THE CERTAINTY WAS a dangerous feeling, maybe – at least it could have been if at any point before 29 May 1968, at Wembley Stadium I had forgotten one of the first lessons a professional must learn – that you are never going to win a game by right; when you kick off, nothing of the past matters, nothing about reputation – and certainly not just deserts. Still, on the flight back from Madrid I couldn’t get out of my head the idea that the European Cup might well have been sitting next to me. I couldn’t stop thinking, ‘We’ve won it in Madrid – we’ve won it in a place which matters so much to the club and to me.’ I just couldn’t see us losing a European Cup final against Benfica at Wembley – the place where Nobby had jigged so ecstatically when we beat Germany in the World Cup final two years earlier, where I couldn’t hold back the tears when I embraced another team-mate, my brother Jack.
The Old Man’s genius for motivation, his ability to calm or inspire his players in the simplest terms, would surely never operate in more favourable circumstances.
The European Cup, I have always reckoned, was much harder to win than England’s World Cup. The World Cup ran over just four weeks, and we had the advantage of playing all our games at home. It takes effectively two years to win the European Cup and that’s a long time – Manchester United knew better than anybody how hazards can rise up suddenly and strike you down. For Matt Busby, however, the challenge had now reached its easiest point. We were playing on our own soil, and anyone who glanced at our history knew that no club and team ever had greater motivation.
Apart from the memory of Munich, and our duty to those who died there to play to our very limits, there were the semi-final defeats of ’57, ’58 and ’66, against Real Madrid, Milan and Partizan. Added to those focal points was the fact that for some of us this was possibly our last – and certainly our best – chance to win the great trophy.
Bill Foulkes, Shay Brennan – who had returned to the team in Madrid because of worries that Francis Burns might struggle against the guile of Gento – Pat Crerand and I were all approaching that point when we had to wonder how many opportunities were left. It was something I’m sure was also occupying the mind of Denis Law, denied the possibility of a great climactic moment in a brilliant career as he prepared to enter hospital for a vital operation at the age of twenty-eight. If I felt any touch of doubt as we approached the final, I chased it away with the thought, ‘Well, this is it – if we don’t win it this time, we will never do it.’
Before the final we stayed at Great Fosters, a country house hotel in Surrey where the first Queen Elizabeth was supposed to have entertained some of her men friends. It was an interesting place, with secret passageways – ideal for the discreet romantic assignations of a ruling monarch I thought.
Every minute of the day, and quite a bit of the night, was dominated by our thoughts on the game. In our bedroom Shay Brennan and I tried to relax, but every time we opened our mouths we would find ourselves babbling about our chances in the final. On the night before the game, however, there was a diversion. As we lay in our beds, staring at the ceiling and trying, and failing, not to think about the match, we heard a ghostly cry very close by. We knew immediately it was Nobby Stiles, but at first we didn’t realise he had found one of the secret passageways. He had discovered it led to our room and, quite miraculously when you thought about it, he eventually appeared wrapped in a sheet.
When he got over his disappointment that we had recognised him straight away, he was less than flattering about Good Queen Bess’s hideaway. ‘What a bloody place this is,’ he declared while sweeping his hand for dust across the wooden frieze above the fireplace. Naturally, he took out a huge chunk of the history-laden wood. Shay and I reckoned it had previously gone unmolested for about five hundred years. Nobby tried to repair the damage, but we managed to persuade him that it was probably not a good idea.
In the morning we strolled in the countryside, again not very successfully attempting to keep our minds off the game. In the afternoon we watched the Derby on television, along with the millions of people who had decided once again to put their money on Lester Piggott. Even to me, someone who didn’t know much about horse racing, the great jockey seemed to have pulled off a masterpiece of timing on the back of Sir Ivor. We could only hope, on a day that seemed to be lasting forever, that we could touch his levels of professionalism.
We didn’t fear Benfica. We had, after all, beaten them twice when we met in the tournament two years earlier, the second time so momentously in the Estadio da Luz. That alone, we felt, gave us a big edge psychologically – but it was something we couldn’t afford to rest upon. They had some very good players, and one great one in Eusebio. Nobby once again had been given the job of marking him, and he was being asked to reproduce his masterful performance for England in the World Cup semi-final. Rightly, the Old Man reckoned that he was the only man fully equipped to do the job. He was given the usual instructions, which by now he probably knew by heart: shadow him, jockey him, don’t give him the chance of a crack on goal and, as often as you can, keep him on his left foot.
Eusebio was the overwhelming threat, he was so quick and strong and had such a good touch, but Benfica did have other strengths. Jaime Graca and Coluna in midfield were clever, strong players, and there was plenty of pace and skill on the flanks in Jose Augusto and Antonio Simoes. If they were given half a chance, the wingers would look for the tall Jose Torres, who had plenty of goals in him. We went over all this again and again, among ourselves and with the Old Man and Jimmy Murphy, but however many times you felt you had covered the ground, the nearer the game came the more you dwelt on the possibility of things going unaccountably wrong.
It was a sticky day and I hated nothing more than playing in humidity. The certainty of this was playing on my mind a little, and from time to time I found myself saying, ‘Oh God, what if something goes wrong, what if Eusebio gets away from us, what if one of us makes a stupid mistake?’ As captain I felt a heavy responsibility. I had to do everything that was expected of me, and I had to make sure the others didn’t forget their responsibilities for a second. In the end, all you could guarantee was that you would run, on and off the ball, until you were ready to drop. If we ran with their players, if we never left them alone, it would be difficult for them. Perhaps it would be impossible.
The greatest fear was of the unexpected and it was a little worrying that the gangling Torres was such a freakish height and so capable of doing something unpredictable. For Nobby and me, however, there were so many points of reassuring familiarity after the World Cup semi-final victory. We would be playing the same 4–3–3 formation, against the same set of wingers, and the beauty of it for us was the simplicity of tactics which Alf Ramsey had imposed on England and the Old Man now hoped would benefit United. Our three midfielders, John Aston on the left, me, Paddy Crerand on the right, playing behind George Best, Brian Kidd and David Sadler – who was also required to pick up Eusebio when Nobby took up a more withdrawn position – could be forwards or defenders. It depended entirely on who had the ball. It would have been more complicated if Benfica hadn’t played such orthodox wingers.
Beyond tactics, though, there was something that we had to absorb completely – Benfica were not exactly short of motivation themselves. They had been humiliated by us in front of their own people, and this was, they were no doubt telling themselves, the perfect chance to heal the wounds that were still raw after just two years. It was a point we learned later, that my counterpart Coluna, the captain of Portugal and a man of fierce pride, had been hammering home.
What they couldn’t have anticipated was that their right back Adolfo would be injured so early. I felt really sorry for him, even though you could see immediately that it opened up a vast advantage for us – a point that John Aston, who was putting in the most effective performance of his life, repeatedly made clear by knocking the ball past him and racing down the flank. Adolfo was a tortured figure, hobbling in pursuit. It was almost embarrassing. At one
point I was saying, ‘Just give the ball to me, and I’ll give it to John Aston.’ Playing without our 4–3–3 structure, Benfica couldn’t adjust to support the stricken Adolfo.
As we developed our huge edge along the left side of the field, a thought did strike me that was detached from the nitty gritty of the game, and it is a thought that has stayed with me. Adolfo was in a terrible situation, but he remained a most honourable player. In his circumstances, most players – and maybe this is even more true today – would have leaned on Aston, tried to level off the odds with some tripping and holding, stopping him, indeed, with any means at their disposal. (For anyone detecting a little inconsistency of reaction here on my part, I know it is true my friend Nobby confessed to an unscrupulous act against Amancio in Madrid, but then, I did think the circumstances were different. Nobby had feared that he was going the way of Adolfo now, that he would be lost to the team not because of the random luck of football, to which Adolfo had fallen foul, but because Amancio had deliberately tried to take him out of the game. So, I could say that Nobby had merely been rearranging natural justice.) However, I had the good feeling that always came to me when I played against Portuguese players. I felt that their view of football was almost gentle, as pure as any I had observed: they wanted to play football – they wanted to win, but they also wanted to do it well and with grace. Yes, it is true that back in the World Cup they had been accused, with Hungary, of kicking Pelé out of the tournament, but then that was a matter between Portugal and Brazil, the mother country and the uppity colonials; that was family business. I also have to say that, judging on their most recent appearance in the World Cup, the ruling ethics of the Portuguese team are a little different – and rather less uplifting – these days.
At Wembley the game was flowing strongly in our favour, and as a contest it might have been over if Sadler had been able to take a couple of chances, but as it was we had to be happy with the way it was going. In the first half they had created scarcely a single chance, and Bill Foulkes was again putting in a fantastic performance. At thirty-six, he knew this was a defining moment of his career – and his life – and his commitment was more than impressive. It was moving. He was giving away around five or six inches in height to the deceptively clever Torres, but he battled him for every inch of advantage. He knew that he had little chance of winning the ball in the air, but he made the practical decision to make everything uncomfortable for the tall man. He wouldn’t allow him the space or the leverage to place his header – Torres would have to reach too far or stretch back. He couldn’t set himself to truly menace Alex Stepney’s goal.
I wasn’t worried about our full backs. If Shay Brennan or Tony Dunne found themselves in any difficulty, they were immediately supported from midfield. We had a flexibility that stifled Benfica – and gave us the chance to strike on goal early in the second half.
For once it was David Sadler, rather than John Aston, on the ball out on the left, and I made my move. No dart to the far post in pursuit of some towering header for me. Instead, my preferred option was the decoy run, and that’s what I did now. I was looking to create a little space in their defence, but instead of being involved in a diversion I was in at the kill. The ball came at heading height and the goalkeeper Jose Henrique was exposed. I just helped the ball into the back of the net. ‘That makes the job quite a bit easier,’ I remember thinking.
At half time the Old Man had been calm and consistent: ‘Keep doing what you’re doing boys, be patient, keep passing.’ Passing was the key. The humidity was as bad as I’d feared, and the more possession we had, the more running they had to do. The demands on their legs had of course been exaggerated by Adolfo’s situation. I’m sure today’s players would find it incomprehensible that we were expected to run so hard for so long in such sapping heat, and without the possibility of substitutes.
We were bearing up well enough under the inevitable pressure that came from Benfica once they had slipped a goal behind, but we still had worries. The law of averages said that Bill Foulkes couldn’t frustrate Torres for the entire ninety minutes, and it would only be when the final whistle sounded that we would be able to put away the fear that Eusebio might erupt devastatingly from almost any position on the field.
The first possibility came to pass with ten minutes to go. For the first time Torres beat Bill cleanly in the air, leaping up and nodding the ball down. Jaime Graca was racing in and as I watched I thought, ‘Oh, no, this is my worst nightmare.’ And so it was. I couldn’t see him missing and he didn’t.
Naturally, all the Benfica players, except perhaps poor Adolfo, were given new life. Suddenly, they had a real chance of avenging the bad night in Lisbon. For us the time had passed for some great surging statement of superiority. As captain, I would have been mad to say, ‘Right, let’s charge at them.’ Looking round, on this steamy night, you could see that everyone was labouring in one way or another. Socks were rolled down. Every one of us was tired and some were near exhausted. Then the worst case scenario was upon us.
Later, Nobby explained the crisis from his place at the heart of it quite vividly: ‘Antonio Simoes broke quickly with the ball after Shay Brennan had gone forward in an attack. I was tracking Eusebio, with Bill Foulkes behind me guarding Jose Torres. Shay was making his ground back and Tony Dunne was out on the left. We had gone forward – and we’re now paying the price with the score locked at 1–1. As Simoes played the ball forward, I made my decision to go for it – and break up the attack at source. I thought that Simoes had pushed the ball too far forward, and if I could get to it first I could shut down the danger. I was reassured that the ever dependable Foulkesy was behind me. What I didn’t know was that, just as I set off, Torres made a run that dragged Bill out wide. So there was no one behind me, and before I could get in the block Simoes knocked it by me. As I turned I was horrified to see Eusebio bearing down on Alex Stepney’s goal.’
I couldn’t help thinking how many times we had discussed and fretted over this possibility – and now it was happening. ‘Not again,’ I groaned. Not another failure to achieve the great ambition. Not another invitation to a thousand regrets. Before such giant and painful reflections, however, there was the burning thought: if there is one person you don’t want to see running through with only the goalkeeper to beat, it is Eusebio.
In such an awful situation, there was just one encouragement. It was a hint of body language from Eusebio: he was saying that he too was feeling more than a little pressure. He seemed to be thrusting, even lunging, a little bit too much. Normally, he would have kept the ball down, he would have taken his time and picked his spot, but he was hurrying, and when he thought he was near enough to shoot, he blasted it. Nobby had a tendency to kiss his team-mates in moments of triumph – most famously demonstrated to a global audience when he landed a smacker on George Cohen after winning the World Cup – and, had Alex Stepney merely parried Eusebio’s effort, Nobby’s enthusiastic embrace would have been entirely justified. But Alex did so much better. He held it cleanly.
Though all of us were, to various degrees, affected by tiredness, we were still quite pleased by the prospect of extra time. When you looked at Benfica you could see they were very close to their limits of endurance – almost certainly nearer to theirs than we were to ours. We were never afraid to play to the last minute of ninety – or to go beyond. It was a matter of English pride that had surfaced so strongly for Nobby and me when we faced extra time in the World Cup, and now it was with us again. ‘Look, they’ve gone, they’re knackered,’ said Wilf McGuinness when he came on to the field to give some encouragement. I heard him telling Nobby, who had run endlessly in his effort to contain Eusebio, ‘Come on, Nob, another half an hour and you’re home.’
The Old Man was keen we didn’t sprawl on the pitch during our little respite. ‘If you lie down, boys,’ he said, ‘you may stiffen up, and if that happens you might not be able to start again.’ I remembered Alf Ramsey making a similar point after Wolfgang Weber had
forced England into extra time two summers previously. ‘Come on,’ said Alf. ‘You’ve got to get to your feet now. If they see you getting up before you need to, they will think you’re all right.’
Now, looking over to Benfica, it was easy to remember Alf’s point. The Portuguese were down and just about out. They didn’t look ready to run the extra mile. I had my socks down around my ankles, like Nobby, but it seemed obvious that if we scored they would be unable to come back at us. When Alex Stepney held Eusebio’s shot it was almost certainly their last hope of taking the game away from us.
Two minutes into extra time, our weary legs found new energy and our optimism was confirmed. Stepney kicked downfield and as the Benfica central defender Cruz struggled to control the ball, George Best was on him and carrying it away, free and closing on Jose Henrique’s goal. As he dribbled the ball around the goalkeeper, I found myself shouting, ‘Knock it in, knock it in!’ Eventually, in a second that seemed like an eternity, George sent the ball towards the net. Jose Henrique struggled to get back, but he couldn’t get there in time. George had done it.
‘That has to be it,’ I thought. I just couldn’t see them coming back, certainly not after Brian Kidd scored another a minute after George’s breakthrough. Kiddo headed a corner against the goalkeeper and, when it came back to him in the air, he just managed to squeeze it under the crossbar. I couldn’t see the fans out there in the dark, but I could hear them. I could hear the joy and the first singing. I had to hold back the tears that would make my eyes sting when I thought about what this meant. It was all over now. We only had to guard against any stupidity. Nobby and I agreed there was one priority: to keep hold of the ball. We kept running when we had to, avoiding ambitious passes, and playing the ball to each other with infinite care.
We were doing that competently enough to banish all Benfica’s hope. They battled to cover the ground, but it was clear they couldn’t do much more than go through the motions. Then, when I scored again with twenty-one minutes to go, we really began to believe that the game was over. Brian Kidd took the ball past a Benfica defender, skipping over a rash tackle that no doubt was the result of exhaustion, and once again I moved for the near post. Really we were in a comfort zone by this stage, and when Kiddo played the ball to me, rather than send it across the goal I thought, ‘Well, OK, thank you,’ and just helped it into the net, looping it over Jose Henrique. The score was 4–1.
My Manchester United Years: The Autobiography Page 25
