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The hand of Gordon Banks OBE was well above the average size. The lifeline was long and unbroken, as was the heart and fate line. It was a strong and energetic palm — the palm of a young labourer rather than a retired footballer. But more importantly for English football, it was the hand that lifted the World Cup at Wembley in 1966, and the hand that denied Pele a certain goal in the 1970 World Cup when Banks pulled off what many regard as the most incredible save they are ever likely to see.
All evening I’d been trying to pluck up the courage to bother this football legend for his autograph. We were about 200 guests, gathered around the indoor swimming pool at the Haymarket hotel in London to celebrate the launch of the New Football Pools. We’d listened to Match of the Day pundit Alan Hansen, journalist Tony Cascarino, and footballers Les Ferdinand and John Barnes make their predictions for the forthcoming football season. (Chelsea to win the Premiership.) And we’d played several rounds of ‘spot the ball’ using hand-held voting consoles, £5,000 going to the charity of the winner’s choice. And then we’d stood around the pool guzzling the champagne being tipped into our flutes by the efficient and energetic wine waiters.
One of these, a serious young man, from central Africa, I’d guess, made it his mission never to let the level of champagne in my glass fall below half-way. If he came with a fresh bottle to check on my glass and found it empty, he’d shake his head and tut-tut as though thoroughly disappointed with himself, then proceed to refill it to the absolute brim with priestly reverence. He was filling my glass, in fact, when, not six feet from where we were standing, a man in a dark suit fell with a splash into the swimming pool. An easy mistake to make, in fairness to him. Before he fell in, the surface of the swimming pool was perfectly still, and exactly level with the floor, so after a few glasses one tended to forget where the floor ended and the water began. He sank to the bottom then slowly rose back up to the surface again, his billowing jacket preceding him. Rescuers barged past and a spluttering, embarrassed man was hauled outside via an exit. All of this was of absolutely no interest to the wine waiter, however, who continued to pour champagne carefully into my glass until entirely satisfied that he couldn’t get a single drop more in.
Meanwhile, I’d been keeping Gordon Banks furtively under surveillance. He hadn’t moved from the poolside table reserved for special guests that he was sharing with his old England team-mate Roger Hunt. But seeing the man fall into the swimming pool, then being dragged out and bundled away to the exit as if mortally injured, made them break off from their talk and have a chuckle. And that, I’d decided, was my opportunity to go over and ask for his autograph. I’d marched self-consciously over to their table and, before I knew it, Gordon Banks’s name was in my notebook, and we were both looking down at his outstretched hand.
I don’t suppose I was the first star-struck idiot to study Gordon Banks’s proffered hand instead of shaking it. He held it out patiently until I came to my senses and grasped it. ‘Thank you. Thank you,’ I said, stepping backwards to take my leave, and if two people hadn’t grabbed me from either side in the nick of time, I’d have gone in at the deep end as well.
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