Alex Steine
The most famous date trotted out by English schoolchildren was always 1066; kids never understood the relevance beyond 'The Conqueror' becoming king, that it catapulted this nation into a wide-angled view of the world through the increase of our already-burgeoning language. They were going to learn something new very soon though. This age saw the phrase 'flower power' given to the world by Ginsberg, encouraging a more significant stance by the young and leading to a hippie outlook which morphed into anti-establishment. An age where, all around, a change was occurring - the pirate radio ships were pumping out a defiant beat across the airwaves and it was a vibrant time. Now I would argue that in this melting pot people had begun to believe that anything was possible - in fact almost likely to occur. The World Cup Carnival illustrated the jamboree mentality which pervaded the previously grey days of England. We joke of our neighbours last winning the title in black and white - those days really were just different shades of grey. Now Technicolor was society's option. In this atmosphere the stage was set for a unique, probably never-to-be-repeated event.
To measure the impact of what was to come, the date I gave is pretty redundant; now 1966 has superseded it and is the date that wears the crown for fame. At least it is revived every four years. We have a few more clichés and phrases to match the ones of 'here's one in your eye' or 'keep your eye out for arrows, Harold'. Now it's 'Animals of Argentina', 'People are on the pitch', 'They think it's all over - it is now!' I've mentioned before that I lived within a stone's throw of the Twin Towers of Wembley, and saw many games there. In the early years, it was due to my Dad getting me tickets for big games; when I was a bigger boy I got them for myself. The summer of '66 loomed and though a bigger boy - now measuring eighteen years old on the Richter Scale - I needed Dad's help with his contacts for the World Cup Finals of the summer. He never disappointed, and I was soon clutching a wad of tickets to the Wembley games, (and a lone match at The White City Stadium involving Uruguay - 2-1 victors over France - in the group game). I remember going into these games as a brash young fan, cocky and totally confident. What was the big deal? We were going to win the cup!
I was a child of the time. The hair flowed and the clothes worn were those of a peacock. The 'Mods' gave us crew-necked jumpers and mine was scarlet. I wore it to games along with navy blue and white, butcher-striped, hipster, bell-bottomed jeans, worn with a wide, white belt. I carried my national colours. We had no idea of the flag of St. George, we draped the union jack around our shoulders. Black, Cuban-heeled boots completed my match-wardrobe, and,, with a World Cup Willie lion doll attached to my belt, I went to games convinced it was with stylish aplomb. Hilarious!
The build-up to the finals seemed immense, though by today's standards so low-key it would be difficult for people of today to grasp. Nowadays a celebrity declaring that she is pregnant gains more column inches, yet like with most things today it is only transitory - a moving tapestry of a nondescript incident or event, quickly hitting its zenith and falling like a spent rocket back to earth. This build-up was at least sustained. To be a football fan then was a magical privilege. England had played a few friendlies leading up to the summer and performed quite well; now Wembley in July awaited.
In typical English style, a few months earlier, we had already experienced a non-footballing World Cup story, due to the ineptitude of our security; remember this was the nation which sent the Titanic out to its compliant destruction, carrying a label reading 'unsinkable'. On display at a small exhibition, the one-foot-high, golden Jules Rimet Trophy was stolen. Red faces? Probably, but handled with such remarkably relaxed phlegm. It was the way the English reacted. So the World Cup had been stolen whilst in our care? Oh dear, well don't worry, it will probably turn up, have a cup of tea. And turn up it did. A dog called Pickles sniffed it out from a hedgerow in south east London. Wrapped in newspaper and tied up with string, it was handed in. Immediately the finder was suspected of theft by our police - and I suppose they even considered the dog to have been complicit, caught red-pawed! Still, the trophy was 'safe' again.
I remember the opening-day game. The small boys trooping into the stadium in columns, wearing strips of the participating countries, carrying the national flag. Wow, what splendour! Everything was so pedestrian then, still kind of hometown; we were so easily impressed. Things would change rapidly, though; the world was about to be clicked onto 'fast forward'. The weather that day I remember as quite overcast. The match itself was typically a let-down, a goalless draw. Oddly the conviction in the crowd was unblemished. They were the stranglers of the game, we'd gone to play football, we were still buoyant, so that alone augured well. We'd get it right next time, and get it right we did, beating France 2-0, and also Mexico by the same score. The Bobby Charlton thunderbolt goal from way out against the latter side was the one they spoke of as 'the goal that stopped the traffic in Mexico City'. Much satisfaction was drawn from qualifying without conceding a goal; that to the supporters was a statement.
The infamous Argentina game was served up in the Q/F. Played in bright and warm sunshine - how could we lose today? The Rattin incident occurred and it put paid to them. Their captain, he was dismissed for 'violence of the tongue', school children in our high streets are guilty of as much now. He wasn't someone I looked up to though, a wealthy man, later to become a right-wing politician for Luis Patti's party, (he was an infamous torturer), so perhaps the German ref made a correct call. The match then cranked up into a spiteful affair; after Hurst's headed winner, it went to a new level, and I witnessed confrontations between players, elbowing and kicking all over the park away from the officials’ view.
At the final whistle, Alf Ramsey rushed onto the pitch at the end refusing to allow England players to exchange shirts. Afterwards, he referred to them as 'animals'. On the subject of politics, Harold Wilson's Labour Government was now back in charge after a recent General Election returned the party with a huge majority. Possibly the Beatles endorsement helped, when at a Variety Club dinner John Lennon said they would never vote for Ted Heath (he had already incensed the USA with his infamous/famous Jesus statement). The circumstances later gave rise to the joke that England won the world cup under a Labour government, and wore red shirts in doing so. The next match was the S/F against Portugal, recognised as perhaps the best team in the tournament alongside England. A very warm and overcast evening saw a brace by Bobby Charlton put us in the driving seat, before a penalty conceded by his brother Jack made the nerve-ends tingle. A very good game saw us make the final.
That hot Saturday in July pitted us against the West Germans (east and west of that nation still divided - a legacy of the cold war which existed then). Another overcast day as the match began saw Ray Wilson, the left back, give a weak headed clearance on the edge of the box and Helmut Haller drove it into the net, 0-1. Haller was to scoop the ball up after the game and spirit it away as a souvenir. He kept it for thirty years before public pressure encouraged him to return it to Geoff Hurst, England's hat trick hero (though I am fairly certain he only scored two that afternoon; the ball never crossed the line!). England equalised fairly quickly, so the doubts were brushed aside. In the crowd I was telling people the first team to score in previous WC Finals always lost. I'd read that piece of minutia somewhere and it helped reassure me, even if it only registered in a mild fashion with those around. Those nearby were the most amazingly friendly and unusual group of supporters I'd shared a terrace with, a Liquorice allsorts box of nationalities. Throughout we were joking, passing around sweets, offering drinks, even ciggies. The foreign tobacco smell was constantly in the air and remains to this day a 'World Cup Final' memory for me.
The sun came out as we took the lead late in the second half through Martin Peters; then came the last-minute equaliser scored by Weber. To offset what was to come - 'did it/didn't it?' cross the line - the free kick awarded which led to that equaliser was never a foul. I'm defensive to the last, even after nearly half a century. So did it cross the line? The ref and linesman on the day deliberated as we, the crowd tensely awaited their decision. The goal was given! Why Roger Hunt didn't put the rebound firmly into the back of the net I shall never know. I would have, and claimed the goal. Still, the goal stood, and alongside Argentina's claims that our victory was the robbery of the century (to be surpassed twenty years later by their own robbery of the century with Maradona's handball), we'd managed to incense the West German nation too.
It was a time of back-slapping delight at the final whistle, with Hurst's last minute strike thumping into the netting of the goal I was stationed behind. Cue dancing, laughter and wonderful bonhomie from the international group around me. People seemed happy for England's success, or perhaps just for me and the other England fans around; a delightful experience of unbridled joy. We were the champions of the world! Walking home past the Twin Towers, it was a jamboree of full-to-the-brim happiness. Few West German fans seemed to be present and every person seemed to have a smile plastered across his or her face, stretching from ear to ear. Football had really come home, even before the phrase was coined. How sad that it packed its bags and moved away permanently not long after.
There is an epilogue to this article. The driving force is always money, for every big world event, Though there was a certain slice of bonhomie which abounded way back then, it still exists, but in a much-diluted form now. The comparison with the 1966 showpiece and Brazil 2014 is odious. The sponsors and FIFA want as many teams as is humanly acceptable in the 'Finals', and to keep them there as long as possible, selling TV rights, burgers, cola, and whatever else gets centre stage for selling. So instead of four groups of four in 1966 we had eight groups of four this year. That's double the number of countries. So, four extra groups with six games per group, that equals twenty-four matches. Add the extra round before the last sixteen making another eight matches. Thirty-two games more. From a playing perspective, teams advancing only play an extra round, but that takes its toll, with many niggling injuries as a result. Quantity not quality is perhaps the byword for big business in today’s world, and make no mistake, this was big business at its optimum.
