Between 1960 and 1980, you might confidently identify seven outfield players from the UK, who would have played in a ‘World XI’, or at least have been part of a 22-man squad. You would definitely have included at least one, maybe two, goalkeepers, but you might also have challenged the credibility of that claim, if you had watched any episode of The Big Match Revisited; particularly if you’d seen Fulham v York City from 1974.
There’s Bobby Moore, in all his unmuddied finery, walking into the opposition half with the ball, totally unchallenged. He must have walked between 10 and 15 yards. You might start asking yourself a few questions, such as how he might have coped with today’s forwards – constantly pressing defenders back onto their 18-yard line, harrying them when in possession, even tackling them.
How would he have coped, and exactly how good was “England’s greatest ever defender”? To counter any of those doubts, you might also have pored over a few YouTube clips of Bobby Moore’s career.
Just to remind yourself of the tackles; the triumphs; the glowing testimonials; and his oh-so-cruel and premature passing. And then you might think again about Bobby Moore. And you might just offer your own rightful reappraisal of the iconic footballer that was Bobby Moore. You might also be left nursing one huge and overwhelming lament.
What separated Bobby Moore from the mortals was his actual ‘quality’. Rated the best defender in the world by Pele and Beckenbauer – and included in a ‘World XI’ of the 20th century, voted for by an international panel of judges – he understood absolutely the nature of his role within the team.
And we had never seen the like before – not in England, not in the world. At its most basic level, he was there to sniff out movement of the ball and/or opposing players, and then to snuff out any possible danger resulting from those movements.
It does sound simple, and Bobby Moore made it look ridiculously simple, but that’s because Bobby Moore did it so well, that you barely noticed the passage of play you had just seen. England’s best player – the absolute stand-out player – played in defence. That’s how good he was.
Charlton was great; Banks was outstanding; but your eyes were always drawn to the orchestrator of play in defence. The player, who once he’d made the unflashy tackle, would move the ball on quickly, his aim to switch momentum swiftly. His close alliance on the field with the other Charlton brother, formed the essential rock around which England’s fortunes were built in 1966.
The defence conceded just the three goals in six games, the unlikely pairing operating at an almost telepathic level during the tournament. And anyone who made Charlton (J) assume the role of junior partner in any defence, would have had to have been a bit special to earn that level of respect.
But what about Sir Geoff Hurst? When Bobby Moore won the BBC Sports Personality of the Year in 1966, Bobby Charlton won the Ballon d’Or, with Geoff Hurst in 14th place, securing two votes. Ahead of him in the voting were Charlton, Moore, Ball and Banks.
Hurst ranked fifth in importance to the England World Cup winning effort. The bloke who made the difference in a keenly and evenly contested final. The bloke who scored the perfect hat-trick to secure England’s World Cup win was considered to be England’s fifth most important player?
You might assume that Alan Ball won his place above Hurst, because of his ‘Man of the Match’ contribution in the final, ‘running himself daft’? Man of the match, above Hurst? The easiest comparison to this injustice is Paolo Rossi, Italy’s stylish striker and hero of Italy’s 1982 World Cup victory.
Six goals in three games secured the win, including a hat-trick against Brazil, effectively, in a quarter-final. All this, after Rossi had served a two-year ban for his part in a football betting scandal. World Cup winner and Ballon d’Or winner that year, both he and Hurst finished with very similar international records.
But it’s probably best that it transpired that way. A humble, uncomplicated man, Hurst realised the full worth of what he had done. He was happy to go home to his family after the World Cup Final, and mow the grass the next day. Perfectly content at West Ham, he didn’t chase a big money move elsewhere.
West Ham had given him everything he wanted in football, and he’d even scored a goal in the 1964 FA Cup Final to help his team beat Preston North End. So, when Ron Greenwood rejected Manchester United’s British record bid of £200k to take Geoff to Old Trafford in 1967, he was happy to stay at Upton Park.
Geoff Hurst knew himself what he had done; it was for others to argue his greater worth. He doesn’t regret anything from his playing career, nor does he resent today’s players’ vast earnings.
If he had been showered with more awards, more praise, maybe this would have upset the delicate balancing act of preserving a bit of himself and his young family. If he had courted greater publicity, that surely would only have come back to harm his family.
From everything you see and know of him now, on documentary, or in books, his own tour, Geoff Hurst maintains that unreal humility. England’s one surviving player from that incredible summer’s day in 1966 – the most important part of the jigsaw on that day, the ‘difference’.
He should be venerated forever – he is our national treasure. He is our greatest living Englishman, whether he wants to be, or not.
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