It is a Thursday evening in London and Sir Geoff Hurst is sitting in a lounge of the Grosvenor House hotel telling me things about the future of David Beckham, Wayne Rooney, Michael Owen and Steven Gerrard that are raising the hairs on my head.
Apology: during this time it completely slipped my mind to ask his views on Rooney’s metatarsal. Another apology: there was no discussion either of Owen’s fitness, Theo Walcott’s age, or who should partner Peter Crouch up front in Germany.
And if you’ve tuned in expecting an expert opinion on England’s chances next month, well, apologies again but I couldn’t stop asking him about the bang.
The bang is what awaits Beckham, Rooney, Owen and Gerrard and the other England stars a few years from now when they return to the real world after a life on planet football. The bang is the 40 years of Hurst since 1966.
The bang is sitting on a deserted train travelling from Ipswich to Chelmsford after covering a Sunday game for Anglia TV in 1982. He has put the 60 quid for the shift in his pocket and could murder a cup of tea but the buffet car is closed and there is no roving trolley.
A guard arrives and checks his ticket. “No buffet car this evening?” Hurst inquires. “Not on Sunday,” the guard replies. But five minutes later the guard offers him a cup of tea that he has poured from his flask. “I’m sorry, Geoff,” he sighs, “but this is the train that hit your brother on the day he killed himself. I was working that day.”
The bang is a trip to his daughter’s school in 1981, a week after signing on the dole. He has applied to 15 different clubs for managerial jobs since getting the sack from Chelsea and not one has granted him the courtesy of an interview. Money is tight. He has a wife, three daughters, a big mortgage on a house in Cobham, Surrey, and fees he can’t afford to pay to the Notre Dame school.
He requests a private meeting with the principal, Sister Mary Agnes. “I wonder whether you could bear with me for a while until I get myself sorted financially,” he explains. The principal listens sympathetically and is very understanding. “Would you believe it?” she ponders, escorting him to the door. “Geoff Hurst!” The bang is a visit to Upton Park one afternoon. West Ham are a club for which he played 499 games and scored 248 goals — an average of one every two games and a post-war record. But someone should explain that to the jobsworth on the gate who is refusing him admission because he hasn’t got a ticket. He produces a ticket for a sponsor’s lounge and explains that there is a television crew waiting to interview him inside but the jobsworth won’t budge. “You must have a match ticket,” he insists.
Brian Blower, the club’s commercial manager, is standing a few yards away and has witnessed the scene. “What annoyed me most,” Hurst says, “was that he was fully aware of what was happening but refused to intervene.”
The bang is a phone call from his daughter Claire, who is about to give birth to his first grandchild, Amy. She’s speaking gobbledegook; she’s not making sense; she is having some kind of fit. After a barrage of tests a doctor dismisses the problem as hormonal; another decides that it is stress-related and that she is having a nervous breakdown. The attacks diminish over the next three years until 1990, when suddenly they return stronger than ever. The doctors can’t explain it. He sits on the kitchen floor with Judith, his wife, and cries. A friend introduces him to Peter Harvey, a Harley Street neurologist, who identifies the problem as a brain tumour and begins a successful treatment.
The bang is an alarm clock that sounds at six each morning and another day on his feet selling motor insurance. He drives one morning to a large Ford dealer in Essex, presents his business card to a secretary and waits patiently in the showroom. The dealer eventually arrives for work and is presented with the visitor’s card. He glances at the name and flicks it back at his secretary. “I don’t deal with ex-footballers,” he says.
The bang is loud, the bang is cruel, the bang is the hardest thing any footballer will ever face in life. But Michael Owen is made for Sky. They won’t all find jobs on television. Wayne Rooney will never have to work. It isn’t just about the money. It could never happen to a Beckham. That’s what we’d have said about Hurst in 1966.
“The modern players are more cosseted and removed from the normal world than we were as players; they’re further apart from journalists; they’re further apart from the fans on the street and it may be more difficult for them to readjust,” he says.
“It doesn’t matter what they’re doing today or how much money they’ve earned, when they are 35 years of age and stop playing they will still have to go and live and work and be part of society. I judge people on what they are like, and generally speaking I think that’s what human beings do.
“They will judge those people on what they are like, not whether they’ve played a million times for England and have millions in the bank, and if they don’t behave properly and respect the community, they’re going to have a problem.”
ON NEW YEAR’S DAY, 1966, Geoff Hurst played in a West Ham team that lost 3-0 to Nottingham Forest in a First Division match at Upton Park. He lived with Judith, his wife of two years, in a semi-detached bungalow in Hornchurch, Essex. Claire was a year old. He had never played a game for England and was just starting to plan for his summer holidays.
He was soon drafted into the England squad for a friendly against Poland. Two months later he made his international debut against Germany at Wembley. Three months later he scored his first goal for England in a 4-3 defeat of Scotland at Hampden Park. And seven months later, on the afternoon of Saturday, July 30, he became the only man in history to score three goals in a World Cup final.
A billion stories have been told about those goals but, hey, what’s one more? The game has entered its 19th minute. West Germany lead 1-0, but England have been awarded a free kick out on the left for a foul on Bobby Moore. The captain takes the kick quickly and punts the ball into a space for his charging teammate Hurst, who meets it with his head and steers it past the German goalkeeper, Hans Tilkowski.
The game is tied 2-2 and has entered its 10th minute of extra time.
Nobby Stiles hits a terrific pass from midfield for Alan Ball to chase on the right. Ball hits a first-time cross to Hurst at the near post but Hurst gets there too soon and needs a couple of touches before unleashing a powerful shot that strikes the underside of the bar and bounces just over the line. Or did it? The Germans protest; England celebrate; the goal is given.
England lead 3-2 and the game has entered its final minute.
In the frantic quest for an equaliser, West Germany are pummelling high balls into the England box, but are being thwarted each time by Moore, a portrait of composure. He takes a high ball down with his chest, plays a short pass to Alan Ball, receives the return, carries the ball forward and plays a killer pass upfield for Hurst.
In the BBC commentary box, Kenneth Wolstenholme spots an encroachment and raises the microphone to his lips. “Some people are on the pitch . . . they think it’s all over,” he announces, as Hurst races towards the German goal. He is 10 yards outside the box when he unleashes an absolute rocket that rips the German net. “It is now,” the great Wolstenholme famously concludes.
Memories: the elation of the final whistle and the exhaustion that he felt in his bones. Memories: trying to dry his hands on his shorts as he followed Moore up the steps to meet the Queen. Memories: waving to the huge crowd that gathered later outside the team hotel. Memories: the stuffiness of the team banquet and his parting words to the manager as he left the hotel and prepared to hit the town: “See you soon, Alf.” And how could he possibly forget the great man’s reply: “Perhaps, Geoffrey, perhaps.”
The months that followed were heady. He appeared in a television advert for a deodorant, signed up to market a pair of green football boots, wrote a column in the London Evening Standard and his first autobiography. He laughs now at
the absurdity: “I was 25 years old. What did I know?” What he didn’t know was that even then, as the final whistle sounded and he jumped for joy on the pitch with Bobby M and Bobby C and Martin and Jack and Alan and Nobby and Roger and Gordon and George and Ray; even then, with the No 10 shirt still wet on his back and his ears still ringing with the roar of the Wembley crowd, and the Jules Rimet trophy just a few steps away, that there were threads in his lif already starting to unravel.
He had always been close to his parents, Charlie and Evelyn, but their relationship changed profoundly after England’s triumph at Wembley. Don’t ask him to make sense of it. Before the World Cup they visited one another regularly; after the World Cup they hardly ever called. Twenty years later, when Claire was married, they refused an invitation to attend and persuaded Hurst’s sister Diane not to go.
“It was very strange, extremely strange that it happened,” Hurst says. “I grew up in a lovely family home, had no traumas as a child and my father was great with me and instrumental in everything I achieved. We won the World Cup and suddenly the visits were one-sided — I think they suddenly began to see me as a celebrity and not as their son any more.
“When my daughter was married they didn’t come to the wedding because they expected a David Beckham celebrity-type party, putting it in today’s context, but none of my friends are celebrities . . . well, Martin Peters is, but outside of the ’66 team I don’t have celebrity friends.”
“That must have been very hurtful,” I suggest.
“I found it strange,” he replies. “I found it very strange, but I wouldn’t class it as hurtful.”
“Why not? I don’t understand.”
“Because it’s not, it’s how I feel. Don’t ask me why but it’s not hurtful.”
The death of his brother Robert in 1975 was hurtful. A good all-round sportsman who had had a trial at Crystal Palace and played cricket for Chelmsford, he had set out for London on the morning of a Friday the 13th and thrown himself under a train at Chelmsford station. Hurst, who was playing in his final season at Stoke, was shattered.
The five years that followed were a countdown to the bang. He played a season at West Brom, bought a pub, took the player-manager’s job at Telford United and was drafted into the England coaching staff. In April 1979, he joined Second Division Chelsea as a coach and succeeded Danny Blanchflower as manager six months later.
One moment from his tenure at the helm stands out — a terrible miss by Mike Fillery against Swansea in the penultimate game of the season that he once described as one of the key moments of his life. “It was an easy header,” Hurst says, “and if he had scored we’d have been promoted to the First Division — no mean achievement when you look at that side.” Fillery missed and a year later Hurst was sacked.
“Why was that such a key moment?” I ask.
“Because if he’d scored,” Hurst says, “then I would have hung on and maybe made a bigger name for myself (as a manager) in the game, but instead it pushed me into doing something which, on a long-term basis, was better for me.”
“It made you a better person?” “Without a shadow of a doubt,” he concurs.
GARY NEVILLE was in the papers last week offering some observations on the giants of ’66. “People in this country,” he said, “always think of Bobby Moore being lifted up with the Jules Rimet trophy and Nobby Stiles dancing on the pitch. They are great England moments and we’ll keep having it rammed down our throats until we create something special of our own.
“Even coming into this tournament (next month’s World Cup) the players from ’66 are being wheeled out, talking about their experiences and doing commercial deals. And they’ll still be doing those adverts in 40 years’ time unless we do something about it.”
Pretty much everything the Manchester United captain said was meant as a back-handed compliment but the problem, as always, was the way his comments were spun. On Monday, The Sun devoted two pages to the “It’s Time to Bury 1966 and All That” story and carried two photographs of Hurst holding the World Cup trophy with the caption: “Still revelling in ’66.”
Being a practical type of man who understands how the tabloids work, Hurst wasn’t terribly bothered by the rumpus. “I don’t find the perception that I’m still living off ’66 insulting,” he explains, “but it is completely and utterly inaccurate.”
He admits, however, that Judith was incensed. “She hates that phrase they use — ‘wheel them out’. It irritates the hell out of her.”
When you retrace the story of how Hurst rebuilt his life, it is easy to identify with his wife’s irritation. In 1981, drawing the dole and with his daughters’ school fees on hold, he took a job as an insurance salesman with Abbey Life. In his superb autobiography 1966 And All That, he paints a vivid portrait of his new life on the road.
The first thing I had to do in my new role was attend a two-week induction programme in Southwark. They taught me the basics of selling, the structure of selling and the product knowledge that is essential if you want to be a successful salesman. There were about 10 other potential salesmen on the course with me and I was met with the usual raised eyebrows and dropped jaws when I reported on my first day.
Suddenly, I was no longer a well-known footballer and World Cup hero. I was another man in the street struggling to pay the mortgage. In the space of a fortnight my life turned around completely. The induction course taught me how to approach people. Until this time, everyone had approached me — for autographs, for charity events, for photographs, for interviews, for TV appearances, for supermarket openings. Now I had to learn how to approach strangers. It taught me something about humility — not a bad lesson for some of the egotistical young players in the modern game.
I spent hours practising. I used to rehearse the routine at home in Cobham, using Judith as the client. Even for rehearsals I made sure I looked my best — suit, tie, crisp white shirt, highly polished shoes. Carrying my briefcase, I’d walk up my own garden path to my own front door. When I knocked, she answered and I began my patter — serious, but bright and cheerful too.
The first time I did this, it all went smoothly. After about a dozen attempts I was quite confident. Judith played her role patiently but it was clear she was getting tired of it. A couple of days later, I thought I’d test the routine without warning her. Booted and suited, I strode boldly up to my front door. Bang! Bang! Bang! “Good morning, Madam,” I said. “My name is Geoff . . .” But before I got any further she said: “Not you again! Get lost!” and slammed the door in my face.
Insurance wasn’t his only source of income; Anglia TV offered him a punditry slot on Sundays with Gerry Harrison and a young Steve Rider, and by the end of his first year he’d earned £24,000 — just four thousand less than he had earned as the Chelsea manager. Cold-calling clients plucked at random from the Yellow Pages wasn’t easy, but every time he picked up the phone he was driven by one thought: “You are doing this for your family. You have got to earn a living and support your family.”
Although not quite as successful in his second career as he was in his first, he has probably gleaned more pleasure from his life since 1981. He remembers in particular an important pitch to a serious client in the 1990s; for two hours they battled over the figures until a deal was finally agreed. As Hurst was walking out the door the client called him back. “Sorry, Geoff,” he said, “I just want you to know that I enjoyed your career.”
Did it feel as good as a World Cup hat-trick? No, but pretty close.
WHEN YOU have never interviewed a knight before, Sir Geoffrey Hurst is a surprisingly enjoyable start. Pinning him down is the problem. He arrives for our interview from a book signing in Guildford with a dinner to attend at the Grosvenor House before he departs for Grimsby and another engagement. He is on billboards in the Underground, McDonald’s ads on TV and making more money in his 65th year than at any other time in his life.
“Someone asked me the other day,” he says, “‘Have you always been treated like a World Cup winner?’ and I said, ‘No, I’m treated like a World Cup winner now and have been treated like a World Cup winner for the last 10 years, but before that it was different.”
“So what’s changed?” I ask. “Why is there a greater appreciation now?” “I can only guess,” he replies, “that it’s the longevity of the achievement and the explosion of the game since the early 90s. I mean, that guy who threw my business card on the desk — that just wouldn’t happen today.
“We sign more autographs today than we have ever signed and I don’t know why but there’s a huge respect and adulation and reverence, if you want, for what we achieved. You get called a legend now. People ask all the time: ‘Do you wish you were playing today? Are you envious?’ And the answer, without a shadow of a doubt, is no. I’ve had a good life and played at a good time and I don’t for one moment want to knock the present game but I think the circus surrounding it is madness.
“The structure of the game, the wages that are paid, the whole game has changed dramatically in every aspect apart from the field. We still play on a pitch with the same corner flags and the same goalposts and, okay, the ball is a bit lighter and some rules have been changed but the product is still the same. And it’s still a brilliant product. I enjoy watching. It’s great but not for one second do I feel resentment.”
Until now, that is. He’s starting to feel resentment. The hour he has promised for the interview has overrun by 30 minutes and I’m still grasping his hand and pleading with him to stay.
“Just one more, pleeease,” I beg. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you.”
“Go on,” he says.
“Why did your cheeks always puff out when you kicked the ball?” “Just a habit,” he says, smiling. “They called me ‘Puffer’ at West Ham. Do you remember Gordon Pirie, the famous middle-distance runner?” “No,” I reply.
“Whaat!” he shrieks, aghast, “I thought you knew something about sport.”
“No,” I smile, “I know nothing about sport, but keep talking, I’m learning.”
