NOW, I KNOW PERFECTION.
Ernest Blyth | 26/11/1953

England team manager Walter Winterbottom grinned as he told me last night: "I expect these Hungarians have improved since you played against them in 1897."

It is like comparing a team from the Hackney Marshes with West Bromwich Albion. How they have improved.

First, the aid of my old pal Jimmy Hogan, who went out there in 1924 and lived to see the seeds of his coaching reap this six-goal whirlwind.

Secondly, through their dedication to Soccer; their superb trainning that even continued until their limbering-up before the kick-off.

I knew these Hungarians Hungarians were good. But how could I know our lads would be so bad? Only Gil Merrick and Harry Johnston seemed fit to weak England shirts.

England thought and moved slowly; passed inacurrately.

Hungary — a team of elastic men with spines of steel — had the speed and precision of a Joe Davis, playing on turf that seemed like a billiard table.

I am 76. Never have I seen such football artistry as that show by these Hungarians.

Never mind what elders tell you about the great days of British Soccer. This was the best ever and, if I never see another game, at least I know now what perfection is.