Fifty-three years have passed since that warm July evening when Martin and Kathy Peters sat in the Royal Garden Hotel and shared a pot of tea.
From time to time they would walk to the window and marvel at the crowds thronging Kensington High Street. They listened to the singing and smiled at the songs, and they resolved to remember the moment.
Martin was 23 years old; quiet, self-effacing, and sublimely talented. He had made his England debut just two months earlier and now he had played a pivotal part in winning the World Cup. Outside the hotel thousands were chanting his name. Across the land the nation was dancing in the streets. But he sat and drank his tea, happily content that victory had been delivered. Alf would be pleased.
Alf Ramsey had placed a heavy weight of faith in Peters. Ron Greenwood, the manager of West Ham, had insisted that Martin could carry out the midfield role which would be so crucial to England’s chances in 1966.
Ramsey needed a great deal of convincing. The fact that he did not select him until the finals were almost upon him illustrates the England manager was unconvinced.
But after the vapid opening match against Uruguay — a 0-0 draw which hinted at worse to follow — Ramsey was forced to gamble. Out went conventional wingers and in came a mobile, cerebral, technically outstanding midfield player. In came Peters.
The young man grew with the tournament. He helped organise the defeat of Mexico, made the cross from which Geoff Hurst scored the only goal in the protracted brawl with Argentina, then helped combat Eusebio in the semi-final with Portugal. Which brought a final with the formidable West Germans.
The match will be remembered for West Ham’s contribution; for Hurst’s extraordinary hat-trick, for the golden sight of Bobby Moore accepting and cherishing the Jules Rimet trophy. Yet the crucial goal was scored by the third member of the trinity. In memory’s eye we still see the cross from Alan Ball and Hurst’s shot blocked, rearing up in to the lottery of the goalmouth. And Peters, striking that technically impeccable half-volley to give England a 2-1 lead into the final 15 minutes.
In later years, Hurst was exceptionally generous. He reflected that had the score remained at 2-1 to England then the man who scored the winner might have been celebrated down the decades. In the event, the Germans equalised, leaving Hurst to perform his extra-time heroics.
Peters was not a man to wonder about might-have-beens. He was simply glad to be remembered, delighted to have made a mark, and determined to make himself the footballer he had always wanted to be. Although he would never admit as much, he was genuinely embarrassed when Ramsey described him as ‘a player 10 years ahead of his time’. Every indifferent game, every missed chance or careless pass, produced the same jeer: ‘Ten years ahead of his time!’
And yet, he really was a player who could have performed in any era. His style was almost languid; straight-backed, considered, deeply insightful. For a quiet, apparently ordinary character Peters played like an intellectual. He would arrive at situations when everybody had forgotten his presence. He lurked on the outskirts of danger, timing his run until it was irresistible. Alan Mullery, who understood midfield play better than most, once said that picking up Peters in the box was like ‘trying to mark a ghost’.
He went on to play in the World Cup finals in Mexico four years later when his goal gave England a 2-0 lead against the West Germans. He was then subbed and England were defeated in extra-time. Like many other England players it was the hardest blow of Peters’ career. Yet it did not affect his approach to the game, nor his unfailing love for his calling. The son of a Thames lighterman, he never forgot his background and was unaffected by his fame. At West Ham he was worshipped and it took a transfer fee of £150,000 plus Jimmy Greaves to take him to Spurs in 1970.
He won League Cups and a UEFA Cup at White Hart Lane, as his talent matured and his powers grew still more formidable, and it was while with Spurs that he won his 67th and final cap for England. He moved on to Sheffield United and finally retired with 882 games and 220 goals to his name. In 1998 he became a director at Tottenham, but as his illness loomed, he moved to less onerous jobs.
Alzheimer’s, the cruel disease which afflicted Ray Wilson, Nobby Stiles and a disturbing number of the men of ’66, took hold of his later years. He was naturally invited to join the 50-year celebrations of 1966, but his family withdrew him. His daughter Leeann said: ‘We had to pull him out, the stress was just too much.’ Yet still he attended West Ham’s home games and it was there that the clouds seemed to lift and he would come alive again.
He acknowledged the applause of the crowd, he sang ‘Bubbles’ as lustily as the rest. And he seemed to remember just how it had been all those years ago.
‘Every time we passed the statue of Dad with Geoff and Bobby he’d point to it and tell us that it’s him,’ said his daughter.
He shouldn’t have worried. In that part of East London nobody is ever likely to forget Martin Peters.