a Daily Telegraph news man who had been sent out on what the papers call ‘hooli-watch’, he had just got off the telephone to his news desk stressing that there had been nothing so far to warrant an ‘English Hooligans Go On Rampage’ headline.
Back in the media’s billet, the hotel manager was pacing up and down. He was upset about an incident the previous night when someone urinated in the lift. John Warren, who was handling the media’s travel arrangements on behalf of the FA, had been summoned to explain how such a thing could happen. A former policeman, Warren had his suspicions about the identity of the culprit but could never prove it. It might have been one of the Japanese tourists in the hotel, but somehow they didn’t look the type to have come all the way to Rome to relieve themselves in a hotel lift.
By noon on the day of the match, there were estimated to be 12,000 English fans in Rome. Paul Shadbolt was there with his friends Andy and another Paul, all from Barnet and all members of the England Travel Club for nearly ten years. They had done St Peter’s Square, Piazza Navona and the Colosseum. An Italian hospital was never on their itinerary. They were getting three nights in Rome, return flights and tickets to the game for £335. Paul had been in Italy with England during the 1990 World Cup for six weeks and in Sweden for the 1992 European Championships. He had travelled to Poland a couple of times, and Norway and Holland. He even followed England in the United States after they had failed to qualify for the last World Cup.
Bobby Robson was in town. He was reading a newspaper in a corner of the hotel foyer when I interrupted him to ask the question I had wanted to ask for seven years.
‘Had you ever thought of taking off Peter Shilton and bringing on Chris Woods shortly before the end of extra time in the 1990 semi-final?’
Robson looked me up and down and stood up. He began pointing his finger. ‘Now look here. I don’t know who you are or what you are doing here but I want to tell you that if I had done that and Chris Woods had made a mistake – say he let a penalty roll under his body – people would have crucified me for taking Peter off. So there’s your answer thank you very much.’
‘But did you ever seriously consider it? Woods was taller than Shilton. He would have been fresh. He would have relished coming on with the chance of becoming an instant hero, glory at the eleventh hour. And the Germans would not have known what to make of it. They might have panicked. Wouldn’t it have been worth a try?’
‘Maybe,’ said Robson, ‘but Chris Woods would have been cold. He might not have been able to read the pace of the ball. But, yes, I did think about it – for a fraction of a second. It was an option that went through my mind but I was not prepared to risk it. Is that good enough for you?’
Her Majesty’s Ambassador to Italy, Thomas Richardson, hosted a large lunch party at his residence off the Via Conte Rosso to celebrate the sixtieth birthday of Sir Bobby Charlton, although the main object of the exercise was to drum up support for England’s bid to stage the 2006 World Cup finals. What a house. It sits on a hill, surrounded by palm trees and lime bushes. An ancient ruin runs through the garden.
Tony Banks was there, presumably to support the rival German bid, and Alex Ferguson showed up too. On arrival, the ambassador introduced his guests to Sir Bobby while someone took a photograph. I was twelve years old in 1966. Roger Hunt was my favourite player because he played up front like me. At school, we always pretended we were various players. Some boys imagined they were Alan Ball or Geoff Hurst or Nobby Stiles. A few even called themselves Bobby Charlton. No one ever dared to be Bobby Moore.
I had met Bobby Charlton once before – in Qatar of all places, during the Asian group qualifying competition for the 1994 World Cup. At that time he was a paid-up member of the Japanese Football Association as they battled with South Korea to stage the 2002 finals. I had asked him if he would spare ten minutes for a piece I was doing about Japanese football.
‘Only if you buy me a cup of coffee,’ he said. We talked about Japanese football, but the only question on my mind was how I could persuade him to pose for a photograph with me once our coffee break was over, and how I could do it privately and not in front of dozens of journalists who might regard it as unprofessional. We drained our coffee.
‘I wonder if you really know what it meant to a twelve-year-old boy when you scored those two goals against Portugal in the semifinals,’ I said. ‘And I wonder if you wouldn’t mind if I got someone to take a photograph of me with you outside.’
We went outside and I asked a swimming-pool attendant to take the picture. Charlton put an arm round me and said: ‘Say cheese, it’s getting hot out here. And, yes, I do understand what it meant.’
His speech at the Ambassador’s lunch was short and simple. Only when he got on to the 2006 bid did he begin to sound a little shaky. ‘We like a good fight, us English,’ he said, referring to the battle to stop Germany gaining the nod in our place. Police sirens sounded in the distance.
Then Davies got up and gave a fifteen-minute précis of his early life, highlighting the moment when he was arrested for nothing in particular in some foreign land and was thrown into jail. In his cell he had asked one of the guards if he had ever heard the name, Bobby Charlton, at which – hey presto – the guards let him out and they all ended up sharing a few tinnies while basking in the genius of Charlton. No one believed him.
I arrived at the stadium two hours before kick-off. The eternal wait in that city was nearly over. I could feel my pulse quickening as I climbed the stairs. The stadium was throbbing. England supporters were mainly behind one of the corner flags next to the Curva Sud to the left of the main stand as you looked out from it. A live band was on stage, while two huge screens showed footage of Italian and English past football triumphs.
A woman in a red suit who showed me to my seat said something, but I could not hear her above the music. I felt a surge of adrenalin race through me and would have tested positive if I had had a drugs test. I left the stand and made another entrance just for the sheer thrill of it.
The Italian team walked out to inspect the pitch at 7.30 pm, dressed in blue suits and ties. The screens showed the goals from their victory against Spain in the 1982 finals.
England spilled on to the field ten minutes later in their tracksuit bottoms and Umbro bomber jackets. There was no Paul Gascoigne. They walked off but reappeared shortly afterwards in their football kit. Le Saux waved to the crowd and clenched his fist. Then Gazza came out and the England supporters to my left erupted. The sound rose and reverberated back off the inside of the Bedouin-style roof like a clap of thunder.
The team was: Seaman, Campbell, Adams, Southgate, Le Saux, Beckham, Ince, Gascoigne, Batty, Sheringham, Wright – although that was not how the Italians spelt their names. England’s walking injured had either made miraculous recoveries or Hoddle had been telling porkies all week.
At 8.40 pm, as the players gathered under the running track before emerging like frogmen from the depths of the stadium, the Italians behind both goals suddenly flicked over square cards to display the colours of their national flag. Ince led his side out and both teams lined up in front of the main stand. Adams was on the end, staring into the ground. You couldn’t hear anything the announcer said, but presumably he ran through the two teams. No one knows if the national anthems were played or not. A banner next to the part of the ground where most of the England supporters were seated read: ‘Fuck Off England’. Another, ‘Good Evening Bastards’.
Italy kicked off and within a few seconds Wright gave the ball away. Italy broke down the left but their attack was snuffed out by Serenity Adams showing impeccable timing. After eleven minutes, Ince was involved in a clash with Albertini and reeled away holding his head in his hands. There was blood pouring from the wound and he had to go
