Authors: Gordon Banks
‘Do not become involved, gentlemen,’ said Alf, barring our way with an outstretched arm.
The chastened truck driver jumped into his cab and made room for us to get by. Alfredo walked up to our coach and saw that he needed to explain his behaviour.
‘Is no problem,’ said Alfredo. ‘He should no park here. I want let him go, but he show no respect for this uniform. You are not in England now, my friends, and I am not your London Bobbies. I deal him my way. He no do it again.’
‘I bet he don’t,’ said Bobby Moore.
Moments later we were on our way again. Needless to say, we saw no more of Alfredo’s stunt riding.
Alf had been meticulous about our healthcare: food, drink and even sunbathing. He did allow us to soak up some sun, but only for twenty minutes a day and in strict rotation. The only players to get a really good tan were David Sadler and Peter Thompson, who, having stayed on with our party after being released from the squad, were at liberty to spend as much time around the pool as they liked. Curiously, there was one squad player to get a good bronzing even though subject to these strict sunbathing limits, and that was Bobby Moore. For a time this perplexed me, until David and Peter told me that they’d gone up on to the roof of
the hotel to take in the view of the surrounding area and found Bobby up there, doing some illicit sun-worshipping in a pair of skimpy shorts.
The quarter-final against West Germany was scheduled for Sunday 14 June in León. On the preceding Friday Alf allowed us to have a beer with our evening meal. After all these years I can’t remember if the bottle I was served was opened in my presence or not, but I do know that half an hour after drinking that beer I felt very ill indeed.
I reported to Neil Phillips, our team doctor, who diagnosed a simple stomach upset and expected me to be as right as rain the next morning. At this juncture I had no reason to be particularly concerned: Peter Osgood had had an upset stomach but had recovered within twenty-four hours and I thought I would do likewise.
I passed an uncomfortable night at the hotel, most of it being spent in the loo. On Saturday morning I felt well enough to make the 150-mile trip to León. The plan was for us to train on the pitch at the Guanajuato stadium in the afternoon, but on that journey, I began to feel decidedly the worse for wear.
The lads were very chirpy. Some played cards, others read newspapers or books, a few just sat and chatted among themselves or watched the scenery pass by. I sat at the back of the coach praying for the journey to end. I was suffering from terrible stomach cramps and felt in imminent danger of being violently sick or something even more embarrassing, or both. I was sweating profusely yet shivering with cold, despite the 100°F temperature outside.
Dr Phillips checked me over and administered some antinausea pills. ‘Give it half an hour,’ he said, ‘you’ll feel a lot better.’
But I didn’t.
The journey to our hotel in León seemed to take an age. When we eventually arrived I went straight to the room I was sharing with Alex Stepney and crawled into bed. In less than five minutes I was up again, rushing to the loo, which was where I
stayed – I was glad that the wash basin was situated conveniently close to the toilet.
Alf Ramsey and the backroom staff held a meeting among themselves to discuss my situation. They decided to wait until the Sunday morning before making any decision about my fitness. The press boys guessed something was amiss, but Alf played down my situation: ‘There is no cause for concern. Gordon Banks is just feeling a little off colour. We’ve had players like this before and normally they recover after a few hours’ rest.’
The trouble was, I was being sick (or worse) so often that I was getting no rest. This was no ‘normal’ tummy upset. I felt as weak as a kitten. My limbs ached; my stomach cramped. I continued to sweat and shiver as if I’d been pushed outside on a winter’s day wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. That night I spent more time shut in the loo than I did lying in bed. I felt sorry for my room mate Alex Stepney, but even sorrier for myself.
On the morning of the game my condition improved somewhat. I was slightly cheered at the thought that my body had seemingly purged itself of all the poison and rubbish that had been making me feel so ill. I couldn’t face a normal breakfast, but I did manage to keep down two slices of dry toast and some bottled water.
Alf asked how I was feeling.
‘A bit better,’ I said.
‘Fit enough to play?’
‘I’ll give it a go,’ I said doubtfully.
Alf suggested I go back to my room and change into my training gear ready for a fitness test. I’d seen Alf’s fitness tests before; they were quite rigorous workouts and I knew that if I passed the test in reasonable shape, I’d be fine for the game against West Germany.
There was no practice pitch at the hotel, but on one side of the building was a strip of lawn dotted with acacia trees and that’s
where Alf and Harold Shepherdson took me. My stomach was still delicate and to be truthful I was also feeling weak, but with over three hours to go before the game I felt that, if my improvement continued, I might be OK.
‘Gordon, will you jog over to the far tree and back again, please?’ said Alf.
I jogged in a leisurely manner to an acacia tree some twelve yards away and returned.
‘How do you feel?’ Alf asked.
‘OK.’
‘Will you do that again for me, please?’ asked Alf.
I slowly jogged over to the same tree and back again.
‘How are you now?’
‘Still OK.’
‘Excellent! Excellent!’ said Alf, a beaming smile appearing on his face.
I didn’t share Alf’s great optimism. Two leisurely jogs to a tree twelve yards away and back again hardly constituted a fitness test in my book.
‘Harold will now give you some ball work,’ announced Alf. This was more like it, I thought to myself, this would really test me.
Alf asked me to walk to a point some eight yards away. As best I could, I bounced up and down on my toes. I did some arm stretching and then spat into the palms of my hands ready for the expected shooting practice.
Harold Shepherdson rolled a ball underarm across the lawn, like a father to a toddler. There was so little power behind the ball it only just reached me. I bent down and picked the ball up and threw it back to Alf.
‘Good. Very good,’ Alf said. ‘And again Harold, if you please.’
Harold rolled another ball underarm in my direction, if anything, with even less momentum than before. It had all but stopped rolling when I bent down and picked it up.
‘How d’you feel?’ asked Alf.
‘OK, I think,’ I replied, wondering when the fitness test was going to begin.
‘Splendid!’ said Alf. ‘You’re playing.’
I couldn’t believe it. What I had been subjected to was a fitness test designed for an 80-year-old. I returned to my room unconvinced of my fitness but hopeful that Alf knew what he was doing. I lay down on my bed hoping to get an hour’s sleep but after only ten minutes the sickness gripped me again. I hoped this latest bout would be the final fling of the bug that had laid me so low. But it wasn’t to be.
There was no lounge or conference room in the hotel available to Alf, so he summoned us all to his room for a team meeting. We all crammed in and I sat down on the floor by the door. As Alf began speaking, I began groaning. The stomach cramps had returned and with a vengeance. I’d hardly eaten a thing and there can’t have been anything more to come. I felt dreadfully sick, my shirt clung to my body with my own perspiration, great beads of sweat formed on my brow then ran in rivulets down my face. As Alf talked to the squad he kept glancing over in my direction. Eventually he addressed me in person.
‘Well?’ Alf enquired.
I shook my head. ‘Not well,’ I replied.
Alex Stepney and Nobby Stiles helped me to my feet. I heard Alf tell Peter Bonetti that he was playing in place of me, and I walked out of the team meeting and out of the World Cup.
Once again we were handed a noon kick-off time to accommodate TV audiences in Europe who were watching it in the early evening. To play in the heat of midday is unwise at the best of times; for me it would have been suicidal. It was also broadcast on Mexican television, but with a time delay of fifty minutes, presumably to maximize ticket sales. Thus, when the game kicked off on the television in my hotel room the teams at the stadium were about to come out for the second half.
I was feeling dreadful but my spirits soared as I watched Alan
Mullery, with his first goal for England, give us a 1–0 lead at half time. Five minutes into my televised broadcast of the second half, my joy turned into euphoria as I watched a low cross from Keith Newton converted at the far post by Martin Peters. I rubbed my hands with glee: 2–0! The lads were doing England and me proud.
About twenty-five minutes from time the door of my room opened and in shuffled Bobby Moore, Brian Labone, Alan Mullery and Alan Ball. Their faces were grim, but I wasn’t falling for another of their practical jokes. After all, on the telly we were still two up…
‘How’d we get on?’ I asked.
‘Lost 3–2, after extra time,’ said Bobby glumly.
‘You’re having me on, how’d we really do?’ I asked.
‘We’re out, Banksy. We’re going home,’ said Bally.
‘Pack it in, lads,’ I said, ‘I’m not in the mood.’
Then Bobby Charlton came into my room and I froze. Tears were streaming down his face – and at last the penny dropped. This was no wind-up.
I swung my legs out of bed, tottered across the room and turned off the television with us still leading 2–0. That’s how I remember our game against West Germany. We are still leading 2–0. I didn’t watch the remainder of the broadcast, nor the edited highlights that were shown later in the day. I just couldn’t bring myself to sit and watch it and endure the pain. To this day I still haven’t seen the match in its entirety.
A lot has been said about Alf’s tactics and substitutions that day, and about the performance of Peter that day. Since, as I say, I’ve not seen the whole game, it would be wrong of me to comment. In his defence I can say that Peter was a first-class goalkeeper and that both Alf and I had every confidence in his ability. As my deputy since 1966, Peter had played just six times in four years for England when Alf told him, at the last minute, that he was to play against West Germany. Perhaps Peter felt deep down that, though a regular member of the England squad,
he would never get his chance, that he might always be ‘number two’. In not expecting to play there is a case for saying that he was given no time to prepare mentally for what was the biggest game of his life. Only Peter himself can say with any degree of certainty whether his performance suffered as a result.
What I do know for certain is that Alf was desperate for me to play against West Germany. The ridiculous fitness test apart, Alf is on record as saying, ‘The one player I could not do without against West Germany was Gordon Banks.’ If he couldn’t envisage losing me, then he clearly couldn’t bring himself to tip Peter the wink that he might be needed in the quarter-final, so providing him with some vital extra time to focus on deputizing for me.
After the game the football writer Ken Jones, then of the
Mirror
, went looking for Alf. (Ken Jones was held in high regard by the players because he wrote objectively about our games and, though he didn’t pull his punches, was sensitive to the feelings of managers and players in defeat.) Ken found Alf in his room, very morose and with a few drinks inside him–both quite out of character for him.
‘I don’t know what to say to you, Alf,’ said Jones. ‘Me, the rest of the press lads… we feel for you.’
Alf told him to pour himself a drink. ‘It had to be
him
,’ said Alf to the bottom of his glass. ‘Of all the players to lose, Ken, it had to be him!’
I am flattered that Alf seemed to think so highly of me, though whether my presence would have made any difference to the result of that game is impossible to say.
Likewise, I can’t say for sure that the bottle of beer, suspected to have been the source of my illness, had indeed been tampered with.
It irks me when some people resort to conspiracy theories to explain a bad result. Following England’s 1–0 defeat of Argentina in the 2002 World Cup some Argentinian supporters alleged that England, FIFA and the referee had conspired and contrived to
produce an English victory as compensation for Maradona’s ‘Hand Of God’ goal in 1986. That, of course, is absolute rubbish, the sort of theory that belongs to a fifth-rate thriller movie.
Similarly, I can’t bring myself to believe that anyone could have been so determined to prevent me playing for England against West Germany in 1970 that they resorted to poisoning me, even though I had eaten the same food as my team mates and drunk from the same case of beer. Still, stranger things have happened – and I was the only player to be taken ill. Concrete proof simply won’t be produced after this length of time.
Everyone was devastated after the Germany game, no one more so than Peter Bonetti. Peter believed he had let every one down, though we all tried to persuade him otherwise. No one blamed him for what had happened. For six years the England players had adhered to a philosophy of collective responsibility: ‘We’ll all work together and battle together, and come what may, we’ll either celebrate or die together.’ Or, to put it more succinctly, ‘All for one and one for all’ – precisely the quality that continental teams say they fear and admire about English football. Rather than placing blame at the door of individuals, the spirit and great camaraderie among the players ensured we accepted defeat as a team. Though that didn’t make our defeat any easier to swallow as we packed our bags to return ‘Back Home’.
In their semi-final West Germany lost 4–3 to Italy who, in turn, lost 4–1 to Brazil in the final. Brazil’s performance in the World Cup final of 1970 was a master class. On that day Brazil firmly planted their flag on the summit of world football, a peak to which all other teams must aspire. Their success was a triumph for adventurous football of the most sublime quality. The day when the most attack-minded team came up against arguably the best defence in the world. Samba soccer took on
catenaccio
and effortlessly swept it aside.