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.