In the hours after the announcement of Martin Peters’s death someone on the radio described the wearer of the No 16 shirt in the 1966 World Cup final as a typical English footballer of the era. Although clearly meant as the profoundest of compliments, no words could have been further from the truth.

In terms of English football in the mid-1960s the 22-year-old Peters was an extraterrestrial. With slender limbs and wraith-like movement, he had wandered into the bone‑grinding world of strapping centre-forwards and muscular wing‑halves as an emissary from another world.

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The other man on the Wembley pitch that day who displayed a similar originality was even younger. At 20, Franz Beckenbauer accepted the part of defensive midfielder, tasked with neutralising the threat of Bobby Charlton, but even then it was obvious that he and Peters were the two who possessed the skills and the imagination to define their own roles in the game.

One could tell from the number on Peters’s shirt that he was a late inclusion in Alf Ramsey’s tactical scheme. Just as the No 21 on Roger Hunt’s back gave an indication of the manager’s uncertainty about the man to whom he had given the No 8shirt, Jimmy Greaves, so Peters’ arrival betrayed the trend of the manager’s thoughts. But whereas the exclusion of Greaves, the nation’s finest goalscorer, after the three group matches was a decision based on pragmatism, the arrival of Peters following the opening goalless draw against Uruguay was a sign of visionary thinking at work.

John Connelly of Manchester United, given the No 11 jersey, was a fast and tricky patroller of the left touchline whose function was to provide crosses for the centre-forward. This was the way England had traditionally played football, particularly when Stanley Matthews was delivering the ball to Nat Lofthouse or Stan Mortensen. Ramsey changed all that. Roles were redefined. Bobby Charlton and Alan Ball, who had started their careers as wingers, became midfielders: one driving at the opposing defence, the other harrying opponents out of their stride.

When Ball was injured, Peters came into midfield for the second match, against Mexico, while Southampton’s Terry Paine, a right winger, took over from Connelly. For the final group fixture, against France, Paine was replaced by Liverpool’s Ian Callaghan. But when Ball returned for the quarter‑final against Argentina, Peters stayed in. Now the player who had established himself as a right-half with Ron Greenwood’s West Ham had another function altogether: he was deployed on the left, but not as a classical winger. Instead he was there to confuse markers by coming inside and using stealth to exploit the unattended spaces.

His full England debut had come only a few weeks earlier. He was an unknown quantity to international opponents and hardly more familiar to many football fans at home. Ramsey had spotted something unusual about Peters and made him the symbol of the switch that led to the team becoming known as “the wingless wonders”. Only when the players walked up Wembley’s 39 steps to collect the Jules Rimet Trophy was the manager’s apostasy finally accepted, with a 78th-minute goal establishing Peters’s place among the immortals.

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In the modern game, who compares to him in style and approach? Dele Alli, certainly, although the relevance of his contribution to Spurs – Peters’ second club – and England has yet to achieve a similar consistency. Much less obviously Cristiano Ronaldo – for the timing of his late runs, his aerial threat and his tactical unorthodoxy, although nothing else bears the remotest comparison with a man from a working-class east London suburb who lived a quiet and private life and did not take enough out of the game to give him a secure living after it.

“People think I was a bit of a fancy dan because I was a ball-player,” Peters told Simon Hattenstone in an interview marking the 40th anniversary of his greatest day. “I would read the game, and pick things off, but people who really know me know that I could put my foot in.”

In his era it was impossible to prosper without some degree of toughness. The slim build and pale, sensitive face were deceptive. He was, after all, the son of a Thames lighterman, with the physical courage needed to survive in the era of Norman Hunter, Peter Storey and Nobby Stiles.

And he was wrong to believe he had been characterised as a fancy dan. If fans of rival clubs took a while to share Ramsey’s recognition of Peters’s unique qualities, it was not long before they appreciated the lethal nature of his gifts. The unobtrusiveness that made him such a threat also earned him a special and undying respect. And now, of the 11 who made history, only six are left.