Net interest
FRANK KEATING
England play France this Sunday in soccer's European nations' championship. Experts bill it as the seminal match of the three-week tournament. For all his enigmatic, slow smile of (we presume) confidence, England's Swedish coach must know that many a ton of taunting tabloid is geared to blow its top should England falter. Some of the French team are lustrous figures in the English Premier league. On Sunday, the England goalkeeper David James is expected to be the busiest man in the stadium. It is not a heartening augury to know that he answers to the nickname 'Calamity James'.
Once upon a time there was a calming certainty that for all the rest of the world's manic modern innovation and advance, in any number of imperishably timeless matters the English could still boast undoubted preeminence . . . classical acting, say, and highblown broadcasting, real warm ale, gentlemen's brogues, afternoon teas in Harrogate — and impregnably four-square polo-necked goalkeepers. The utter security of English goalkeepers was axiomatic around the world. If myth it was, it has long been shattered. Twenty clubs make up the English Premiership. Of their goalkeepers, there were three each from the United States and Ireland, two Finns, one each from Wales, Trinidad and Australia, and five from various European countries. There were but four Englishmen — the aforesaid 'Calam' of Manchester City, Martyn of Everton, whose clubs each escaped relegation by the skin of their teeth, and two who didn't (Leicester's Walker and Robinson of Leeds) who are, nevertheless, James's jittery understudies in Portugal this month. Still, I suppose it gave them more practice at stopping goals, even though, in the event, they obviously didn't stop nearly enough.
The first English goalie to dominate the six-yard box of my consciousness was Frank Swift, always described on the wireless by fruity Raymond Glendenning as 'the big fellow'. Frank had hands like Joe Baksi and the soppy grin of a gargantuan George Formby. An innocent nation loved him. He became a journalist and died in the Munich air disaster of 1958. Gordon Banks of the jug ears and buck teeth was another who rewrote the geometry and upped the courage and could do no wrong — but in between were the likes of flash Bert Williams in his canary pullover, who'd tip them round the post, wings outstretched like a tacking Spitfire, and stoic Gill Merrick, with his matinee idol toothbrush 'tash and hangdog mien. No wonder: in two matches against Hungary either side of Christmas 1953 Gill let in a cataclysmic 13 goals. And it was Williams, of course, who failed to stop the United States goal when, for shame, England were beaten by 1-0 in the World Cup of 1950. I fancy they stopped calling Williams 'the Cat' after that. Fleet Street cornily dubbed Merrick 'the Clutch'. Best nickname was for a tubby and eccentric longtime Liverpool custodian called Lawrence. The Kop knew him as `the Flying Pig'.
Another 'Cat', butterfingered Bonetti, let in a couple of bobbling doddles which KO'd England in the 1970 World Cup, and ditto four years later, when 'Smartypants' Shilton was too lumpish to flop on a breakaway shot by a Pole. Of all England goalies, however, I reckon the dauntless Shilton was best. It could have been Dave 'Ooh, get you, darlin" Seaman till, in the reverse of the Samson syndrome, he began preening his hair into a ludicrous lush girls' shampoo-ad ponytail and, his judgment obviously haywire, the sitters started swirling unstopped into his top corner.
England have one hope on Sunday. If all goalkeepers indubitably have a slate loose, then France's could be looser than ours, even more prone to goofs and clangers. So roll up for Calamity James v. Bungling Barthez, and may the best man win.
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