Читать книгу The Goalkeeper’s History of Britain - Peter Chapman - Страница 10

We learned at school that the tree which best survived on the streets of London was the plane tree. For several years I assumed there was no other tree around, failing to register the chestnuts on the steep embankment of the canal and evidence from Sunday visits my mum organised to leafier places like Kensington and Hyde Park. The plane tree’s visible trick was to shed its bark regularly to shake off the effects of the London smog. But its secret lay in its name. It was the ‘good old’ plane tree, plain and straightforward as we were, a tree for the common man. It was strong and it survived.

Crossing Danbury Street on my way back home from school, about a week into 1954, it started to rain. The taps in the playground had been frozen, so I leaned my head back and for about twenty seconds drank from the sky. A few days later I was sent home from school early with a head like death. My stomach came out in sympathy. No one quite knew what it was as I was put in bed, but when my dad arrived back in the evening he recognised what was wrong from his time in Italy and Africa. He carried me to my grandad’s car and they took me to the children’s hospital in Hackney Road, which confirmed the problem as dysentery. I was kept in for three weeks and treated as if victim of a tropical disease.

My grandad generally had a ton of coal delivered just before winter started. The coalman, who wore a flat cap, trousers held up by braces and looked like he’d climbed out of the chimney, shot the 20 hundredweight sacks of the stuff down the coalhole in the pavement and into the basement area cellar. It shone in large, tar-laden chunks. After its dust was swept into the gutter, the stain in the paving stones remained for at least a day of rain. A month later the smog came down, from about the third week of November, and hung around on and off into February. You wore it as a badge of honour, a mark of living in the largest city in the world. The newspapers said that thousands of people with bronchitis and other illnesses died from it. When you put a handkerchief over your mouth, by the time you’d walked down the street and back, a wet, black mark had appeared. Many football matches would be abandoned, the ref finally giving up hope of an improvement some good way into the game. Every year there’d be one when, with the teams back in the dressing room, it would be realised a goalkeeper was missing. The trainer or a policeman would be sent out to find him, at the edge of his penalty area, peering into the smog, unaware everyone else had left the field. This happened to Ted Ditchbum, Sam Bartram and any number of them until the smog as an annual event finally disappeared.

Ours was the black ash variety, particles of the stuff floating before your eyes. The Americans came up with a new one. They carried out an H-bomb test on the Pacific island of Bikini. Japanese fishermen heard the explosion and saw the mushroom cloud rise from 80 miles away. An hour and a half later, it started to rain, or rather snow on them, a kind of white-ash smog – probably pieces of Bikini, as well as whatever else comprised such a phenomenon. Fortunately, the Americans were on our side (the Russians only had the A-bomb). My dad said the GIs he’d met abroad were as friendly as anyone you could come across. But despite the fact they spoke English, you couldn’t say they were exactly like us. Johnny Ray began a tour of Britain, smiled a lot and collapsed into tears at the end of his songs – nice, but funny people.

It was just as well that this time the USA were not among the teams in the summer’s World Cup finals. Neither England, nor Scotland (who turned up for the first time) needed the embarrassment. In an act of self-punishment that would have done Bert Williams proud, England chose to go for one of their warm-up games to meet the Hungarians, in the Nep, or People’s stadium in Budapest. A local reflecting on the occasion with British writer John Moynihan said he was amazed when England took the field: ‘We had always thought of them as gods. But they looked so old and jaded, and their kit was laughable. We felt sorry for you.’ That was before the kick-off. His sorrow had surely turned to Johnny Ray-like sobs by the final whistle. Hungary won 7–1.

In the World Cup in Switzerland, Merrick was blamed for three of the four goals Uruguay scored when eliminating England in the quarter-finals. Out of touch with home newspapers during the competition, he was surprised when a reporter asked him on his return whether he had any comment on having ‘let the country down’. He replied it was a ‘poor show’ if people had said that, that only the last Uruguay goal was his fault in a 4–2 defeat and that none of his teammates had blamed him.

Actually, Stanley Matthews – often cast as one of football’s ambassadors – commented that Merrick ‘disappointed’ us ‘when we were playing well and had a chance’. This in itself showed a new feeling towards the tournament. In Brazil four years earlier the players had given the impression they couldn’t have cared less. Suddenly they wanted to win. After the years of suspicion towards a ‘foreign’ trophy, it was at least a tentative advance from the line into territory mapped out by others.

There was obviously something to be learned from the wider world. As well as dispatching England, Uruguay scored seven against Scotland. The British teams’ performance helped start a debate about training methods. Merrick noted that before a match, teams like Hungary and Brazil did stretching exercises in the middle of the field. British teams tended to stand around stiffly, rubbing their hands from the cold and having a few desultory shots at their keeper. It was suggested that back home British clubs might put less emphasis on dogged cross-country runs and encourage the more refined, if slightly prissy, practice of training with a football. Not any old football, naturally. Officialdom remained sceptical about the new white one, rejecting it as contrary to our natural game. The absorbent leather ball was an important test of how men met the sport’s varying challenge. It was designed to be played in the rain. It was just like the sunny continentals to run up the white flag in the event of a downpour.

The selectors, anyway, had enough experimenting on their hands with a new generation of keepers. Ray Wood had come into the Manchester United team; Reg Allen had been part of United’s championship-winning side in 1952 but, as a result of his war experiences, had suffered a nervous breakdown. Wood appeared modest enough to satisfy national requirements: a degree of shyness meant, in his photographs, he tended to incline his head down and look guardedly at the camera. He also had elements of a greasy quiff, an unnecessary bit of styling when compared with the plastered-back fashion of the wartime generation. Did this place him in the ranks of surly youth? He played in two games, did his bit to register two victories, and was promptly left out of the team.

The next overseas visitors to Wembley were the new world champions, West Germany. Hungary had hammered them 8–3 in an early World Cup round in Switzerland but somehow the Germans contrived to keep going through the competition and met the Hungarians again in the final. Puskas was injured, the Germans triumphed. This showed characteristics not associated with them. They were the types who went on to an early offensive – Schlieffen Plans, Blitzkriegs and Operations Barbarossa – then collapsed when things got tough. The World Cup had showed ominous signs of an ability to claw their way back.

The selectors reverted to the tried and trusted. Wolverhampton Wanderers were the reigning league champions and Bert Williams had proved he was back to fitness. He made a reassuring return in England’s 3–1 win. One thing mentioned in the programme notes, and otherwise largely missed, was that the Germans were building for the future. Their players were part-timers, their team experimental. Uwe Seeler, for example, their centre-forward, was apprenticed to a Hamburg firm of furniture removers and now in the van for his country at only eighteen. It made him the youngest player to appear in a full Wembley international.

Chelsea won the league in 1955 and were invited to take part in the newly constituted European Cup for national champions. The London club wanted to enter, the Football Association said no. Unnecessary games on the continent would clog up the fixture list at home. And could teams going abroad for what amounted to little more than an exhibition match on, say, a Wednesday, guarantee they could have their players back fit and well for the proper stuff of life on the Saturday? We should maintain our distance.

In Downing Street, Churchill had had a stroke and decided to retire. He convalesced by bricklaying in his garden. What with the renovation of our house, there were bricks around and so, using sand instead of cement I put up a few temporary walls in our backyard. My dad said they were better than Churchill’s, which were more ‘serpentine’ than straight. Clearly the old boy could have benefited from a seven-year apprenticeship. But building walls seemed a thoroughly good thing to do.

The new prime minister, Sir Anthony Eden, agreed in that there was too much of this modish European integration stuff floating around. Germany and France, enemies for most of the last hundred years, were getting together, combining their coal and steel industries. Britain should block this and anything like it. It would only lead to the kind of imbalance in Europe that in the past we’d had to go in and sort out. Eden had previously been foreign secretary and knew about these overseas places. He said himself, he understood the affairs of the continent inside out. He’d studied Persian at Oxford.

In Persia, no less, we were under attack. British people had been forced to leave our oil refinery at Abadan. Things were worse in Egypt where types like General Nasser had taken over the Suez Canal. ‘Their canal’, they said. Really? Who built it? England’s football season got under way with its first international but showed that roughneck forces were infiltrating our borders, too. England played Wales in Cardiff and lost 2–1. The by now venerable veteran Bert Williams was harshly treated by some of the young Welsh forwards out to show off their muscle. They used shoulder barges, as the law said they could. But wasn’t there a spirit of the law they were offending? In the opposite goal, Jack Kelsey of Arsenal, whose display was key to the Welsh victory, thought so. He agreed a keeper was there to be hit, within reasonable limits. The way Williams had been targeted was unnecessary. That said, he quickly added that the rule book should not be changed. Take away the right to barge keepers and they’d end up like those on the continent – allowed to flap around when they had the ball and, as Kelsey said, ‘do just as they like’.

James Dean died as Rebel Without a Cause came out in London. More worrying to people than Johnny Ray, he didn’t cry but looked sullen, like the Teddy Boys on the streets, with their long Edwardian-style jackets, sideburns down to their necks, drainpipe trousers and thick rubber-soled shoes. A week later the ‘King of the Teds’, who lived around the Walworth Road in south London, was arrested for throwing a firework at a policeman; with intent to do him grievous bodily harm, said the police. Five years, said the judge.

Eden took the boat from Southampton to the USA for talks on the Middle East, where Russia was supporting Nasser’s seizure of the Suez Canal. Three weeks later he reported back to Parliament that the Americans fully supported the British position. The Russian leader Mr Khrushchev was booed as his train arrived in London at Victoria station. He had come by sea from Russia to Portsmouth and during his stay a Royal Navy frogman, Commander Lionel ‘Buster’ Crabb, disappeared in the harbour. The crew on Khrushchev’s boat complained they saw him surface and dive back underwater. No one else saw him again alive. There was nothing these people wouldn’t do. On the wireless I heard the Russians went in for things like ‘brainwashing’ and assumed Crabb’s body was back in Moscow, his brain extracted and being washed right now. Yet it was the Russians who protested. He was a spy, they said, and, incredibly, it was Eden who had to apologise.

Crabb had been awarded the George Medal in 1944 for searching the bottom of British ships for limpet mines. Of the wartime generation, there were pictures of him with lined face and wearing a black roll-neck jersey under his frogman’s suit. The passing of Bert Williams from the England team saw the goalkeepers’ roll-neck all but disappear. It had been creeping down towards and below the Adam’s apple for years. Keepers now appeared less wrapped up against the cold and, in a dangerous world, went bare-necked into the fray.

Manchester City reached the 1955 and 1956 Cup Finals with Bert Trautmann in goal. It had seemed a crazy decision by them to have a German keeper. Badly bombed in the war and with a large Jewish population, Manchester was not likely to feel well disposed towards him. Then, someone had to follow Frank Swift and, as England had found with Ditchburn, anything like a ‘normal’ goalkeeper would have had a tough job. No one would have been able to ‘do it like Frank could’. Manchester City’s first choice had been Alex Thurlow, who was taken ill and died of tuberculosis. Trautmann was drafted in, his one advantage that his nationality lowered the level of the crowd’s expectations. Anything good from a German was bound to be better than the fans had anticipated.

When he was a boy in Bremen in north Germany, Trautmann had joined the Hitler Youth. This was shocking to learn but, when you thought about it, not much different from my joining the 31st North London cubs over the canal bridge in Vincent Terrace. You went for the games, suffered the church parade every fourth Sunday, and tolerated the rigmarole of learning to fold the flag and not to fly it upside down. From our get-togethers, there was little or no grasp of any underlying mission.

Trautmann had been a paratrooper, my dad said, which was ‘very important’. Paratroopers were an elite force on either side, floating above the dirtiness of war. My dad’s brother Cecil was at Arnhem. Under fire and moving from house to house, he and a mate had stopped to shelter in a doorway. He heard a gurgling sound and turned to see the throat of his friend had been cut by shrapnel. I thought paratroopers were small men: my uncle was 5 feet 5 inches and, as a signwriter by trade, often found himself working at the extent of his ladder. Trautmann was tall, at 6 feet 2 inches. Short or long, you knew they were tough.

Trautmann was blown up in retreat from the Russian front, then later buried in rubble and injured in a bombing raid in France. Captured by the Americans when the Allies invaded Europe, he assumed he was going to be shot; armies on the move didn’t always want the bother of prisoners. Instead he was allowed to slip away, picked up almost immediately by the British and shipped to England in 1945. The prospect of seeing Germany again, he said, was only a dream: ‘es war ein Traum’. Yet he stayed on when the war finished. My mum had told me German prisoners had to be kept in captivity because they wanted to escape and get back and fight. Only one ever managed to get free and off the island. The Italians, in contrast, weren’t bothered. Those in Sandy were allowed to roam more or less free. They hadn’t wanted to go to war like the Germans. The fact Trautmann didn’t want to go home, I assumed, meant he must have been different.

He was blond like Bert Williams, though altogether more outgoing. In his photos he invariably smiled. My dad said he was a ‘good bloke’, like Rommel, one among the enemy who gave you hope. The Chief Rabbi of Manchester came out in support of him. As a keeper, he didn’t court acclaim and got down to the job. He was no showman, but he had an important element which was familiar. He engaged the crowd, waved and chatted to them from his goalmouth at the start of the game and even between opposition attacks. It was a direct echo of his predecessor Swift, who before the war had assured the crowd it’d be all right. Now after it, Trautmann seemed to be saying the same. He liked us and people liked him. Just before the 1956 Cup Final he became the first goalkeeper – leave aside the first foreigner, the first German – to be made footballer of the year.

When my dad got back from work on Saturday afternoons he sometimes took me to the cinema. On Cup Final day Moby Dick was on at the Carlton, beyond the Essex Road library by the tube near New North Road. By the time he was ready and we had passed by at my grandparents to say hello, the match was not far away from starting. Birmingham City and its veteran keeper Gil Merrick with his dark moustache were firm favourites. A German smiling cheerily at the future was cast as underdog. Arthur Caiger, the small man in a baggy suit who stood on the high wooden platform wheeled out on the pitch for the communal Wembley singing, was saying: ‘Now, Birmingham City fans don’t have a song of their own, so I’ve chosen one for them.’ He asked everyone to join in with ‘Keep Right on to the End of the Road’. The band in bearskins and red tunics struck up what sounded like the Funeral March. Televised Cup Finals were no substitute for something to go out for; I was happy to leave for the pictures.

Moby Dick kept just the right side of very frightening. Captain Ahab was the brooding, isolated type, fixed in his goal. He suffered a kind of death on the cross. His arms were out, strapped to the side of the whale by the harpoons and ropes. As it smashed in and out of the waves, its eye kept staring at the camera. My father liked the whirlpool the whale made at the end, which sucked everything into it, except the one person who survived to tell the story. It was clever how they achieved that effect, my dad said, with what was actually a large piece of concrete.

When we got back home Manchester City and Bert Trautmann had won 3–1, which was good. Trautmann had been injured quite badly near the end, but had played on, which was even better. There were the photos in the Evening News and in the papers my grandad brought back from Fleet Street next morning. Trautmann was being led from the field at the end, head down, hand clasped to the left side of his face. The front of his jersey was soaked from the water splashed over him by the trainer with his sponge and bucket. Another showed Trautmann diving at the feet of Birmingham inside-left, Peter Murphy. His hands were gripping the ball on the ground but his bare neck was close to Murphy’s outstretched left leg and his right, about to follow through. It must have been that one that had caught him. The clash had happened fifteen minutes from the end and Trautmann spent the rest of the game staggering around his goalmouth in agony. One newspaper was amazed how he came through ‘this alarming situation’. We heard he had been taken for X-rays; later, that he had broken his neck and nearly died.

If Trautmann was well-regarded before the match, there was no measuring his popularity after it. There could be no clearer example of a keeper who ‘took it’, which was precisely what the best British keepers were meant to do. Yet this one was a German and people loved him for it. He hardly seemed foreign at all and was really ‘one of us’. Also, it only added to his attraction that he wasn’t. He could have had a British passport if he’d asked and would have certainly played for England. For some reason obviously not connected with the quality of their keepers, Germany failed to select him. But Trautmann didn’t seek to become a British citizen. As he said, that wasn’t what he was. My dad told me this with approval and it met with national acclaim. Had he applied to become British, he’d have been seen as toadying up. His only reward in terms of international honours was that he was chosen to captain the English Football League in a couple of matches. His lasting achievement was to inspire a national change of mood. In the future we might have to get along with these people and Trautmann showed it was possible. He did more than any other person for post-war reconciliation between Britain and Germany. In passing, he also performed the almost unbelievable trick of remaining an outsider while winning the acceptance of the crowd.

The Brazilians had been in the stadium watching the Cup Final. They were in town for the first game between Brazil and England the following Wednesday. I spent a long time over reports of the match in the papers. They were the first team of top standard England had played that had a number of black players. They came from somewhere that was almost of another world, yet at the same time quite familiar. If you looked at an atlas, Brazil was on the border of British Guiana, one of the outlying pink bits of the British Empire. In a sense, the Brazilians were our next-door neighbours The way we went about things, however, didn’t bear a great deal of resemblance. You couldn’t tell exactly from the pictures in the papers that their team was in yellow shirts and light blue shorts, but their outfits were obviously much trimmer than ours. The shirts had collars. These weren’t limp and floppy but looked like they might have been ironed, as if the shirt could double for use on a summer Sunday School outing. The goalkeeper Gilmar had a collar poking out from under his top and wore an all light-grey outfit that must have been specially tailored for him. His wasn’t a jersey he gave back at the end of games, with a view to it being baggily handed down through the keeping generations. On it was the globe, dotted with stars, of the Brazilian flag. It was all a bit pretty-pretty compared with what we were used to.

The reports said the Brazilians were ‘maestros’, with a ‘special relish for flexibility’ and a ‘lovely patterned approach’. The star of their forward line, Didi, was a ‘black panther’ of a player. This didn’t mean they had what it took. They lacked the ‘depth, teamwork and creativity that shaped great sides’. They were subject to peculiar things like ‘gyrations’. This put them on a level with the whirling dervishes I’d heard my nan refer to, those who had beaten Gordon at Khartoum. Once you overcame the shock of them, and confronted them firmly – preferably on your own turf where you could make them behave – they could be quelled.

There was no doubt they were brought to Wembley for a lesson. Brazil’s ‘sudden spasms’ ran up against the ‘solid oak of England’. Like the resilient plane tree battling the London smog, so we were constructed of other stuff, too, that saw off the threat of flimsier foreigners. Our 4–2 victory was described as a triumph of old over new worlds. Then again, it couldn’t be said they were without their bit of plain, old-fashioned resistance at the back. England would have won much more comfortably but for Gilmar saving two penalties.

In our goal the selectors had felt compelled again to experiment with a younger type. Wood had recently had another game, and Ron Baynham of Luton Town was brought in for three. All were victories but neither keeper was given the job permanently. Next the selectors awarded it to Coventry’s Reg Matthews, and it was he who played against the Brazilians. He was blamed for one of Brazil’s goals, though given another chance. With it, he proceeded to play brilliantly in Berlin a fortnight later.

My family went to Italy again. I didn’t want to go and the Channel was as rough as the first time. After twenty-four hours on the international train, we stayed two days in a hotel near Milan station. We visited the Italian friend who had been a prisoner in Sandy in the war and my aunt Olive’s boyfriend. He was now married to a woman who was pale, quite square and solid-looking and came from Trieste, like he did. His family did not approve because hers was from across the border in Yugoslavia. They’d have preferred him to have married my aunt. We ate red peppers, cooked in the oven. They were like nothing on earth, smelt and tasted like they were going to be sweet but that someone might have mixed in something bitter with them, maybe gunpowder. I ate them and, in the end, thought it was worth it.

For the three- or four-hour journey to Siena, the old train from Milan was very hot, with the sun blazing in on to the wooden-slatted seats. Fortunately we didn’t have to change in the pandemonium of Florence. We stayed with the family again behind the cathedral. At the communal meals I mastered spaghetti and was allowed to drink red wine mixed with water. Italian water was unsafe – hable to give you dysentery, we were told – but was miraculously all right if you put wine with it. I was expansively praised for eating and drinking everything. We had breakfast alone – as my parents explained, Italians didn’t really eat it – but Luciano, the boy of the family who was about my age, joined us. My parents had brought tea. When Luciano finished his cup, he scooped up the leaves with his roll and ate them. My sister and I gasped, though he didn’t notice.

He took part in the marches for the Palio. Horses representing the districts of Siena raced each other round the main square, like Islington might have against Finsbury or Stoke Newington. Members of the family were bornin different areas and were rivals on the day. We had the best seats, wooden tiers put up at the base of the buildings of the square. We sat for three hours as the procession of the Siennese boroughs went around. We didn’t see or hear a British person anywhere. The race was over in a minute, many horses crashing into mattresses on the sharp corners. Jockeys who fell off were immediately suspected by their supporters of having been bribed and, if caught, were kicked and beaten up. The winning horse was from the area of the porcupine, Istrice. The jockey was feted, the horse the guest of honour at a banquet in the victorious part of town. But it didn’t matter if a particular area won the race, just as long as they’d beaten their neighbours. Victors of these tribal battles would walk around their vanquished rivals’ streets shouting and taunting. Everyone did this twice a year.