Banksy (50 page)

My accident made national news. Tony Waddington held numerous press conferences to update the media on my situation. But that wasn’t enough for some. Every day Ursula opened the curtains of our home in Madeley Heath to see a knot of photographers camped at the end of the drive.

Tony paid me regular visits in hospital, but also came over to see Ursula and the children. One afternoon, after training, Tony turned up at our home to find thirty reporters and photographers blocking his way. Inside, he was shocked to discover Ursula in tears. The pressure was getting too much for her. Tony went outside and pleaded with them to give Ursula and the children a break. He offered to act as spokesman for the family and give the media regular bulletins on my progress. Most understood, although one photographer was to overstep the mark.

The doctors at the North Staffs decided my left eye had recovered sufficiently for me to watch a little television. I was in a private room with no TV, so a set was sent for. It duly arrived, carried by a man wearing a doctor’s long white coat. He placed the television on a table and then, to my utter astonishment, produced a camera from under his coat.

‘It’s like trying to get into Fort Knox trying to get in here,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I had to slip the TV engineer a tenner. Just one shot of you, Gordon? We’ll make it worth your while.’

I’m not a man given to swearing as a rule, but rules are made
to be broken and I told that photographer in no uncertain terms what he could do with his camera and his money.

I was so incensed that the startled photographer lowered his camera to his side before backing out of the room in double quick time. When the real TV engineer arrived I was ready to dish out another tongue-lashing, but it transpired that the photographer hadn’t slipped the engineer any money at all, just conned him into believing that he was a close personal friend of mine, and that his visit would raise my spirits.

When the surgeon eventually removed the dressing I thought my prayers had been answered. In fact they had, in a way. I could see out of my right eye, even though everything was a blur and when people were close to me they became shadowy dark shapes. My hopes and spirits soared, especially when the surgeon told me there was an even chance that my vision would continue to improve with time. On the downside, there was an equal chance of this partial sight deteriorating. But I didn’t want to think about that.

I was discharged from hospital and ordered to wear an eyepatch for the duration of my convalescence to minimize possible infection. I took things easy and thanked God that I had survived the crash to be with my family. After six weeks of rest and love at home I was feeling good, and told Tony Waddington my recovery was such that I was ready to come down to the ground for a little light training.

Just to be back at the ground and among the lads gave me a tremendous lift. I was very hopeful of gradually recovering full sight in my right eye and then embarking on a fitness schedule that would lead to my comeback.

At first everything went well. On my previous visit to the eye surgeon he had been impressed and pleased with the progress I had made. The sight in my right eye had improved sufficiently for me to read the calendar hanging on his wall and count the bulbs in his chandelier, though I still had to guard against infection with my Captain Pugwash eyepatch.

I was sitting in our living room and looking out at the garden when I decided to lift my patch to see whether the improvement was continuing. My body was immediately gripped by fear. Something was very wrong. I could see nothing out of my right eye. I closed my left, and saw total blackness.

The surgeon informed me that there was nothing more he could do. The edifice of hope I’d erected during the weeks since the crash came tumbling around my ears. Once again I struggled to come to terms with my predicament. I had overcome some enormous obstacles during my career in football, but now I was about to face the biggest and most difficult challenge of my life. I called on every drop of strength, fortitude and resolve I could muster, and told Ursula that I wasn’t going to wallow in a trough of self-pity. Not only was I going to come to terms with this situation, I was going to fight it.

‘God’s been good,’ I said to her. ‘I’m still here, and so are you, Robert, Wendy and Julia. That’s the most important thing. As for the football – I’m going to play again.’

I received literally thousands of letters from well-wishers. Many were from people who had readjusted to life following the loss of an eye; one, from a little girl who sent me a wonderful drawing of herself which I still have, was especially touching. Every single letter moved me, but owing to their sheer number – one day twelve sackloads arrived – I simply couldn’t reply to each one in person. I know that three decades have passed, but I’d like to take this opportunity of thanking everyone who sent me messages of sympathy and good wishes for my recovery. Your letters and cards were a great source of strength both to me and my family, and I will be forever grateful to you all for your heartfelt words of encouragement.

Tony Waddington allowed me a six-month period of adjustment. I began with light training and gradually built up my programme over the months. My eyesight was examined periodically and I underwent numerous tests to see how I coped with the speed, flight and direction of the ball. After the six months were up, Tony called me into his office and asked the $64,000 question: ‘Can you play on?’

It was what I’d been asking myself for weeks. It had lain there at the forefront of my thoughts, ticking away like a time-bomb.

‘Tony, you’ve been a great boss,’ I told him. ‘You’ve always been honest with me and I want to be honest with you. I think you know as well as I do what the answer to your question is.’

Tony slowly nodded his head. ‘I’ve seen you in training. Personally speaking, I think you could still do us a job,’ he said.

‘I could,’ I told him, ‘but not the job that I used to do. I don’t want that, Tony. I have to be honest with you, with the club,
and myself. If I can’t meet the standards I set for myself, I’m going to have to call it a day.’

It was the summer of 1973. My career as a goalkeeper in league football was over. Tony Waddington gave me a job as coach to the Stoke City youth team, with a brief to offer specialist coaching to young goalkeepers.

The first day I gathered my young charges together, I was dumbfounded. Of all the apprentices on the club’s books, there was not a single goalkeeper! The lad who kept goal for the Stoke youth team was an amateur who had a day job and only trained at Stoke two evenings a week.

The club were very supportive and granted me a testimonial. It was a great night. All my former England colleagues turned up to play, along with several stars from around the world. I was treated to the unique sight of Bobby Charlton running out of the tunnel alongside Eusebio, both wearing the red and white stripes of Stoke City.

Seeing Bobby Charlton and Eusebio playing for Stoke was not the only surprise I had that year. I travelled to London thinking I was about to do some promotional work for a company. The meeting was to take place in the lounge bar of a well-known hotel. For some minutes I hung about wondering where the representatives of the company were. I was suddenly aware of a man at my shoulder. I turned and was surprised to see Eamonn Andrews holding the Big Red Book in his hand.

‘Tonight, Gordon Banks,’ he said, ‘this is your life!’

I had had no inkling about this at all. I was whisked away in a daze to a television studio where Ursula, Robert, Wendy, Julia, my mum and other members of my family were waiting to spill the beans.

One by one their disembodied voices sounded behind the scenes before revealing themselves to me and the nation. Members of my immediate family were followed by close friends, staff from the North Staffs Hospital, Tony Waddington, my former Stoke City team mates, Alf Ramsey, ex-England colleagues,
old school chums and two guys I didn’t know from Adam and still don’t. Just when I thought one of my best pals had more important things to do, a voice from behind the screen said, ‘You’re getting old, Banksy. You used to hold on to them.’

Good old Bobby. I should have known he’d never let me down.

I was happy coaching, but gnawing away at me was a desire to get back to playing. In 1976 the opportunity came. I received a call from a representative of Ford Lauderdale Strikers asking if I would like to play for them in the NASL, the recently formed North American Soccer League. Although itching to get back between the sticks, I asked to be given some time to think about it, but as I discussed the matter with my family and Tony Waddington it became increasingly clear that there was only one answer: I was going to make a comeback. Tony, who was right behind my decision, even promised me that there would always be a job for me at Stoke as a coach as long as he was manager.

The NASL was founded in 1968 when the United Soccer Association and the National Professional Soccer League of America merged. The NASL sold franchises throughout the USA and Canada which gave rise to such teams as Atlanta Chiefs, Vancouver Whitecaps, Tulsa Roughnecks, Kansas City Spurs, Chicago Sting, Tampa Bay Rowdies, New York Cosmos, Los Angeles Aztecs and, of course, Fort Lauderdale Strikers.

What the Americans call soccer was a minor sport in the United States, played in the main by children and college students. It received very little if any coverage on TV or in the newspapers, which were dominated by baseball, American football, basketball and ice hockey. In order for the NASL to establish a good level of football from the outset, the teams, with their smattering of homegrown players, were bolstered by major stars from Europe and South America who were coming toward the end of their careers, along with good honest journeyman professionals from the lower leagues of many nations.

The money was good, the level of football, though not up to the standard I was used to, was reasonable and the lifestyle was amazing. It was these working conditions that attracted the likes of Pelé and Carlos Alberto (Brazil), Luigi Riva, Dino Zoff, Gianni Rivera and Giacinto Facchetti (Italy), Eusebio (Portugal), Gerd Muller, Franz Beckenbauer and Uwe Seller (Germany), Johann Cruyff (Holland) and Teofilo Cubillas (Peru). The sizeable British contingent included at various times Bobby Moore, George Best, George Graham, Rodney Marsh, Tony Waiters, Trevor Hockey and Charlie Cooke.

The NASL boasted some world-class players, but I’d been led to believe that many of the games were little more than keenly contested exhibition matches. Though I knew I had no place in the competitive maelstrom of English league football, I thought the comparatively relaxed nature of the American version would be ideal for me. In truth the standard of football in the NASL was higher than I had been led to believe. I would say it was on a par with the upper reaches of what is now the First Division in England. A good standard indeed.

I flew out to Fort Lauderdale but, before putting pen to paper for the Strikers, the club insisted I undergo a medical. I reported to a clinic, where a white-coated doctor took a series of X-rays of various parts of my body, before giving me a thorough medical examination. When that was completed a nurse brought in the developed X-rays. The doctor slotted them into a wall-mounted lightbox and tutted.

‘Mr Banks, I see evidence of something in your right knee,’ he said.

‘Yes. That’s a metal pin I had inserted during my career in England,’ I informed him.

He ummed and ah’d.

‘Uh-huh. Right. I see… Er, there also appears to be some sort of plate in your right elbow.’

‘Yes. When I was a young player I shattered my elbow.
The metal plate was put in to strengthen that elbow and aid movement.’

More umming and ah-ing to himself. He seemed to reach a decision.

‘Mr Banks, could you stand upright, then bend and touch your toes for me?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t. I get a lot of stiffness in my knees. Although I can get down to a ball OK, I can’t bend and touch my toes.’

The doctor gave me a funny look and made a note on his pad.

‘OK, Mr Banks,’ he said, ‘take a seat over there. Place your left hand over your right eye. Now, can you read the top and second line on that eyechart for me?’

‘Read it? I know him. He played for Czechoslovakia.’

Not a flicker. ‘Just read the top and second line, please,’ he repeated, a frown now enveloping his face.

I did as I was asked. To his delight, at last he’d found something I could do.

‘Good! Now can you place your right hand over your left eye and read the same two lines.’

‘Ah, well, there we have a problem,’ I told him. ‘I have no sight whatsoever in my right eye.’

The doctor looked at me sternly. ‘Mr Banks, did I hear you correctly? You’re telling me that you can only see out of one eye?’

‘Yes.’ He had stopped making notes after ‘bad knees, bad elbow, half-blind…’

‘Sir, what position do you play for the Strikers?’ he asked.

‘Er, I’m the goalkeeper,’ I said sheepishly.

I took to life in Florida, and American soccer, straight away. In England I had been used to playing on Christmas-pudding pitches. Every pitch in the NASL was like a bowling green. Though I loved North Staffordshire (and still do), my route to work there took me past pottery banks, a murky canal and grimy
factories, more often than not under a sky the colour of a non-stick frying pan. When I drove to the Strikers stadium, I did so down avenues of trees like candelabra and past delis where the Danish pastries in the windows were displayed like works of art. The sun, which always seemed to be shining, had the intensity of gold leaf and felt like a warm hand caressing your face all day and night.

I’ve never been a great fan of motoring simply for the sake of motoring, but I did enjoy cruising around Fort Lauderdale. It was fun just driving around the downtown district, past the myriad parks and promenades, then along the north shore of the New River that snakes through the city. I’d take in the shops, galleries and sidewalk cafés on Las Olas Boulevard, then drive over the arching intracoastal bridge that leads to the ocean.