Clive Jackson: I was 16 and recall the game like it was yesterday, knowing such an experience is well beyond the grasp of a teenager today
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Want a ticket to see the FIFA World Cup final?
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Sorry, but you must buy from a scalper on the resale market.
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How about a ticket for just $1.50? And throw in a program for 25 cents.
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That is what I paid to watch the World Cup final at Wembley stadium in London on July 30, 1966.
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How times have changed.
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Resale tickets are going for up to $2.3 million each for the final in New Jersey, and even official FIFA tickets are $10,000. That’s U.S. dollars. Even match day programs are expected to cost $30.
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Sixty years ago, it was so easy.
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It all began just after 9 a.m. on Wednesday, July 27, 1966.
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The night before, England had beaten Portugal to earn a place in the World Cup final against their arch enemies, West Germany.
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I had to be there. But how?
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One possible answer was hidden in the personal ads running in the august Times of London newspaper. The tiny ad offered a World Cup final ticket. First come, first served.
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I called the phone number in London repeatedly until it was answered by a man with a strong Cockney accent.
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Yes, he said, he had a single ticket.
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But there was a catch.
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It was a ten-shilling ticket (about one Canadian dollar) but, he explained, there would be a 50 per cent markup.
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My heart jumped. I could get a ticket to watch what just might be the greatest game ever played in England for 15 shillings, the equivalent of about $15 Canadian today.
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I grabbed it.
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Imagine that today.
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Back then I had to send a cheque from my home in the countryside outside London. Then he would mail the ticket to me. A bit of a tight timeline, but this was my only hope.
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I put my money in an envelope and mailed it about noon on the Wednesday.
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I phoned to see if he got the cheque early the next morning, so the precious ticket could be mailed to me and hopefully arrive the next day, Friday. Ahead of Saturday’s game at Wembley.
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Indeed the ticket arrived early Friday. Try telling that to today’s Royal Mail or even Canada Post.
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It really was a miracle, and made a then-16-year-old ecstatic.
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I barely slept that Friday night and had to get up at 4 a.m. the next morning to walk the five miles from where I lived to catch a bus to Bath. From there, I caught an express train to London, the ticket securely in my wallet to make the impossible, possible.
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I was going to the final.
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Unlike today’s inflated transit prices in New York for the World Cup, fares to the stadium were unchanged, and by late morning I was walking down Wembley Way chanting “Eng-Land, Eng-land” as I secured my standing spot alongside nearly 100,000 other fans.
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Tears filled my eyes. Emotion took over. The chanting was relentless. The anticipation incredible.
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And I was there.
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England took an early lead before the Germans equalized. My team jumped back in front in the final 12 minutes, but hearts were broken when West Germany scored to force the game into extra time.
