World Cups 1974 and 1978 - Cruyff to Kempes

By June 1974, we were enduring the dying days of monochrome TV. The future was bright, the future was orange, but for the time being, the scintillating Dutch football team I watched at home remained in grey. Like Brazil four years previously, their brand of ‘total football’ rendered colour TV unnecessary; I just enjoyed watching the way they could ping the ball around and score from penalty area flicks or 30-yard screamers.

In the mid-Seventies, European club football was being dominated by Ajax and Bayern Munich, and so Holland and West Germany were amongst the favourites for the ’74 World Cup, especially with the Germans hosting the tournament. Holders Brazil were in transition, although Rivelino’s ‘tache and lethal left foot were present and correct, but still posed a serious threat.

One country conspicuous by its absence was England. They had failed to qualify thanks largely to their inability to convert total domination into victory over Poland at Wembley the previous autumn, one of the most memorable England qualifying fixtures of all time. While the largest home nation was missing, it was left to Scotland to carry UK hopes. I didn’t mind a bit. In fact, I tend to prefer tournaments when England aren’t included. Instead of those dreary reports from the training camp, messages to the fans back home and speculation about so-and-so’s injured knee/calf/metatarsal, the broadcasters can focus on the football. So both 1974 and 1978 provided instead an opportunity to appreciate overseas players.

The Scots certainly didn’t disgrace themselves. Managed by Willie Ormond, and featuring stars including Billy Bremner, David Hay, Joe Jordan, the veteran Denis Law and a young Kenny Dalglish, they conceded just one goal (to Yugoslavia) and were unbeaten. However, even four points and a nil-nil draw with Brazil were not enough to get them through to the second group stage. It all boiled down to how many goals each of the three nations could score against whipping boys Zaire. Yugoslavia slammed nine, Scotland two then, in the decider, Brazil squeaked home with a third. Never mind, the Scots would be back….

As for Zaire, representing an entire continent did them no favours. Indeed, as they prepared to face a Brazil free kick, I remember watching in anticipation of a Rivelino rocket. Instead, I and every other viewer around the world, gasped then laughed as Zaire’s experienced defender Mwepu Ilunga inexplicably broke from his free kick defensive wall to boot the ball miles up the pitch. Huh? That single act of farce surely set back African football by a decade.

Ever since, perhaps even to this day, the lazy journalist or pundit will default to describing African teams as ‘naïve’. Mind you, there are ongoing ignorant attitudes towards other footballing nations, too. The Germans? Disciplined and well-organised (except when they’re not, obviously). Uruguay? Dirty b@stards. Argentina? Divers. Brazil play Samba football, England are brave, France lazy, Italy dull, Holland riven by racial tensions, etc, etc. So tiresome, and so wrong. Decades of watching football have demonstrated that national teams enjoy periods of success and failure, good games and bad, nothing to do with imagined racial characteristics or traditional flaws.

One of the delights of international tourneys is seeing a side upset the status quo, to produce a powerful performance or series of performances that upset all preconceived ideas about them. In ’74, that side was Poland. Yes, the very team that had infuriated England fans with their ‘lucky’ goalkeeper at Wembley several months earlier. In the World Cup finals, they just couldn’t stop winning. Argentina, Italy and, in the 3^rd place playoff, Brazil, all fell to the Poles, for whom Grzorgrz Lato (I still can’t pronounce his first name) and Andrzej Szarmach landed twelve goals between them. The small, balding winger Lato pounced on any mistake, scoring with tap-ins, near-post headers and well-placed shots, Szarmach was more of a central striker while playmaker Kazimierz Deyna pulled the strings. The Poles were shut out only once, in the Group B decider against West Germany, but they’d made a huge impression on world football and this thirteen year-old.

However, it was written in the stars that Holland and West Germany should meet in the final. I definitely watched that one, barely snuggled in my seat when Johan Cruyff was tripped and English referee Jack Taylor awarded the Dutch a penalty before their opponents had even touched the ball. Would any ref dare do the same in 2018?! Well, it was a no-brainer. Taylor evened things up twenty minutes later but inevitably it was that man Muller who slid home a second-half winner for the home side. Franz Beckenbauer finally lifted the World Cup, the first captain to hold the brand new trophy.

However, with all due respect to the winners and Poland, it was the Dutch who won most hearts and who gave us probably the greatest moment in World Cup history which didn’t result in a goal. I’m not sure I watched it live but for subsequent days and weeks, I and my schoolmates would attempt to emulate it. Impossible. We’d just tie our legs in knots and fall over. I’m referring, of course, to the ‘Cruyff Turn’. It seemed to take the stunned Swede several seconds before realising what had happened. Even when shown in ultra-slow motion, I’m still dumbfounded by the mechanics of the move, let alone how it can be executed with such style and grace.

Thanks Johan.

In my opinion, the ’78 tournament in Argentina wasn’t quite as stirring. In contrast to the soundtrack of incessant German horns blaring, I remember vividly the cascades of tickertape blotting out the stadium crowds before most matches. As for the football itself, few teams or actual matches stand out for me.

With the time difference, I don’t suppose I was able to watch many games live and the South American winter ensured there was no hot sunshine glowing from our TV screens. There was also the factor of distaste towards the Fascist military dictatorship which had taken over the host country. I can’t say whether the political regime influenced the outcome but Argentina certainly managed to bend the rules to their maximum advantage. For example, in contrast to other nations, their final group match was delayed so they knew what they needed to do against Peru to qualify. Needing to win by at least four against a good side they racked up six. Funny, that!

England were again absent, having lost out to a so-so Italy in qualifying and, apart from Berti Vogts and goalie Sepp Maier (plus his comically over-sized gloves), the West German champions had a new look about them. They failed to emerge from a Second Round ‘group of death’ after a shock 2-3 defeat to Austria, dismantled by some sublime finishing from Hans Krankl.

The Dutch were again amongst the favourites, but surely hampered by Cruyff’s decision not to attend for personal reasons. Decades later he revealed it was because his family had been literally held to ransom the year before and his priorities had changed as a result. Holland still scored plenty of goals, with Neeskens, Rep and Rensenbrink banging them in. None were better than the thirty-five yard screamer by Arie Haan which whistled past Dino Zoff and took them to the final.

And yet the most famous strike in a Holland game was scored by the opposition. Scotland’s struggles against Iran had left their chance of progress hanging by a thread and nobody gave them a cat’s chance in the final game. Ally’s Army duly came into their own and went ballistic when Archie Gemmill incredibly waltzed through the Dutch defence before nonchalantly slotting home to go two up. They held on to win by 3-1, a classy consolation prize to clutch on the plane home.

Holland sailed on, winning their second round group, and duly met Argentina in the Buenos Aires final. It went to extra time, but the class of striker Mario Kempes and Daniel Passarella’s doughty defence won the day. Yes, it was exciting despite – as I noted in my diary at the time – the Dutch committing 48 fouls. Can that be correct?  Nevertheless I felt for the men in orange, Two consecutive finals, two defeats. Their first golden era was over, and no international silverware to show for it.

So what happened next? My first exposure to a Latin American tournament had been a mixed one and once more I hadn’t missed England. However, there was a legacy for English football. Within weeks, Spurs made what was then an astounding announcement: they had signed the World Cup-winning midfield duo of Ossie Ardiles and Ricardo Villa. Foreigners playing in the Football League? Surely it would never catch on? 

My First World Cups - 1966 and 1970

I love the World Cup. Since the FA Cup has been sadly sidelined by the obsession with the Premier League, the global beanfest has taken over as my favourite sporting competition. Bar none. Long enough to lure me in and make me care about who wins, short enough to prevent boredom setting in. IPL cricket, take note.

In the Sixties and Seventies, with only sixteen nations represented in the finals, it was all done and dusted within three weeks, and there wasn’t the saturation broadcasting coverage we experience today. As an Englishman, the year 1966, like 1066, is embedded in the DNA, a cornerstone of national history. It was, of course, the year of England’s single major tournament triumph. I was just turned five when the Queen handed the Jules Rimet trophy to Bobby Moore to hold aloft at Wembley. I’d like to say the images have remained with me to this day – but I’d be lying.

The BBC TV pictures, accompanied by Kenneth Wolstenholme’s famous commentary, have been replayed a million times since, but I have no recall of watching the match despite Dad’s assurance that I was indeed present. My only memories of the 1966 World Cup are of Dad extolling the virtues of Portugal’s striker Eusebio and of completing a little flag sticker book, in which we recorded the countries and scores as the tournament progressed.

However, the following World Cup left a lasting impression. It wasn’t then a carnival of colour; after all, I could only watch in black-and-white. The only colour pictures I saw would have been in Shoot! magazine and the wall chart I had presumably pulled out of the Radio Times. Nevertheless, imagination is a wonderful thing and watching some of those games in June 1970 the stultifying heat in Mexico was almost tangible, even at a distance of five thousand miles.

In addition to marking the scores on the poster, which took temporary pride of place on my bedroom wall, there were England squad ‘coins’ to collect. We didn’t normally buy our petrol from Esso garages but my Uncle John drove tankers for them so if I was lacking a Francis Lee or Terry Cooper in my cardboard slots I knew where to go. They weren’t exactly exciting, and the facial likenesses were dubious at best. However, it all added to the World Cup fever. The England squad were even top of the charts with ‘Back Home’ so there really was no escaping them.

Modern retrospectives focus on the brilliance of the Brazilians, who won all their six games (and every one of their qualifiers), Bobby Moore’s assured performances in England’s defence (we conceded only one goal in the group stage) and that Gordon Banks save from Pele. There’s also no denying the endless pleasure I get from watching the move which led to Carlos Alberto’s fabulous fourth in the final, even though I was supporting the Italians!

Nevertheless other matches, players and results also remain with me, ones which rarely win a place in video clips. For all Pele’s skills – the outrageous dummies, the audacious speculative lob from the halfway line (unheard of back then because of the heavier balls used) and his improbably powerful headers – it was his team-mate Rivelino who I loved to watch.

It wasn’t just his plush moustache, although that appeared mightily exotic to an English football fan at the time. What raised Rivelino to the highest ranks was his ‘banana kick’. It may seem quaint now to rave about a player’s ability to bend a ball but in 1970, balls weren’t designed to wobble and swerve like a snowflake in a blizzard. Thus when the Brazilian used his left foot to bamboozle the Czech defence, we all salivated. However, the tricks we boys attempted (and failed) to emulate on the ‘triangle’ were the shots using the outside of the boot. Roberto Carlos became the master a few decades later, but in the early Seventies, such skill seemed to derive from another planet. Then, as now, Brazilians perform as if born to play football. They may not always be as successful as the1970 team but are invariably entertaining for the neutral spectator.

Another walking moustache was Italy’s midfield maestro Sandro Mazzola. He wasn’t a prolific scorer in the World Cup but I just liked watching him spray passes around the pitch with consummate ease. Teofilo Cubllas scored some memorable goals wearing the red (OK, it was only mid grey on our TV screen) sash of Peru and, unassisted by YouTube, I can still conjure up images of a spectacular Uwe Seeler bicycle kick for West Germany, even though it sailed over the bar. I also recall trying to copy the German right-winger Libuda’s distinctive method of beating his man and crossing the ball towards the head of Seeler or Gerd Muller.

These came to the fore in one of the most remarkable matches in any World Cup: the semi-final between West Germany and Italy. I remember being transfixed by the game, which really exploded after normal time had been played. The additional half-hour saw five goals, including a few typical Muller goalmouth touches, a glorious shot from Riva (I would mimic that one, too, despite my left foot being incapable of anything other than standing) and Gianni Rivera’s 111^th minute winner.

And yet I suppose the most emotional couple of hours that summer belonged to the 14^th June. England were paired with West Germany in the quarter-finals, a reprise of the ’66 final. Everyone was talking about the game and it dominated that evening’s TV schedules. When Banks was injured prior to the start, a nation groaned. Not me. I was proud that Peter Bonetti, my favourite goalie (he played for my then fave team, Chelsea) would have a chance to show how utterly brilliant he was.

On a scorcher in Leon, a fine England side took a 2-0 lead then, in the 68^th minute, a Beckenbauer shot squirted beneath Bonetti’s body. If he was distraught, I was absolutely devastated. Not for England’s sake but for his. ‘The Cat’ was arguably at fault for Seeler’s improvised back-headed equaliser, too. I think it was this that impelled me to leave the lounge and kick a ball around outside, unable to cope with the emotional pressure. Welcome to the world of a football supporter! As at Wembley four years earlier the match went into extra time. By this time I think I’d tired of mooching around outdoors on my own and obeyed the summons to return home to watch. Just as well, because there were many more incidents to test my blood pressure. However on this occasion it was not Geoff Hurst but the barrel-chested poacher supreme, Muller, who volleyed the winner.

The Bayern Munich goal machine ended up with the tournament’s Golden Boot, scoring ten, but the trophy was Brazil’s. England’s golden era of Sir Alf Ramsey, Banks, Moore, Charlton et al was over, and they wouldn’t qualify again for another twelve years. As for me, my appetite for international football competitions was well and truly whetted.

Football - my playing non-career!

There must be few sports as basic as football. The clue’s in the name; all you need is a foot and a ball. I daresay I, like millions of boys before and since, was introduced to the pastime before I could walk. The sphere in question may have been made of fluffy fur, leather or plastic, perhaps a toy small enough for me to hold in a pushchair or a beach ball bigger than I was. With Dad in attendance, having some form of kickabout was an intrinsic part of my childhood for as long as I can remember – and beyond.

 I was very fortunate in that I grew up in a bungalow boasting a long lawn with ample grass on which to fashion a makeshift football – or indeed cricket - pitch. As I matured from, in school parlance, infant to junior, I took advantage of the ‘triangle’, a sizeable expanse of land in the middle of our small village estate where the local boys could recreate Cup Finals or play ‘three and in’, whereby after scoring three goals, you’d have to take in turn in goal. There were two trees at each end of the triangular greensward which served as single goalposts, the pairs completed – in time-honoured fashion - by discarded jumpers or anoraks. Shades of the Fast Show's Ron Manager - "Jumpers for goalposts. Isn't it? Mmmmm"!

The Ingrave school playground or, in the summer months, a small patch of grass adjacent to the climbing frame and swings, also witnessed some earnest games at lunchtimes. On such occasions I could develop not only rudimentary skills but also the all-important notion of teamwork. One winter - I’d have been about eight - I participated in weekly school football practice under the tutelage of Mr Peacock. I realised I was, if not one of the, quickest, strongest or most skilful in my age group, then at least one of the more useful all-rounders. I could spot a pass, perhaps manage to dribble past a defender or two and even score a goal or two. Then, for some reason I have forgotten, or conveniently buried in the deepest dungeon of my memory bank, I missed a few Friday sessions. Wary of incurring Mr Peacock’s wrath, I was too scared to venture back. When I noticed who Mr P picked for the school team, I realised with a rueful sigh: that should have been me.

When I moved to Billericay at the age of nine, I found myself in one of the largest junior schools in Essex. I was nowhere near the standard required to play for Buttsbury Juniors. I’d blown it. I never represented this or any subsequent school at football. My ‘career’ was over before it had started.

It didn’t kill off my enthusiasm for the sport, though. I still wrung enjoyment of playing football, even on the coldest, muddiest mornings or hottest summer lunch breaks at school, and Dad and I would play in our quiet cul-de-sac of Marks Close, in the park on a beach or with one or both football-mad uncles. Catherine was considerably less enamoured of the game and my football-related ill-fortune was magnified by the fact that all six of my cousins were also girls.

In my teens, I was fortuitously granted a belated opportunity to be part of a genuine team, albeit six-a-side. Some boys in neighbouring streets had found themselves a player short and the captain, whose father taught at school with mine, must have in desperation thought of the small ginger kid in Marks Close. So began my Crescent Crushers era.

My introduction to Crusher-hood was mixed. I found that the player I was replacing, because his family were leaving the area, was amazing. He had talent. I didn’t. How could I fill his boots? As things turned out, whilst none of us were particularly good individual players, we somehow gelled as a team. Although I couldn’t tackle to save my life, and would be left for dead by any opponent with a modicum of pace, I turned into a half-decent goal-scoring midfielder: Essex’s answer to Michel Platini or Johan Neeskens. Well, maybe not quite in that class.

We were one of the better sides in our scratch league and even triumphed in a cup final. Though one was promised, I never received my medal. Not that I’m bitter, or anything. Not much! Oddly, the end of the association came in the wake of another Cup tie we won. Drawn against a team of kids a few years younger, it was a ludicrous mismatch. Even I was taller than all our opponents. The factor which led me to leave was our striker’s over-eager determination to leave stud marks on anyone who came close, taking our team name a bit too literally. I felt ashamed being in the same side. Walking away in my boots I knew it was over. I felt – well, crushed. While I bathed in the warm waters of euphoric victory, the sporting pacifist in me was never far from the surface. Unlike Mr Mourinho and his acolytes, I have no desire to ‘win ugly’; I‘d rather not play at all.

At university I hardly participated in any sport, not really fitting in with the boozy football ‘set’. However, a few years later I joined my local Rotaract club. Amongst many other activities, they had a monthly sports hall booking for five-a-side, so I dabbled in some semi-competitive footie for a while. I quickly discovered that I was somewhat out of my depth. At Billericay we had some pretty decent players. At first I was fit enough at least to run around for almost an hour although I was rubbish on the ball. Later on, my engine would swiftly splutter and conk out within minutes. In my thirties, should a game of football appear on the calendar all I could do was channel my Dad’s genes and try my luck in goal. I was less of a liability between the posts and, armed with a rudimentary positioning sense, I might even make a save or two.

So, in terms of Mike Smith on the pitch, that was that. Of course, I have always followed the sport by reading, watching, listening and know I can slip into almost any footie-based conversation without causing myself cringeworthy embarrassment. Just because I believe winning isn’t everything doesn’t mean I’m unable to feel passion for the ‘beautiful game’. It’s not essential to be a partisan supporter. Sometimes you have to sit back and simply admire a pass, a save, a shot, a team performance, even if it’s your team on the receiving end. Read on for my reminiscences of favourite teams, matches, tournaments, players and managers, as well as those who have  driven me up the wall with fury or frustration. Given a certain event in Russia, it seems appropriate to begin with the Mondial, la Coupe de Monde,.... the World Cup.

Sport and Me - an Introduction

Boys are supposed to love sport. It’s a given. Even if you hate it, some sort of pretence is essential. If pressed on the subject, you can always select the default option and claim to support Manchester United. Fortunately, I never had to resort to such subterfuge.

Wherever I lived or whichever family member’s house I visited, there were always balls of assorted sizes littering the garden. As a toddler, there would probably be a football half my size awaiting my tentative toe-poke. I have a million childhood memories of wielding a toy golf club, cricket bat or tennis racket, all of which happy ones. I wasn’t the sort of boy who played ball games purely to please a sports-nut father; I did it because I loved it.

Don’t get me wrong: Dad most certainly did enjoy his sport, whether playing or watching. I’m sure he loved his kickabouts in a park, batting and bowling practice in the back garden or putting rounds in holiday resorts around the English coast just as much as I did. Catherine and Mum would often join in, too, although the latter was reluctant to indulge in Swing Ball once she realised the damage our feet was doing to our lovely lawn.

It wasn’t restricted to the family home, of course. Up to the age of nine, I lived on a pleasant late-Fifties/1960 estate, at the heart of which sat a triangle of grass dotted with a few saplings. When the weather was amenable, this would become the sporting Mecca for the local lads, me included, the trees providing a single goalpost or wicket. The ‘Triangle’, as it was inevitably dubbed – our fertile imagination knew no bounds – would be transformed into our very own Wembley, Lord’s, Wimbledon or, very rarely, Twickenham. 

Residing only just beyond the periphery of London, we weren’t remote from some of the nation’s greatest stadia. However, nor were we exactly on their doorstep. As a result, I don’t recall any childhood ‘in the flesh’ sports experiences until my early teens. Our nearest major venue was the Essex county cricket ground in Chelmsford so it is no great surprise that it was this rather primitive stage which witnessed my introduction to genuine live sport in May 1975. For the first time, I could read the reports and scorecards in the Daily Express and think; “I was there!”

Of course I consumed the vast majority of sport on television. In the days when everyone was perfectly content to choose from a mere three channels, all the cornerstones of the sporting calendar were available to watch at no cost other than the BBC licence fee. It wasn’t only the events which remain protected for all viewers to this day, such as the Wimbledon finals, Grand National and Olympics. Even non-title UK boxing contests could command audiences in excess of ten million, while what we now label ‘minority’ sports like show jumping, touring car racing and wrestling were accessible to the majority.

In the Sixties and Seventies, households were basically divided between BBC an ITV families. I guess it was essentially a class-based split. We were most definitely in the BBC camp. I watched ‘Blue Peter’ not ‘Magpie’, ‘Morecambe and Wise’ not ‘The Beverly Hillbillies’, ‘Dad’s Army’ rather than ‘Love Thy Neighbour’. When it came to wet winter Saturday afternoons, the family allegiance was to BBC1’s smorgasbord of sport, ‘Grandstand’, as opposed to ITV’s ‘World of Sport’. 

Pardon my mixed culinary metaphors but I would lap up the meze meal prepared by ‘Grandstand’. Not all the dishes would appeal. Boxing and horse racing always left me cold especially. There was nothing more infuriating than the frequent interruptions to a cricket match to show some boring ABA lightweight encounter or the 2.10 from Haydock Park. 

In 1981, the ‘Grandstand’ brand was later applied to summer Sunday coverage. There was enough cricket, tennis, rowing and equestrian stuff to sustain it, and in the late Nineties, the Beeb risked extending it across the whole year. Dad and I also watched the midweek show ‘Sportsnight’, originally presented by the ubiquitous David Coleman, then replaced by Harry Carpenter. Poor Mum must have been exiled to a bath or her knitting when there was something of particular interest to us menfolk. Highlights of Cup replays and European football ties stand out for me, although speedway or greyhound racing offered occasional diversions. ‘Sportsnight’ also featured documentary features. Presumably these were mere fillers to be dropped in when action was thin on the ground. However, they could be just as entertaining, especially the occasions when Carpenter got to interview Muhammad Ali. Their conversational sparring sessions were brilliant!

Of course, such compendium programmes could not survive the innovation of satellite television in the Nineties. I would occasionally dip into BBC Radio’s ‘Sport on 5’ or ‘Test Match Special’ if away from a screen but, where TV is concerned, as Sky splashed the cash to hoover up the major sports events, with the likes of Eurosport providing some of the fringe competitions, the public service broadcasters simply couldn’t compete. Sports broadcasting had been transformed totally. In my opinion, ‘Final Score’ has never been the same since new technology replaced the chattering teleprinter – which reminded me of a demented hot water bottle. I would also relish the weird juxtaposition of results it spewed out: Rosslyn Park 10 Esher 24, Southport 2 Bradford Park Avenue 0 …. Ah, those were the days!

But I digress. With wealthy private broadcasters ploughing billions into sport, most of the sports have changed beyond recognition. Sponsorship, new formats, even traditional winter sports shunted to summer to avoid competition, have fragmented the landscape completely. Yet, as more sport is broadcast, talked and written about, accessible on the internet, I find my emotional, almost spiritual connection to sport becoming looser. Scattered across umpteen platforms and specialist channels, themselves almost buried amidst all the other dross which pollutes the schedules, it is harder to keep up, to separate the wheat from the chaff, identify what really interests me and what I can happily disregard – which is the vast majority.

Nevertheless, my passion for certain sports has remained undimmed. I’m not sure I ever genuinely wanted to be a Best, Snow or Laver, nor even a Cruyff, Richards or McEnroe. This was just as well, because my actual talent never quite matched my enthusiasm. I’m not being big-headed in saying I did possess a modicum of skill in most sports. I could spot a decent pass, bowl a leg-break and maintain a lengthy rally but was never good enough to make the school team in anything.

While a member of Billericay Rotaract between 1985 and 1994, I indulged in all sorts of random activities as part of social or inter-club competition. I even found I had an aptitude for badminton, indoor hockey and even bowls. Who knew?! Again, nothing to warrant pursuing at a club; I’d be kidding myself if I claimed my ability was more than a C+ or B- but as long as I could do my best and play with a smile, I was happy.

I like to win, of course, and I do have a moderately competitive streak. Nevertheless, success has never been the be-all-and-end-all. Provided I can neither disgrace myself nor let down team-mates, participation at that C+/B- portion of the ability spectrum has usually been good enough for me. It also serves to make memories of those sporadic B+ moments even more indelible.

I have a similar outlook to life as a fan. Of course, the word is an abbreviation of ‘fanatic’ which nowadays has connotations with excess. A fanatic is probably an obsessive, taking things to extremes and socially isolated from the rest of us. I know one or two, but I’ve never identified with such traits. Yes, I consider myself a supporter of Queens Park Rangers FC and Somerset CCC, but I won’t travel to the ends of the earth and the bottom of my bank balance to scream my allegiance. As with my own modest skill levels, that’s fortuitous, because otherwise I would have endured a lifetime of bitter sporting disappointments.

Patriotism has never been a prominent part of my mental make-up, either. I know that when, say, the Ashes, a World Cup or Grand Prix come around, the media exert pressure on everyone in the country to get behind ‘our boys’ (it’s usually boys). Cheer on Andy Murray, Jo Konta and Lewis Hamilton! Get with cricket’s Barmy Army! Whoop and holler for Team GB! Well, nobody tells me who I can and can’t support. For some reason, I’ve always considered myself to be British, rather than English. That has been particularly handy since I moved to Wales, but it has also influenced my relationship with sports teams and individuals. I don’t support Murray, Konta or Hamilton, partly because of the onus I feel to do so, but also because I find them incredibly boring or irritating as personalities. I don’t wave the flag of St George for the England rugby, football or cricket either. When it comes to most team sports – and at risk of sounding holier than thou - I’m in it for the love of the game. 

I have made an exception when it comes to athletics or Olympics. I would always get extremely emotional watching the drama of, for instance, Sally Gunnell, Chris Hoy or the Coxless Four grabbing golds. However, the incessant jingoism surrounding Team GB at London 2012 ripped a ghastly gash in my traditional pro-UK stance. I felt badly let down by the biased, almost xenophobic BBC coverage. Whenever Clare Balding or Gary Lineker gushed effusively over yet another interminable with a plucky fourth-placed Brit runner instead of showing an exciting live handball match not involving Team GB, I felt somewhat pissed off. 

I can still lose myself in the moment, screaming at the telly or those on the pitch before me with joy, fury or simply passion for the occasion. I am often that infuriating bloke who is far too vocal in expressing opinions, adding his own commentary to an event when it should be left to the experts. I don’t do it deliberately; I can’t help it!

Yet, when the race is run, final whistle blown, winning putt sunk and stumps are drawn, I am able to take a deep breath, allow my heart rate to return to normal levels and discuss what we’ve just witnessed in a more objective, measured way. Sometimes it takes longer than others, but it’s back to real life once more.

I do feel passion for sport, albeit selectively, but hopefully I can also be dispassionate, temper my emotions and place sport into context. With apologies to the late Bill Shankly, neither football nor any other pastime is more important than life or death. When England face Germany at football or Scotland at rugby, we are not reliving some ancient wartime rivalry. Nothing pleases me more than when, even in the steaming, heavy-breathing heat following a hard-fought sporting battle, I see opponents swap not only shirts but handshakes, laughs, genuinely heartfelt congratulations or commiserations. It restores my faith in humanity.

Amidst all the hype and ballyhoo, multi-million contracts and bonuses, phenomenal mental stresses and physical strains, it’s heart-warming to witness true sportsmanship. The word ‘sporting’ is often applied to, and universally understood in, situations beyond those of a sport setting. You never hear the terms ‘solicitorship’ or ‘politicianship’, do you?! And that’s why when competitors are caught cheating, whether diving to win penalties, taking performance-enhancing drugs or ball-tampering in cricket, our hackles rise and international incidents can occur. A US billionaire can boast of “grabbing pussy” and be elected president but if a cricketer uses sandpaper on a ball, he is publicly vilified and cast into the wilderness. And rightly so.

Maybe my specs are rose-tinted, my memories biased towards the positive aspects of sport as in life. That may well explain why I have never ascended the pinnacles in either. I know I was never born to be a global sporting superstar, nor even a local one. And that’s fine. I can live with it. Honest.

What follows are personal recollections and ramblings through my back catalogue of sporting endeavour and observations. Who are my heroes, the villains? What have been the greatest occasions, tournaments, the sporting moments which have illuminated my life in some dazzling spark? I often hear that top performers require extraordinary determination to succeed, and that all-important killer instinct. The latter may be a tad over-dramatic but the former is undoubtedly true, albeit allied to a special talent in their field. I have no killer instinct, just enthusiasm for most matters sporting. That’s why I’ve not called this the blog of a sports warrior; it’s the musings of a sporting pacifist. And a proud one, too.

I'll begin, appropriately in this World Cup summer, with football, a sport which has a special place in my psyche for as long as I can remember.....