I can’t recall whether it was a chilly Chile or a hot Chile but I saw some cool highlights on the BBC. I watched Brazil v Spain at the house of my friend Steve Saunders, who had a black poodle that yapped all the time and an older sister who wanted to marry Elvis. The next day I staged a re-enactment of Mexico v Czechoslovakia with 22 marbles on my bedroom floor. Obviously I’ve lost my marbles now.
When the 1966 World Cup kicked-off in England, I’d never been to an international fixture. Dad had bought tickets for four Wembley matches and the first of those was France v Mexico.
It was played on a balmy summer’s evening, a few hours after my school’s sports day. I came first in the 440 yards, 80 yards hurdles, triple jump and 4x100 yards relay (anchor leg) and had such bad cramp in the evening that I had to sit side-saddle in the Wembley seats. England had drawn their opening match in Group One against Uruguay and I couldn’t really see us winning the World Cup.
We went to England’s next matches with Mexico and France, both of which were won 2-0. But the performances were far from convincing. When we got home to Coulsdon, pretty late at night, I filled all the match details into the programme in pencil. Next up were Argentina on a scorching Saturday afternoon.
This was a quarter-final, so everyone was starting to get excited. It turned out to be barely recognisable as a football match. Argentina’s captain was sent off, apparently because he wouldn’t stop talking to the referee, and play was held up for eight minutes. The crowd seemed more interested in updates from the match at Goodison Park, where North Korea had gone 3-0 up against Portugal.
Sir Bobby Charlton (centre), Roger Hunt (right) and Jimmy Greaves after defeating Mexico in 1966
Watching the ’66 Final on TV with my Canadian cousins, who definitely didn’t appreciate its significance, left me traumatised.
During extra-time I found myself hiding behind the sofa. The fact that England ultimately won the contest didn’t really help – I was damaged for life and destined to end up watching Sunday morning football in Regent’s Park as part of the traditional ‘two men and a dog’. Yes, they think it’s all rover!
The 1970 World Cup in Mexico remains my favourite. I may have been in the middle of my ‘A levels’ but I was staying up all hours to watch the action on TV. England v Brazil in the searing heat of Guadalajara was an absolute classic. Three-dimensional chess on a football pitch. I loved every minute of it, especially "that save by Banks" and "that tackle by Moore".
The incomparable Pele tried a shot from the centre circle against Czechoslovakia that missed the goal by a foot and then sold the Uruguayan goalkeeper such an outrageous dummy in the semi-final that he had to pay to get back in the ground. I managed to get through my exams successfully, though I’m not sure I should have mentioned Franz Beckenbauer in an essay on the American Civil War.
England, of course, were knocked out in the quarter finals after Uwe Seeler had scored the flukiest goal in history and we didn’t play in the Finals again for 12 years.
Watching one of the early matches of the 1974 World Cup at home on TV, I felt a sudden urge to go out to Germany to see a game live. I walked out of the house to my local station in T-shirt and jeans, with a passport and some cash in my pocket, and at 5am the following morning I was tramping the streets of Dusseldorf looking for breakfast.
I stood on the terraces as Sweden beat Uruguay 3-0 in the Rheinstadion that afternoon, walked back to the station directly after the final whistle and took the first train back to Blighty. As I sat on the floor reading the programme, a kind Belgian lady gave me her sandwiches. Cheese and coleslaw.
