I’ve really enjoyed the celebrations of the 50th anniversary of England winning the World Cup. I have loved listening to the interviews with the likes of Sir Geoff Hurst, still happily with us, and Bobby Moore, tragically not. Proper heroes of a bygone era who were little different from the supporters who worshipped them. These men did not live in gated communities, earning a million pounds a month. They were truly just like us. And how those heroes deserve the praise coming their way, as they enter old age and, sadly for some of them, acquire cruel and life-changing diseases and conditions.
Since the boys of 1966, England have made it to one World Cup semi-final whereas Germany have made it to nine, winning three of them. There was no legacy, no empires were built on the back of that success. On the contrary, the manager Alf Ramsey was knighted and then sacked and many of the players were lost to the game. Even the great Sir Geoff Hurst has earned a crust in recent years by being an ambassador for high fat, fast food outlet McDonalds. Any governing body worth their salt would surely have been parading the World Cup winners around the land to show youngsters what winners look like. We passed up on that chance and look at the world of football now.
On BBC Radio Five Live this morning, following an excellent Sports Week show which featured the heroes of ’66, was a Wake Up To Money special programme, devoted entirely to sport (and money) and what a depressing listen it was. One of the main subjects of the programme was Richard Scudamore who is the Executive Chairman of the Premier League. The contrast to our World Cup winners could not have been greater. In place of greatness followed an interview that reflected the Premier League “product”, not least in terms of income. Scudamore praised the Premier League as a “great British success story” whilst adding that he could envisage a situation in due course where overseas rights would eclipse even the breathtaking sums paid by Sky and BT Sport in England. It was all about the money, money, money.
Somehow, the decline in participation in the game and the decline in numbers of English players playing in the Premier League (now less than a third) was not mentioned at all. All that mattered was the bottom line. That Manchester United are about to sign a player they previously released for a song for an eye-watering £100 million was cause for celebration because the best players in the world wanted to play in the Premier League. Of course they do: for a million quid a month, who wouldn’t?
Compared to Hurst’s gentle modest, Scudamore came across more of a salesman or an accountant, maybe both. And therein lies the difference. In 1966, the main aim of any footballer was to play for his country. It was not about the money – how could it be? – but it was about the honour of representing your country and it was about winning. That was the biggest difference between 1966 and 2016.
It is good to remember 1966 and to recall a time when England were the best team on earth. The Premier League is basically free market Thatcherism put to football. The “greed is good/me first” mentality with which Thatcher infected our country has never really gone away and here it is, controlling the upper echelons of football.
Our young England team messed up horribly in France and with good reason: they weren’t good enough, hardly any of the players being of international standard. But far from getting better, things are about to get a whole lot worse. All summer long, the big clubs have been snapping up players from abroad which will further reduce the opportunities for emerging English talent. Goodbye Marcus Rashford (probably off to Hull City or somewhere on loan) and hello Zlatan. And it’s the same everywhere with everyone from Jurgen Klopp to Pep Guardiola reducing opportunities for homegrown players by bringing in ready made superstars in exchange for a million pounds a month.
Thanks for the memories, England, and memories will be all England fans will ever have for as long as we treat the international game as an awkward irrelevance. My dad was there at Wembley Stadium on that day in 1966. None of his sons or, for that matter, his grandsons will experience anything like it. The sad thing about it is that so few people seem to care.
