I thought it was ‘I think it’s all over’

Being overseas has the effect of latching onto all things English and there can’t be anything more defining of an English summer success story for English football fans than the World Cup final of 1966. Every two years ‘it’s coming home’. I rather think I will be coming home before football does.

Like most, I’ve seen the Geoff Hurst goals many times, two of which would nowadays have VAR crawling all over them, but I have never seen the whole game, let alone in colour, and so thought I’d give it a watch. Channel 4 partnered with the Alzheimer’s Society to rerun the game in full, presented by David Baddiel and interjected with occasional (and wholly necessary and justified) plugs for the Alzheimer’s cause and clips of sufferers and their own tales and recollections. My Dad was afflicted with this awful disease and it was with emotion as I heard these tales as one of my Dad’s last coherent conversations with me had been his recollections of that day.

I settled in. The first thing that struck me was the size of the players. They appeared tiny and ‘normal’ sized people compared to the size of players today. A little known fact is that when Derby County won the league a little over 50 years ago, only one player in their squad (Rod Thomas) was 6 feet tall. Not even the goalkeeper! Perhaps that’s also how the players were more relatable than today- not just the wages and fame, but the fact Bobby Moore could have borrowed my jeans to wear if he’d wanted to. Anyway, I digress.

I then heard the crowd. The union flag was prominent, not the St George’s flag we see these days (in fact this was case up to Mexico in ‘86 in my recollection) and perhaps a reflection worthy of deeper social commentary (for another day!) on the state of the Union. Then I heard it, and throughout the match, ‘Zieg Heil’!!! I thought that was risky and it a bit close the wire. It was only after listening closely I think it was in fact ‘England’ being chanted. The crowd sounded loud, but the song playlist extended only to ‘England’ and ‘When the reds go marching in’. But West Germany were well represented in the crowd. Could it in fact have been ‘Zieg Heil’ after all?! Bloody hell. I paid attention to the match. Tried to distract myself and listened to the commentary.

It was so refreshing. No three way ‘lads chat’ and endless stats. No ‘I tell you what Fletch, that’s exactly what I was thinking’ or similar. Just straightforward observation of what was going on. The camera angles were limited to halfway line and a similar view closer up. No behind the goals, goal line (more on that later) and perhaps best of all no endless views of the managers and the respective benches. No Arteta style demented crab like scuttling along the touch line, Pep constant spitting or haranguing the assistant referee (in fact there wasn’t one- is 4th official the worst job in football? Discuss!). On officiating, could we maybe make it easier for referees by simply having few camera angles going forward? Less opportunity for the hindsight police to raise objections with the benefit of 30+ angles every game.

The pitch looked as if fresh turf had been laid on ice. It cut up a treat and I couldn’t help but be drawn to the boots. Everyone wore plain black, with dubbin gleaming. No fluorescent colours and flimsy efforts that looked like slippers. These were hardy efforts, probably as suitable for going down a mine as playing football. My first recollection of ‘fancy’ boots was Alan Hinton and Alan Ball sporting white ones, my first slightly racy pair were ‘Patrick Keegan’, soft leather with a simple pair of stripes. Marvellous.

Early on the German keeper was poleaxed. My first instinct was that this was play acting, then I remembered this was 1966 and not 2026 and in fact he was out cold. A quick dousing with the cold sponge (they didn’t even ask him to count fingers) and he was good to go. Then the game drifted along. It’s only when you watch it in full that you realise the 1966 World Cup Final, for so long held up as the pinnacle of English sporting achievement was in fact a really drab match. The score line certainly flatters it. The players were good, of course, but the pace of the game and the physique of the players meant that it wasn’t such a leap of imagination to think your average park or pub player would think he or she would have a chance at that level. Tosh of course, levels are levels and Joe Public would be an equivalent level then as they are now, but it certainly seemed a simpler game. No ‘8’s’ or ‘10’s’ or ‘sitting in a hole’. No high presses or between the lines. Just effort and good football brains.

The game meandered on. Charlton (the Bobby variety) hit the post, Ball made the West German keeper pull off a smart save, and slide tackles were king. Nothing dirty or malicious, yes the occasional stud showing, but not one booking for a slide tackle (Martin Peters got one later on but it wasn’t that bad a tackle!) and not a hint of rolling around and writhing in agony. When a corner was awarded and then subsequently defended, there were no high fives and hugs all round for a save or interception. Also penalty boxes were less busy at corners, both teams leaving 2 men up when defending the set piece. It was almost as if the corner was an unwelcome interruption to the game. The photographers behind each goal were within a foot of the touch line and wearing shirts and ties. Any desire to capture a shot from inside the goal (we have automatic cameras in the goals now) would have required the whole cameraman wedged in the corner of the goal like a fisherman’s catch.

The kits were simple and beautiful. No endless slogans or motifs with sponsors names or a reminder to ‘Respect’ the ref or save the whales (or similar). Squad numbers were used of course, but no names on the shirts. I’m a bit torn on names on shirts. I love the 1-11 and see no point in someone sporting a number 76 or whatever. When names were introduced on shirts I was firmly against it, but now my familiarity with modern players and failing eyesight means I’m more in favour. And without names we don’t get the joy of some 20 plus stone middle aged guy walking the streets of Walsall with Bellingham on his back. On his shirt of course. I’m not suggesting he’s giving Jude a piggyback. He could be a Bellingham of course. And no, I’m not that 20 stone middle aged man. Yet.

The commentator was getting well into his stride. He lambasted the German goalkeeper for punching a cross that he could have caught, then praised Gordon Banks for doing the very same thing moments later. Love it. Good old partisan biased commentary. And no Lee Dixon alongside. Double joy.

It’s forgotten that West Germany took the lead. No mass cuddles, knee slides or gestures to the cameras. To be fair a knee slide would have taken up the turf like a concertina, and any attempt to make a gesture to the cameras would have taken about 20 minutes and several flights of stairs. Removal of shirts (later to be banned for inciting fans and rewarded with a yellow card) was something you did with a knotted hanky on your head wearing a string vest in Blackpool.

England equalised with a lovely header from Hurst. Great cross from Moore from a free kick (centre half taking the kick rather than being in the box for it anyone?) and this goal was probably the pick of them for me. Glancing header, knew exactly where the goal was. Lovely.

It should be said that when England equalised, the crowd, though loud and no doubt thrilled, didn’t resort to ‘limbs’ or pints of lager thrown in the air. In those days limbs were restricted to the parts of the body that had a functional use and times were still austere. You couldn’t go launching your beer around. True, many of the crowd were wearing hats (who doesn’t love an old photo with a sea of head gear) but even so, flags were waved a bit more fervently and there was lots of clapping.

As the game went on, England took the lead through Martin Peters with around 10 minutes to go and it suddenly dawned on me that there had been no substitutes. West Germany equalised in the 90th minute. Little did we know that such agony was to be a feature over the next 30+ years of the Germans putting us through it.

The players looked weary and tired, but there was no talk of a substitute to ‘freshen it up and go for a winner’. These days half the team would have been swapped with one eye on a penalty shoot out, but not this lot. Oh no. Both teams borne of a generation that went through a World War and rationing, these chaps weren’t  recoiling at the thought of an extra half hour. What’s a bit of cramp when your earliest years were punctuated by being rushed into an Anderson shelter by your parents. A quarter of orange and liniment and you’re good to go again. Socks were down by ankles (Nobby Stiles forever the embodiment of that image) and the real irony is that were there substitutions then Hurst would have most likely been taken off. He looked shot.

Somehow the cameraman had been given a nudge and decided to grab a shot of Her Majesty the Queen in the Royal Box. Most telling was that the chap next to her was having a fag without a care in the world. I like to think that off camera, to calm the nerves, Her Majesty tapped him up for a crafty Park Drive. Maybe not.

Extra time was heralded by Hurst and the ‘over the line’ goal. One that VAR or goal line technology would have sorted in a second nowadays. Not then. The one camera angle offered then was inconclusive, through I will admit (though with 58 years of bias) that on first glance it looked over the line. Absolutely no facility for replays and the game went on after a minute or two of West German complaints. The short length of their arguments has of course been made up by 60 years of Scottish ire at what they see as vicarious injustice. Also lovely.

Extra time was actually more entertaining than normal time. Fatigue probably played a part. The crowd were enthralled, no one having to update their TikTok or Instagram stories, and the ball boys were equally fair in retrieving the ball quickly for both sides even though England were winning. At 3-2 England were still counter attacking with gay abandon. No parking the bus for these boys. Oh no. Seems bizarre but I felt nervous and found myself telling the players to hold it and go for the corners. I’m a product of my time I guess.

West Germany pressed. Right at the death, England broke away. Hurst crossed the half way line, turf cutting up as he strode through. Left foot. Wham! Roof of the net. Some people were on the pitch- they think it’s all over. It is now. I found myself saying this because strangely the commentator wasn’t. Then it dawned on me. For nearly two hours I’d watched this unfold with the promise of the most iconic of sporting descriptions to come. I literally knew the script! I was on the edge of my seat. I was living and watching it as my Dad had!! But no. It wasn’t Ken Wolstenholme. I’d been robbed.

But have I? I think of those afflicted by Alzheimer’s who have indeed been robbed of their memory of this marvellous spectacle. That’s being robbed.