold it while soaring through the air.

Ask any Stoke City player and they will tell you that was my best ever save. Ask Rodney Marsh, though, and he’ll say it was a save I made at the foot of my right-hand post from a Francis Lee header at Maine Road in 1972. Jimmy Greaves believes it was eclipsed by one I made at White Hart Lane, when, from six yards, I was suddenly confronted with a sumptuous volley on the turn from Alan Gilzean. Diving to my left, I managed to hold the ball in my left hand before gathering into my chest as I came back down to earth. The way Jimmy tells the story, on seeing me produce that save he turned to Alan Gilzean and said, ‘If I were you, Gilly, I’d give up now. I’ve long since given up thinking of ways to try and beat him.’

My greatest ever save? From Pelé, Francis Lee, Wyn Davies
or Alan Gilzean? That’s the beauty of football. It’s all about different opinions, as the guy standing next to you in the pub would no doubt disagree!

Following the Brazil match Alf gave us permission to attend a cocktail party at our hotel to which our families were also invited. Ursula was back in Cheshire with the children, but it was great to see Mam and Aunty Dorothy. We caught up on the family news and, of course, I had some news of my own to tell them – my impending OBE. Mam was, naturally, absolutely delighted. She also told me how proud she was of the performance I had given against Brazil. It was all beginning to sink in, especially when one of the lads produced a copy of the Mexican newspaper
El Heraldo
. The Mexican press had been very anti-England, but
El Heraldo
carried a photograph of my save from Pelé under the heading ‘El Magnifico’.

Bobby Moore saw me grinning at the headline and came over to me. ‘I think they’re referring to the header,’ he said with a straight face.

This is family reading, so I won’t tell you what my reply to that was.

The Mexican press may have warmed to us a little, but the Mexican public were still very hostile when we took to the pitch for our final group game against Czechoslovakia. I had more trouble with the crowd during this game than the Czech forward line. They pelted me with orange peel, apple cores and coins throughout the first half. I complained to the referee, who drew the matter to the attention of the FIFA officials present. They in turn asked the Mexican police to stand behind my goal and that changed things drastically: about five times the amount of orange peel and coins then rained down. I wouldn’t be short of change for the telephone after this game. We dominated proceedings against the Czechs, but it was no classic. An Allan Clarke penalty gave us a 1–0 victory, but that was enough to see us qualify from
our group, along with Brazil, who in their final group match beat Romania 3–2.

Jack Charlton replaced Brian Labone in the centre of defence against the Czechs. Towards the end of the match, the Czech full back Dobias tried his luck from twenty-five yards. The ball swerved through the thin air and what should have been a comfortable save for me, suddenly became a problem. I managed to get the fingertips of my right hand to the deviating ball and push upwards. I immediately spun around and was astonished to see the ball return from the crossbar and straight into my waiting hands.

‘Brilliant!’ said Jack, ‘and what yor ganna dee for yor next trick against them Jormans?’

Little did I realize at that moment, but my next trick was to be a disappearing act.

To this day I’m at a loss to explain what happened, exactly. All manner of wild and crazy theories have been put forward, the most common being, that I was nobbled. All I knew was that I was going to miss a match crucial to our prospects of retaining the World Cup. A game that, with hindsight, was a watershed for English football at international level.

Everything was going to plan. We had qualified for the quarter-finals and the spirit and confidence of the players was very good. There were even wonderful moments of light relief, courtesy of our police motorcycle escort.

We travelled from our hotel to the training ground in the coach Alf had had brought over from England, and on every trip we were escorted by the same motorcycle outrider from Mexico’s Finest. In his pristine khaki uniform, mirror shades and knee-high black leather boots he was an imposing figure. We dubbed him Alfredo.

The first time Alfredo accompanied us, he rode diligently ahead of the bus, taking his duty seriously, ever on the lookout for anyone who might want to disrupt our journey. After a few trips, however, Alfredo must have become bored with the routine of it all and began to demonstrate just how confident and competent he could be on two wheels.

We were driving to the training ground on a country road that passed through the occasional small village when I happened to glance up.

‘Hey-up, look at this fella!’ I said, alerting the rest of the lads.

Alfredo was standing up on his motorcycle with both arms outstretched. We all stood up to watch his antics and gave him a round of applause. Alfredo looked over his shoulder, acknowledged
our appreciation with a nod of his head, then showed us what he was really capable of.

With his motorbike doing about thirty-five miles an hour, Alfredo turned around to face us, sat down on the handlebars and once again stretched out his arms like a circus tightrope walker. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing and neither could the rest of the lads. A highway patrolman riding backwards? We all fell about laughing before giving him another round of applause. I think our appreciation only spurred Alfredo to be even more adventurous.

I stood slack-jawed as Alfredo turned around to face the same way as the bike and momentarily sat on the pillion before easing himself back. He then leaned forward, gripped the handlebars with either hand and executed an amazing handstand – still speeding along at thirty-five miles an hour, remember.

We all started to whoop with delight at his extrovert showmanship. I’d been a dispatch rider in my time with the Royal Signals, but I’d never seen anyone perform stunts like this.

Every day after that Alfredo entertained us with the sort of tricks you’d expect from Evel Knievel. But although he seemed to be a terrific bloke, eventually we realized he was a mixture of showman and bully. We saw the ugly side to him one day on our way to the training ground. Alfredo had just treated us to another round of his trickery when he entered a small village. The road was so narrow there was only room for one vehicle to pass. Up ahead, an old pick-up truck was parked outside a store, blocking our path. Seeing the truck, Alfredo waved one arm up and down to indicate that our coach driver should slow down and stop. Alfredo parked his motorcycle behind the pick-up and was about to enter the village store when the owner of the truck appeared.

Alfredo’s demeanour suddenly changed. From being jocular and clownlike, he turned very nasty and aggressive. He shouted angrily at the owner of the truck and with wild gesticulations tore a strip off him for parking his truck on the road. He probably
wasn’t anticipating an enormous luxury coach on that dusty little road.

It looked to me as if the driver was going to move his truck to allow us to squeeze through and that would be the end of the matter. As he walked towards the cab, however, he suddenly turned and seemingly said something disparaging to Alfredo. That did it. Alfredo turned on the man and began to slap him about the face. He then produced his baton and gave the truck owner one almighty blow across the thighs.

Concerned for the well being of the truck driver, Alan Ball, Bobby Moore and I started for the door of the coach, but Alf prudently intervened.