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.
