Chapter 5: The World Cup

One evening during January 1966, Grandpa took me into his study and told me about a new business deal he was doing. He was trying to add another leg to the company octopus. A leg that would build aeroplanes. He told me about a famous company, Rolls-Royce, that was planning to buy another company, Bristol Aeroplanes. Rolls wanted to expand by adding Bristol’s engine division to their own. The thing was that Bristol also owned twenty percent of another big company, the British Aircraft Corporation. Rolls-Royce wasn’t particularly interested in that, but Grandpa was. So he and Rolls were planning a joint bid for Bristol, so each could get the bit they wanted.

That was all rather dry business talk to me, and I had no concept of the great importance of those companies. But, as I’d never even been in an aeroplane, it was a cool idea to be part of building them.

At February half-term I actually got to fly for the first time, when we went skiing in the Alps. Caity took to skiing far better than me. She seemed to be a natural at it and completely fearless. I was more tentative and awkward. As with most things in life, I doubted I would ever be much good at skiing, but that didn’t stop me from having fun in the snow. Even more fun was the toboggan run in a nearby village, which gave birth to a love of adventure rides that would last a lifetime! As always, Grandpa just sat on the sidelines to watch or, more often, sat in a lovely warm public house with a beer.

In March I was called into Grandpa’s study again, but this time, it wasn’t business. He didn’t say anything but handed me an envelope. The address was typed, so I knew it wasn’t from Harry.

“For me? Why would anyone write to me?”

“Well, you won’t know until you open it”, Grandpa replied. His face was serious, and I suspected he knew full well what it was. He handed me the letter opener from his desk, and I sliced carefully across the top. I sneaked a peek inside and saw the letterhead, which made my heart stop.

“The grammar school”, I whispered. Grandpa nodded, showing no surprise. Eleven plus exam papers were all marked by the grammar school for the catchment area. This was the pronouncement that would shape my future.

I pulled out the letter, unfolded it and read it twice. Then I sat heavily in one of the armchairs and rubbed my temples.

It took me a few moments to get my head around what the letter said, then I turned to Grandpa and asked suspiciously: “Did you, by any chance, make a donation to the grammar school recently?”

He quickly crossed the room and snatched the letter from my hands. Then he let out a very undignified whoop!

So apparently I’m smart. I will never for the life of me know how that happened! I just thought to myself: ‘how the bloody hell am I going to survive grammar school?’

Grandpa pulled me up out of my chair and into a bear hug. His voice wavered as he said, “I’m so proud of you Finn. So, so proud. That was all from your hard work. I could never have done that.”

March was also the month of my eleventh birthday. I had invited some friends to the house for a pool party, which caused lots of interest at school. Only Peter knew that I had a pool at home and that news caused a stir. It was a great birthday party, and Mrs O’Keef had provided food and cake for an army.

Then towards the end of the summer term came our school sports day and swimming gala. I suffered through sports day, but at the gala, I ruled the roost! If I’d had my way, I would have been in every single one of the boys’ races, but I was limited to four. I won all of my events, and when it came to the relay with two boys and two girls in each team, we won that too.

The last few weeks of term were a time of great distraction for the boys in my class. The World Cup had begun. I’m sure the headmaster was thankful that most of the matches were during the evenings, or else there would have been an awful lot of boys bunking school! As promised, Grandpa had got us tickets to the final at Wembley Stadium, but first England had to get through the group stage.

Our first game was on Monday 11th July, against Uruguay, which was a disappointing nil-nil draw. Then on Saturday we played Mexico and beat them 2-0. That meant that our group’s leaderboard was England 3 points, Uruguay 3 points (they had beaten France in their second match), Mexico and France 1 point each (having drawn against each other). The top two teams from each group went through to the next round, so things were looking okay.

On Tuesday the 19th, Uruguay drew nil-nil against Mexico, taking Uruguay to 4 points and Mexico to 2. So Uruguay had one of the two tickets to the next round, and the other was ours to lose. If we beat France, we would be top of the group, whereas their only hope was to beat us so convincingly as to go through on goal difference. No way that was happening on home turf. France was Britain’s traditional foe: we loved visiting their beaches and eating their food, but had never quite forgiven them for the Napoleonic wars! The nation celebrated when we beat them, 2-0.

So far, so good, but the kingdom then took a collective gulp when we found that our first knockout match was against the twelve-time champions, Argentina. The school term finished on Friday, and on Saturday afternoon we were all glued to our television screens to watch England beat the Argies 1-0.

On Sunday we headed up to Sheffield to collect Harry and Ester, then back home on Monday. On Tuesday the 26th, we played Portugal, who had beaten North Korea (that well known footballing super-power) in their quarter-final. England took an early lead with a goal by Bobby Charlton, and he scored a second in the 80th minute. However two minutes later the nation groaned as Portugal was awarded a penalty, which they promptly put in the back of our net. So the last eight minutes of the game were about maintaining possession so that we could keep our lead. We did, and the 2-1 scoreline put England into the World Cup final against West Germany, who had already won their semi.

That’s when it really hit me that Grandpa’s predictions about the cup final were coming true. He had told me a year ago that England would win the world cup 4-2 in extra time against Germany. The final was indeed England v West Germany, and we were going to be there at Wembley Stadium to see it live. Harry was beside himself! I’ve never seen anyone so excited.

The day of the final was manic. Caity wasn’t the slightest bit interested in football, so we had an extra ticket that I filled by inviting Peter along. Peter and Harry had never met until that day, and I was relieved when they got along brilliantly. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, as Peter can make absolutely anybody laugh, and I’ve yet to meet anyone that dislikes him (except maybe our teachers). The match was a three o’clock kick-off, so we had an early lunch and got ourselves to Wembley in plenty of time. The atmosphere outside the stadium was electric, and that was only amplified inside. We had excellent seats (no surprise), not far from the royal box. The Queen herself was attending the match, and being within sight of Her Majesty was an extra little thrill.

The match got off to a horrible start with Germany scoring the first goal after just twelve minutes. I looked at Grandpa who was sat next to me, but he didn’t look at all concerned. Six minutes later I understood why, as England got a free kick allowing Geoff Hurst to score an equaliser, to the raucous approval of the fans. There was top class football for the rest of the half, but the score was still 1-1 at half-time.

Harry, Peter and I all wanted to go off to get some drinks at half-time, but Major Dan said no. Instead, he asked what we wanted, and miraculously a few minutes later it was delivered, without Dan ever having left his seat. I wondered how many of Dan’s shadows were watching over us in the stadium, but I didn’t have long to wonder as the second half soon got underway.

It wasn’t long before England had another goal, but this time, it was Germany’s turn to get a quick equaliser. At 2-2, the match dragged on and on with neither side being able to get a winner. As the full-time whistle blew the anticipation level around the stadium grew even higher, if that were possible, with the realisation that there would be extra time. For me, though, I just looked at Grandpa in disbelief as the next part of his prophecy came true. He didn’t say anything, just giving me a knowing smile.

While the players were having their quick break on the field, us boys were excitedly discussing what we thought would happen, and what tactics we would use if we were Alf Ramsey. When the game restarted, England had two agonisingly near misses early on. One hit the woodwork, and the other went just wide. Then came the shot that would divide opinion across the footballing world. Geoff Hurst took a shot, which hit the underside of Germany’s crossbar, bounced down to the goal line, and was quickly cleared by the keeper. Every Englishman in the stadium knew it was a goal, every German disputed it, and the referee wasn’t sure. The Swiss ref consulted the Russian linesman, with lots of gesticulating as neither spoke the other’s language and a moment later the goal was allowed!

After the change of ends England seemed to be content with running down the clock, whereas Germany was throwing everything they had toward the England goal. With a minute left, I thought somewhat smugly that Grandpa’s prophecy had ended up being wrong. Germany had possession and had moved everyone forward to attack. I could see that spectators were starting to invade the pitch, so maybe it was over. Wrong! England got the ball; there was a long pass, and suddenly Hurst was yet again headed for the German goal. In the stadium, all we could hear was a roar of voices, but those at home watching on television would hear the immortal lines of commentary: “And here comes Hurst. He’s got ... some people are on the pitch, they think it’s all over. IT IS NOW! IT’S FOUR!”