CHAPTER 7

On the Spot

Rory was feeling extremely peculiar. The fact that he had now been wearing the shimmer for some time was undoubtedly one reason his insides felt like he was on a rough ferry crossing. The Doctor had warned him about this unfortunate side-effect of using the Vinvoccian device.

But it wasn’t only the shimmer that was making Rory feel uncomfortable. The churning in his stomach was as much to do with the situation in which he now found himself. He was standing at the mouth of the Wembley players’ tunnel, about to lead the teams out for the most momentous football match in English history, in front of a crowd of 93,000 screaming fans. Not to mention the largest-ever TV audience of over 32 million people. This wasn’t the sort of thing that happened to most ordinary lads from Leadworth.

Rory glanced nervously at the two other match officials standing beside him. So far, neither of them seemed to have noticed anything suspicious. Apart from the side-effects, the shimmer was working a treat. Now that he was wearing Bahramov’s full black-and-white kit, Rory was the spitting image of the Azerbaijani linesman. Even Bahramov’s friends and family would not have seen through the disguise – unless they noticed that he had inexplicably lost a few centimetres in height.

Rory’s biggest worry had been what to do if someone spoke to him. He might look like Bahramov, but he had no clever alien gadget to make him sound like the linesman. So far, however, he’d been lucky. He had only needed to return the occasional nod of acknowledgement, smile or gesture. In fact, it was becoming clear that none of the officials expected to talk much. Rory vaguely recalled something from a TV programme on the 1966 final about the language barrier between them. He was fairly sure the referee was from Switzerland. And the other linesman was Czech, wasn’t he? If the three of them had no common language, he’d hopefully be able to bluff his way through whatever communication was required. The odd shout, hand signal or bit of flag-waving might just see him through …

Rory looked over his shoulder, back down the sloping concrete shaft of the players’ tunnel, and felt his stomach do another cartwheel. The tunnel was crammed with footballing legends. At the head of the line of players on the right-hand side of the tunnel, wearing red shirts, white shorts and red socks, stood the blond-haired English captain, Bobby Moore. On the opposite side, the West German captain and centre-forward Uwe Seeler was in position to lead out his ten teammates. The Germans were wearing their white-and-black first kit.

Rory’s eyes darted from player to player. There was Geoff Hurst; there Bobby Charlton, the legendary English midfielder, and his older brother Jackie; Alan Ball, the youngest in the squad, who would win Man of the Match in this epic final. And there, in the German line-up, a young Franz Beckenbauer, another of the greatest players of all time, who Rory knew would go on to captain the World Cup-winning team in 1974 and coach the German squad that triumphed in the 1990 tournament. These were footballers Rory had admired all his life. He had watched the black-and-white TV footage and glorious Technicolor Pathé films of their historic ’66 clash many times. And now here they were, metres away, in the flesh.

A nudge from the referee drew Rory’s attention. The ref was tapping his stopwatch. It was evidently time for the teams to make their way out on to the pitch. Without further ado, the Swiss official led the way.

Rory took a deep breath, tried to get his insides to stop churning like a washing machine on spin, and set off after him.

A little over ten minutes later, Rory found himself one of a small group of five men – the three match officials and both team captains – gathered within the centre circle of the Wembley pitch.

The short spell since the teams had emerged from the players’ tunnel had not been without a few sticky moments. During the teams’ national anthems, Rory had been so caught up in the moment that he had very nearly joined in with the crowd’s rousing rendition of ‘God Save the Queen’. Thankfully, he had come to his senses just in time – a match official from Eastern Europe belting out the English anthem would have looked rather suspicious.

The Royal Box was directly above the stadium’s main entrance tunnel. The world champions would climb the famous thirty-nine steps that ran up to it to receive their winners’ medals from Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II. Rory had a good view of the dark-haired queen in her striking yellow coat and hat. He was struck by how young she looked.

After the anthems, the English and German teams had shaken hands, then jogged out across the pitch’s ‘hallowed turf’ to warm up. The players began kicking about the match balls they had carried out with them, and Rory had noted how basic they were. The plain, orangey-brown leather balls looked a lot less flashy than the high-spec ones used in top-level football in the twenty-first century.

There were many other ways in which the scene around him differed greatly from the world of football with which he was familiar. For one thing, many of the spectators were standing – Rory was used to modern all-seater stadiums. For another, fans from both nations were mixed in together – West German flags waved here and there among a sea of Union Jacks.

There was no dugout for coaches and substitutes. In fact, there was no substitutes’ bench full stop. Player substitutions hadn’t been allowed in early tournaments, Rory had recalled. Only four men sat on the England team bench at the side of the pitch: the manager and his coaching team, all wearing pale blue tracksuits.

But, before Rory had had time to take in more than these few details, he found himself being led by the Swiss referee to the centre of the pitch. Now, as he stood at the very heart of it all, with kick-off only moments away, he continued to marvel at the noise and spectacle. The volume of the crowd had risen even further. The atmosphere was like nothing he had ever experienced.

He watched Moore and Seeler, the team captains, exchange national tokens and shake hands sportingly. Then they stepped back to allow the referee room for the coin toss. Rory, looking on, found it rather bizarre to be the only person in the ground who already knew that Moore would win the toss and choose to let the Germans take the kick.

As Moore withdrew from the centre circle, the referee turned to Rory and his fellow linesman, and gestured to his watch once more. He was signalling for them to check their timekeeping devices, Rory realised, so as to be sure they were synchronised.

Rory instinctively went to pull up his left sleeve in order to check his watch – then changed his mind. Exposing his shimmer would be a very bad idea. The advanced alien technology of the Vinvocci did not belong in the ’60s. Besides, having two watches would seem weird enough. Instead, he slipped his hand under the cuff of his sleeve and glanced down, pretending to check.

A moment later, the referee gestured for both linesmen to take up their positions. The Czech official jogged off towards the touchline in front of the South Stand. Rory gratefully hurried away to take up his own assigned position. It would be his job – or rather Bahramov’s – to keep an eye on play within the half of the pitch furthest from the players’ tunnel. England would start the match defending his end.

As he crossed the pitch, Rory felt his pulse quickening. His experience as a football official was limited, to say the least: one stint as referee at an informal match after a friend’s wedding, between the bride and groom’s relatives. That was it. And that game had ended in a brawl. Here he was, at Wembley, trying to pass himself off as a linesman of international standing.

Anxious last-minute thoughts flooded Rory’s brain. Even some of the laws of the game were different back in 1966, weren’t they? Wasn’t the goalkeeper only allowed three strides carrying the ball or something? And what about passing back to the keeper? The rules about that had changed, too, hadn’t they?

Rory’s mind was racing as he reached the touchline. Feeling sicker than ever, he turned to face the field of battle. The players had already taken up their positions. Somewhere beneath his panic and nausea, Rory registered the familiar formations: Germany were playing four up front, with wingers; England had a four-four-two shape, with Nobby Stiles in a slightly deeper, more defensive position than his three fellow midfielders.

The two German centre-forwards were at the spot now. Seeler had the ball at his feet. Rory saw the referee put his whistle to his lips, and heard its shrill blast. He gripped the wooden shaft of his linesman’s flag more tightly.

They were off.