Farewell to Bally, a little dynamo who inspired England's victory in '66

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To those who knew him well, it was no surprise that Alan Ball should suffer a heart attack after watching an epic football match on television and then rushing out to tackle something bigger than himself.

England's little big man would have been squirming on the edge of his seat, wading into every Italian defender and kicking every ball as Manchester United strove to conquer AC Milan, before fighting a large bonfire blazing out of control in his garden.

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Defining moment: Ball (third from left) celebrates winning the World Cup

No one, ever, has been more passionate about football and that intensity raged through every aspect of his life; he played golf and followed the horses as if his very life depended on it.

So, sadly, it does not come as a complete shock, either, that the youngest of England's World Cup-winning Boys of '66 should become only the second member of that hallowed team to die.

Tension and stress were his constant companions, so hyper was he about everything he did and said. He lived every day the demonic way he played all 120 minutes of that historic final at Wembley, never giving the Germans a moment's peace.

Socks down, shirt drenched, running himself into that sapping turf, he first won the corner, then delivered the cross which set up the first two goals of Geoff Hurst's unique hat-trick.

Looking back at all the energy this human dynamo put into every match he played and all the anxiety with which he fretted over his fluctuating managerial career, it is a surprise the batteries did not run out even before he made it to 61.

His astonishing work-rate was the final piece of Sir Alf Ramsey's jigsaw, the replacement for the old-fashioned winger he could not find to complete his new-fangled XI.

They called that team the Wingless Wonders, but the real wonder was how many miles Ball covered on England's right flank.

Bobby Moore, the first of those heroes to pass on, was the captain emeritus and Player of the Tournament, Bobby Charlton the iconic symbol of the English game.

But at the end of the final it was their non-stop Bally whom they all nominated as the Man of the Match. Perpetual motion, however, was just the foundation of his game.

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The incisive eye for an opening, the darting runs into the danger zone, the deft touch and the pinpoint passes were allied to a willingness to provide scampering cover for any team-mate he sensed might be flagging.

All that and some of the sharpest goals you could wish to see. His peers knew how special he was yet he agonised about what he perceived as a lack of wider recognition of his talents.

Once, on the coach taking us to an Arsenal match in Switzerland, he glanced out of the window and saw the sign over Bally's flagship shoe store.

"Look," shouted the man who first made white boots fashionable, "they know something about the game over here. They've named a shop after me."

Part the ever bubbly Bally, part paranoia. His struggles in management — where his mania for perfection made him such an abrasive and, at times, dispiriting mentor for players with lesser gifts than his own — prolonged an angst I detected when driving him home from Highbury after one of his first games for Arsenal.

It was a wet night and car demisters were not all as efficient then as they are today. We began picking our World XI and Alan traced the team on the windscreen. Banks was in goal, of course, Moore and Beckenbauer the central defenders, Pele and Eusebio up front.

"So who have you got in the engine room?" he demanded. Gerson, the Brazilian assassin, and Overath, the German technocrat, I ventured. "Correct," he squeaked. "And Bally in between to drive 'em on." Who was I to argue? Bally deserves his place in history. Perhaps that is why fate has decreed he should take it so early. Circumstances, too. At best, his financial situation fluctuated.

He auctioned his cherished World Cup winner's medal so he might leave at least a £150,000 legacy to his children. He was in the process of selling his country house and trading down to a place nearer the home of Mike Channon, his former Southampton team-mate, best friend and fellow horse-fancier.

That will be small consolation to his family and those closest to him, who share the loss with those of us who relished our occasional reunions and were looking forward to seeing him at the forthcoming unveiling of Bobby Moore's statue at the new Wembley.

But it is not only the fact he died young and quite alone which is poignant. Alan had lost much of all he worshipped most.

His adored wife Lesley died of cancer three years ago, that tragedy compounded by his daughter Mandy being diagnosed with a similar affliction. He talked football on the phone with his son Jimmy the night he died but there was no longer a place for him in his beloved game.

As one man who would not have grown old gracefully, he has been spared his declining years. For Bally, the passion play has ended. Bless him.

 

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