World Cup Memories - 2018

And finally we come to 2018. For all the shenanigans around the selection of Russia as hosts, and the potential of the whole month being an almighty Putin vanity project, this World Cup has been celebrated as one of the most exciting in living memory.

Did we miss Italy or Holland? Not a jot. From the first night, when Russia’s much-maligned side smashed five against Saudi Arabia, to the six-goal finale, there was so much to enjoy. At home, participation in the global FIFA Fantasy league added an extra dimension. Amidst all the action there were many brow-furrowing hours spent contemplating transfers, captaincy selections, balancing the huge stars like Messi, Modric and Hazard with the less familiar names from Egypt, Colombia, Poland, etc. But really it was about the football!

The thrilling Iberian derby on day two left us licking our lips in anticipation of further riches. Against Portugal, Spain seemed to have done enough before Cristiano Ronaldo produced a trademark free-kick in the 88^th minute to complete his own hat-trick and a three-all draw. However, European champions Portugal were surprisingly weak and not even CR7 could haul them into the last eight. Apart from one sublime goal which only he could score, the other giant of the game, Lionel Messi, was also a subdued figure. His lacklustre, ageing Argentina side were awful against Croatia and they, too, bowed out in the second round.

The reigning champions Germany were also woefully off-form and were sensationally eliminated in Group F after losing to Mexico  (an excellent match) and South Korea. Meanwhile, the Germans’ 2014 bunnies Brazil had bounced back to their best in qualification and apart from a 1-1 draw with the Swiss, were looking ominously good. Coutinho provided some magic but I’m afraid their flamboyant forward Neymar will be remembered only for his pathetic diving and play-acting. His 10,000 volt jerks against Mexico will – sadly – live long in the memory. I missed Brazil’s quarter-final elimination at the hands of Belgium – attending India v England cricket at Cardiff – but, for all Neymar’s undoubted skills, I didn’t miss the preening prima donna at all in the final week.

Belgium had been rather fortunate themselves to meet Brazil. In their Round 2 fixture against Japan, I was enthralled by an amazing second half in which their unfancied opponents soon went two-up. With under half an hour left, Belgium seemed down and out yet ended up 3-2 winners after a fabulous injury time breakaway finished by Chadli. Phew!

Spain were also chock-full of household names, from De Gea to Iniesta, Pique to Busquets, Isco to Ramos. But, faced with the host nation and their fervent fans in the Round of 16, the superstars were surprisingly tamed. Penalties decided the matter and Russia advanced. It seems unthinkable that we will probably never again see many of these great players on the global stage.

Like Russia, Nobody had given England’s new-look side much chance of reaching the knockouts let alone challenging for the Cup itself. Only two of their wretched 2014 Eleven – Henderson and Sterling – were in the first-choice starting line-up. However, while Harry Kane was falling over and banging in the penalties, and Stones and Maguire were leading the defensive line, optimism built steadily. England slammed an unprecedented six past Panama and found themselves with a relatively simple path to the semis via Colombia (and a successful penalty shoot-out!) and Sweden. Suddenly, that refrain of “Football’s coming home” was everywhere. Massed streaming even sent The Lightning Seeds’ masterpiece of hope over expectation, ‘Three Lions’, back to number one in the charts after twenty-two years. Manager Gareth Southgate’s elegant waistcoat transformed fan fashion and even Kyle Walker proved popular.

In the semi-final versus Croatia at the Luzhniki Stadium, Kieran Trippier’s fifth minute free-kick sent the fan-zones delirious under a fountain of beer, but Luka Modric and his mates weren’t giving up. After the interval, Croatia clawed their way back into the game. Their efforts were rewarded when first the hard-working Perisic fashioned an equaliser, then Mandzukic nipped in behind Stones for the winner.

And so the tournament reached its climax in Moscow. Not with Brazil v England, as I had so naively predicted, but France v Croatia. On paper it appeared a delicious final but showpiece games are notorious for their ability to disappoint. As in so much of the 2018 World Cup, tradition was ripped up. With Modric pulling the strings, Rakitic and Perisic running with purpose and the full-backs haring down the flanks, Croatia ripped into the formidable French defence but couldn’t break through. I was aghast that France went one-up following a Griezmann dive. Perisic equalised then came another highly dubious penalty decision, this time courtesy of the controversial Video Assistant Referees (VAR). I began to lose interest when France widened the gap in the second half but had to admit a 4-2 World Cup Final is one to savour, whoever emerged the winner.

Like England, the redeveloped French team is remarkably young. Didier Deschamps was widely derided for omitting stars such as Martial, Lacazette and Payet but his squad delivered the goods. Their brilliant full-backs Pavard and Hernandez are only 22, the outstanding centre-back Varane is 25 and then of course there is the electrifying 19 year-old winger, Kylian Mbappe. The old guard of Messi, Ronaldo, Iniesta, Modric, Suarez, Cavani, Hummels and Marcelo probably won’t be around in four years’ time but a new generation of galacticos are already in place.

After Russia, the 2022 tournament will be a different kettle of fish. Located in the desert state of Qatar, dry as a bone but awash with cash for FIFA votes, it will take place in the heart of the European football season to avoid the searing summer heat. With the youthful players at their current disposal, France must fancy their chances once more. But if 2018 showed us anything, it is that the top nations can’t take anything for granted, even the champions. Four years is a long time but I’ll have to be patient. Roll on the next World Cup!

World Cup Memories - 2014

Two years before Rio hosted the Olympics, Brazil also staged the global footiefest that is the World Cup. As so often happens, the tournament was played out as a backdrop to personal and family dramas, but there were opportunities to stay up late for some cracking matches.

After four years mesmerising opponents and fans alike with their Guardiola-inspired possession football, Spain immediately came crashing down to earth. Their fellow 2010 finalists Holland gained revenge with an amazing 5-1 drubbing. Del Bosque’s dream team were given a lesson in finishing by Louis van Gaal’s formidable side featuring skipper Robin van Persie, Arjen Robben and their wing-backs Janmaat and Blind. Spain were eliminated in the groups and the Dutch eventually finished third. After that, the side seemed to disintegrate but will surely rise again.

Argentina and Belgium had flawless groups and Brazil dropped points only against Mexico. However, it was three other Latin nations which captured the imagination with fast, free-flowing attacking football.  Chile took the hosts to penalties in Round 2 while Colombia, boosted by the goals of James Rodriguez were possibly the most entertaining of all. They, too, were drawn against Brazil, losing 2-1 in the quarters.

However, Costa Rica were the surprise package of 2014. They served notice of their talent when beating both Uruguay and Italy and held an already- humiliated England to a goalless draw. Pirlo apart, this was a weak Italian squad and they joined England in the disgrace race to the airport. At least Chiellini left Brazil with Suarez’s gift of bite marks on the shoulder. A half-time orange was never enough for the Uruguayan. Nevertheless, I had to admit his class as a striker was the difference against the English, a game for which I gladly stayed up late.

In the middle of the World Cup, straddling my birthday, Angie and I spent a week at the Hotel Jacaranda on Tenerife. Amidst the intense worry over her Mum’s health, we did watch a few matches in the Piano Bar or in our room. The most memorable were the Round of 16 clashes between Costa Rica and Greece (“cracking”) and then the highly-rated Belgians and the spirited USA. I’ve never seen such an enthralling nil-nil. The end-to-end battle continued into extra time when de Bruyne and Lukaku combined to take Belgium through 2-1. The true man of the match was undoubtedly the American goalie Tim Howard who was credited with an incredible sixteen saves, but his oppo Courtois was also kept busy. Like Costa Rica, though, Belgium’s run ended in the quarters.

Meanwhile, the Germans were once more on the charge. A Thomas Muller hat-trick had tamed the Portuguese 4-0 in the group opener but they struggled to defeat Algeria over two absorbing hours in the knockouts. Their best was yet to come. After getting the better of France in the last eight, Germany travelled to Belo Horizonte where the hosts and red-hot favourites lay in wait. Everyone was predicting an all-South American showdown in the final but that didn’t materialise. Argentina fulfilled their part of the bargain against Holland but Brazil collapsed in the most astonishing manner.

I’ve never in my life witnessed such an electrifying first half, during which the masterful Germans ripped the Brazilian defence to shreds. Having endured all the usual pro-Brazil media hype, I cheered every goal they conceded, five in the opening thirty minutes alone. The bewildered expression on David Luiz’s face was a joy to behold, on its own well worth the TV licence fee. It seemed a cruel twist, in the last minute, that Oscar should spoil Manuel Neuer’s deserved clean sheet. 7-1. SEVEN-ONE! Brazil had never suffered such a devastating defeat, and on their own turf.

Luiz wasn’t the worst player, either. The ludicrously-monikered Hulk had possibly the worst match of any individual in World Cup history and was substituted to a chorus of boos. Nevertheless, let’s not forget how brilliant Ozil, Muller, Kroos, Kedira et al were that evening, and they reaped their rightful reward in the final when substitute Mario Gotze’s extra-time chest and volley secured the trophy. They would go on to be the team to beat for the next four years but could they retain the World Cup?

World Cup Memories - 2006 and 2010.

World Cup openers tend to be dull, cagey affairs, more often than not decided by a single goal. In 2006, the host nation Germany immediately played against type. The young wing back Philippe Lahm, not yet the Bayern Munich legend he would become, scored a screamer inside six minutes and his side beat Costa Rica 4-2.  With World Cup goal machine Miroslav Klose claiming the Golden Boot, plus the likes of Ballack, Podolski and a fit Bastien Schweinsteiger, it seemed acceptable to like the Germans for a change. They only scored once against Poland but it was a game I enjoyed watching.

For all that, I supported their opponents Italy in an epic semi-final. Unfortunately I couldn’t give it my full attention because at the time I was in a large garden marquee on the lawns of a Cambridge college in the middle of a Radio Festival quiz! My colleagues and I did cast frequent furtive glances at the big screen TV to note an entertaining game heading for penalties until the Italians conjured up a late brace, the second by the evergreen Del Piero, to win 2-0.

A few weeks earlier, Italy had won their group, just ahead of World Cup debutants Ghana. I was seeing a Ghanaian woman at the time so my antennae were twitching whenever the Black Stars were mentioned. They weren’t given much hope of progressing but surprised everybody by defeating the highly-fancied Czechs, who boasted Nedved, Rosicky and Podborsky in their pomp. Driven by Chelsea’s Michael Essien, Ghana brought a sense of fun and attacking flair to the party and only Petr Cech prevented an absolute rout. If only Asamoah Gyan could learn how to take penalties, of which more later….

England had a promising young side, managed by their first foreign coach, Sven Goran Eriksson. David Beckham was by now an elder statesman, but with Gerrard, Lampard, Owen, Rio Ferdinand and Wayne Rooney in the side, much was expected. We reached the quarter-finals and met Portugal in Gelsenkirchen on my birthday. Mum and Dad had taken me to their favourite haunt of Hyde Hall gardens so we missed the first half. I was present, though, to witness the infamous Rooney red card, deservedly brandished for plunging a boot into Carvalho’s unmentionables. The 21 year-old Cristiano Ronaldo was castigated for his subsequent wink but Rooney only had himself to blame. We lost on penalties – of course – with Owen Hargreaves the only man on target. 

Mr Ronaldo would go on to even bigger and better things but 2006 would be the last chance for Portugal’s ‘golden generation’ to secure international success. They had missed out in their home Euros to Greece two years previously so beating England was vital for the likes of Deco, Luis Figo, Carvalho et al. They were so determined that they played Holland in Round 2 and found themselves involved in what became known as the Battle of Nuremberg. They won 9-7 – in terms of yellow cards! There were also four reds after a succession of stupid, sly or plain reckless fouls. The Russian ref was criticised for losing control but, quite frankly, it was the players who lost control amidst the cascade of cards.

The final had its moments of excitement but will be remembered less for the football than for Zinedine Zidane’s heinous head-butt on Marco Materazzi. And so the great man departed for retirement in disgrace. Another disgrace was the FIFA decision to make him the Player of the Tournament. He had one good match, was suspended for another and sent off in the biggest game of them all. In my humble opinion, the best on show was no galactico but the Italian captain and centre-back Fabio Cannavaro: only 5 foot 9, but a giant in defence alongside another Italian legend Alessandro Nesta. His reward for winning the Cup was a big-money transfer from Inter to Real Madrid, the alma mater of Zidane.

The goal of Germany 2006? For once I agreed with those who decide these matters. It wasn’t a 30-yard blockbuster, nor a devilish dribble and drive. No, it was a patient 25-pass move in the group stages. The Serbs could merely watch as Argentina pushed and probed for a full minute before Cambiasso finished decisively. It was the second of the South Americans’ six that day. The last was scored by a teenage substitute called Lionel Messi….

The young Barcelona superstar returned in 2010 as part of an Argentine squad brimming with talent. After whistling through the group stage they were many people’s (including mine) favourites for the title. This was the first World Cup to be staged on the African continent, with South Africa the chosen hosts. While the incessant blaring of the vuvuzela horns became tiresome in the extreme, the organisation passed all the tests with flying colours. The same could not be said for some of the top footballing nations.

Both the previous finalists failed to reach the knockouts, and Spain lost their opener to Switzerland who themselves experienced the extraordinary achievement of being eliminated without conceding a goal! Meanwhile, Holland and the aforementioned Argentinians didn’t drop a point. But in the ‘round of 16’ the tournament dynamic shifted sharply at Bloemfontein. It was there that England, still bearing fond memories of their 2001 annihilation of the Germans in a qualifier, met their frequent nemeses and found them in superb form. While many tried to use the incorrect disallowing of Lampard’s ‘goal’ as an excuse, the truth was that England were simply outclassed.

The Germans maintained this momentum in their quarter-final against the hitherto all-conquering Argentina. Instead of a tight contest, Joachim Low’s young guns were, in my contemporary words, ‘scintillating’. Despite fielding an attack boasting Messi, Higuain and Tevez, Argentina were ripped apart. Klose and Moeller put the ball in the net but Mehut Ozil and Bastian Schweinsteiger in midfield were outstanding.

That summer, I didn’t watch many games in the first fortnight. I’d moved to Somerset two years earlier but already my personal life had plunged into a deep bucket of shit. I had alternative priorities such as searching for somewhere else to live! However, things settled down slightly by the end of June and I felt free to seek solace in the footie.

I’d retained a soft spot for Ghana so I, and millions of neutrals, backed them to the hilt against Uruguay. Win, and they’d become the first African nation to reach the last four. At one-all in a pulsating game, Ghana attacked at the death in extra time. A penalty area scramble resulted in a goal-bound header. In a split-second, a certain Luis Suarez pawed it off the line with both hands. Off he went but I was disgusted to hear ex-players praising his "quick thinking". He‘s a cheat! Anyway, all Gyan had to do was convert from the spot and Ghana were through. He went for power – and rattled the top of the bar. I was screaming like a madman at the telly. Needless to say, Ghana lost the shootout and probably their last chance of global success. It was heartbreaking.

To their credit, Uruguay showed their footballing quality in the 3^rd/4^th place ‘final where they and Germany put on a genuine show. I described it as the best match of the World Cup. The result didn’t really matter, the pressure was off, and Sami Khedira’s late winner made it 3-2 to the Germans.

The next day, Spain would meet Holland in the final. I was delighted that there would be new champions this time. However, I was unsure whom to support. By the interval, my mind was made up: the Dutch were so dour and dirty, desperate to break up Spain’s ‘tiki-taka’ rhythm by any means possible, that I was firmly in the Spanish camp. Ref Howard Webb flourished umpteen cards and, in my own blunt word, it was “crap”.. Eventually I cheered my lungs out when Andres Iniesta volleyed an extra-time winner. Back then Iniesta was to me an unknown quantity, but from that day forward he was my favourite player. Forget Ronaldo, Messi, Neymar, Rooney et al: the little graduate of La Masia academy became my modern-day idol.

World Cup Memories - 1998 and 2002

Two years after football ‘came home’ for Euro 96, the World Cup was hosted just across the Channel in France. Buoyed by the fun and euphoria from the previous tournament, England fans expected great things from Glenn Hoddle’s squad after missing 1994 altogether. Baddiel and Skinner updated their lyrics to the Lightning Seeds’ stirring anthem ‘Three Lions’ and pipped ‘Vindaloo’ to the number one spot. The comedians’ daily live BBC2 show “World Cup Fantasy Football” was required viewing in our household, too. And everyone wanted to see how David Beckham, Alan Shearer and 17 year-old boy wonder Michael Owen would fare on the greatest stage.

Expanding to include 32 countries, this World Cup would be bigger and brighter than ever and, with many matches scheduled for peak time viewing over here, interest and audience figures were high. I particularly enjoyed the spectacle of colourful walls of fans, from the vivid orange of the Dutch to the red-and-white chequerboards from Croatia. Nigeria (green/white) and Cameroon (green/yellow) were typically exuberant and it was great to see Jamaica’s ‘Reggae Boyz’ represented for the first time. They didn’t get very far but nobody seemed to care very much; everything was irie, man.

There were shades of 2018 in that England faced both Tunisia and Colombia but as usual, we bowed out to one of our two wartime nemeses, Argentina, this time in the first knockout round. The commuter trains home that Tuesday evening were full of blokes anticipating the clash determined not to miss the kickoff from St Etienne and it was certainly a classic. Two dodgy penalties inside the first ten minutes ignited the blue touch paper on a footballing firecracker. It wasn’t always pretty but young Owen’s carefree gallop into the area to fire England 2-1 ahead in the sixteenth minute really got the nation buzzing. However it was even-stevens again by half-time. Afterwards came one of the most infamous incidents in England’s World Cup history, although I was on the phone when it happened! A floored Beckham flicked a petulant kick at Diego Simeone under the very nose of ref Kim Nielsen. Up thrust the red card, Gabriel Batistuta nodded his approval and the floppy-haired Man U winger trudged off to a summer of ridicule and castigation. Still, it didn’t exactly wreck his career, did it?

Down to ten men, England reverted to the much over-rated Dunkirk spirit and battled away admirably in a ten-man defence to survive extra time, after which penalties awaited. The nation uttered a collective groan the players could probably hear in the middle of France. Ince and Batty duly missed theirs and we were out.

The tournament didn’t end, of course. There were some strong sides and outstanding individuals on show that year. Chile had Ivan Zamorano and Marcelo Salas up front, JJ Okocha (Nigeria) and Denilson (Brazil) performed some breathtaking tricks and flicks, Denmark boasted Peter Schmeichel in goal and the Laudrup brothers, while Rekdal and Tore-Andre Flo combined well for Norway to beat Brazil 2-1 in the group stage. My diary also lauded Norway’s opening draw with Morocco (“That’s what football‘s about”) and Iran’s “exciting” 2-1 revenge on USA.

European champions Germany only squeezed into the quarters thanks to a late brace by Klinsmann and Bierhoff before being taken apart 3-0 by Croatia, for whom Davor Suker was excellent up front. They went out in a niggly semi-final to France but deserved their eventual third place. Meanwhile a fine Dutch side was also progressing to the last four. Unfortunately they succumbed to Brazil in a shootout but there will always be this fabulous winner against Argentina converted by Dennis Bergkamp. I think the commentator liked it, too!

And so it all came down to a Final between the host nation and perennial favourites Brazil at the Stade de France on 12^th July. After all the pre-kick-off hoo-hah over whether Ronaldo would actually play – more ins and outs than the hokey-cokey – it wasn’t only the star striker who looked lacklustre and mentally out of sorts. France dominated the scoreline thanks to Zinedine Zadane’s two headers and Petit’s coup-de-grace but for me the over-riding memory was of right-back Lilian Thuram thwarting every attack that came his way. For all Rivaldo’s eye-popping stepover sequences, the defender gave a masterclass on how concentration on the ball can frustrate the fanciest of fancy-dans. Hours after Didier Deschamps lifted the trophy, I wrote “I still have an inane smile on my face”.

Four years later, when the World Cup was shared by Japan and South Korea, France flopped miserably. I didn’t see much of the early games as I was on a Mediterranean cruise holiday. However, I do recall buying ice cream in a small Sorrento café where the owner was diverted by a TV in the back office. I heard some tinny cheering so asked him who had scored. It was Senegal, taking the lead over the champs in the opening fixture. Things didn’t improve and they finished bottom of Group A, goalless!

For a change, England found themselves in the ‘group of death’. However, against the odds, they survived. They even gained revenge by beating Argentina. I’d already taken the whole week off so, with Billericay bedecked in flags of St George in place of the recent Jubilee bunting, I was able to watch it on the telly. Typically I missed the only goal, David Beckham’s 44^th minute spot-kick.

Because of the eight-hour time difference, most matches took place in the morning or early afternoon. When England met Brazil in the quarter-finals, I had the game on whilst preparing for the Friday commute. Michael Owen pounced early on but Rivaldo equalised whilst I was donning my shoes. The rail journey into London was already affected by football fever. The newsagents were closed and trains had been extended earlier in the morning to cater for those intending to watch in the office. Approaching my Broadcasting House destination I recall strolling up Regent Street and hearing cheers from an open window. Surely England hadn’t won? No, they hadn’t. Ronaldinho’s audacious free-kick over Seaman’s helpless ponytail had settled the match despite the flamboyant Brazilian’s red card with half an hour remaining. I noted that evening: “Now I can enjoy the World Cup without the interminable hype”.

There were other moments to savour: for example, Senegal’s stunning counter-attacking goal against Denmark. Robbie Keane’s late goals also carried Ireland into the last sixteen before Spain sent them packing on penalties. However, the tournament will be remembered more for some disgraceful bent refereeing and players’ play-acting. In particular, South Korea’s progress to the semis was eased considerably by an easy group and appalling decisions against Italy and Spain in the knockouts. A shame because they had a decent side and brought out several saves from Buffon in the Italy game. As we had witnessed at the Seoul Olympics, the US satellite nation were notoriously prone to corruption to gain sporting advantage.

I also remember my incredulity at Rivaldo’s disgusting histrionics against Turkey. Obviously a boyhood influence on Neymar, the Brazilian’s reaction to a ball kicked against a thigh (rolling around clutching his face) would have been laughable had it not resulted in Hakan Unsal’s straight red. In the end, the two best sides, Brazil and Germany, met in the final, with Ronaldo’s finishing against Oliver Kahn proving decisive. And let’s not forget the referee: the peerless Pierluigi Collina, surely the most famous official in football. Respect to his bald head, alien eyes and good humour. He was often more watchable than the football!

World Cup memories: 1990 and 1994

Italia ’90 is widely considered to be one of the poorest World Cups, largely because of the dearth of goals. It’s true that many teams seemed happier to adopt an ultra-negative approach and ‘play for penalties’ rather than attempt to win in normal play. Sadly it’s a strategy that, despite their abysmal record in shootouts, England have also used and many teams still maintain to this day.

However, for me it was one of the more entertaining tournaments. Perhaps it was because I had an additional perspective. My job at the time was in the BBC’s Broadcasting Research department so I would analyse both official and ‘overnight’ viewing figures, pick out newsworthy stats and compile a report at the end. Like Luis Suarez, the World Cup gave me plenty to sink my teeth into and I paid particular attention to the live games shown by the Beeb, which would generate some of the highest ratings of the year. Some things don’t change.1990 was the first time I became aware of the seriously competitive nature of broadcasters with regard to their estimated audiences for sport. Don’t let anyone tell you that ratings only matter to the commercial companies; we wanted to win as much as England did.

What helped this time around was the progress to the semi-finals of England and the surprise advance of Jack Charlton’s Republic of Ireland – half of whom seemed to be English players with Irish grandmothers, or just a penchant for Guinness - to the quarters. The UEFA ban on English clubs because of incessant hooliganism had been served but the violent minority amongst England supporters was still a huge concern. Fortunately most of the headlines were made by the players on the pitch, especially when Paul Gascoigne was on the scene. And then we had the twin soundtrack of Pavarotti’s ‘Nessun Dorma’ and the unofficial anthem ‘World in Motion’ by Englandneworder, including that John Barnes rap. The feelgood factor was high.

The tournament got off to a sensational start when holders Argentina were beaten by lowly Cameroon who also had two players sent off. It’s true they couldn’t defend, and too often their tackling consisted of crude bodychecking, but their unsophisticated, devil-may-care approach was strangely endearing. So were the corner-flag dance routines of Roger Milla, the 38 year-old striker who managed to perform his hip-swivels four times during that summer. They also saw off Romania and Colombia and had been 2-1 up in their quarter-final against England before two well-taken Lineker penalties knocked them out. I felt they were extremely unfortunate to lose this rollercoaster of a match.

In their first ever World Cup, Ireland surprised everyone by making the last eight and yet, in their five matches, they scored only two goals. Having said that, Argentina reached the final and collectively managed only five (including this magical Maradona-Caniggia combo to knock out Brazil), one fewer than Toto Schillaci, who was an unexpected revelation up front for Italy. Dad and I watched Italy at their best against the Czechs in their Group B encounter, including a brilliant goal by the mercurial Roberto Baggio. “Oh, yes!” He was also one of the stars in 1994, of which more later.

Elsewhere the competition witnessed x-rated tackles and an insidious prevalence of cynical dives, with West Germany’s Jurgen Klinsmann one of the worst offenders. However, probably the most disgusting incident involved his strike partner Rudi Voller and Dutch defender Frank Rijkaard. Holland were highly fancied having won the 1988 Euros at a canter. Their world-class trio of Rijkaard, Ruud Gullit and Marc van Basten played for AC Milan, while Germany’s Andreas Brehme, Klinsmann and captain Lothar Matthaus represented city rivals Internazionale. Voller was also in Serie A with Roma. When the two countries met in Round 2, all the historic rivalries surfaced and reached an awful apex when Rijkaard spat at an angry Voller not once but twice as their altercation resulted in red cards. My diary records that ITV’s coverage of the match was, appropriately enough, followed by the hit satirical show, Spitting Image. Say no more!

The final was a miserable affair won by West Germany, the disgraceful behaviour on the pitch matched only by John Motson’s pious commentary. The 3^rd-4^th place ‘final’ between England and Italy was far more entertaining, open, fair and good-natured But for me and most Britons the highlight of the World Cup was the semi-final between the Germans and England. We had sneaked through by the odd goal here and there but suddenly there was a genuine chance of reaching a first final since ’66. Bobby Robson had moulded a very good side around the talented Gazza, Lineker, centre-back Terry Butcher, veteran ‘keeper Shilton and skipper Bryan Robson although the latter suffered his customary serious injury in the group encounter with Holland.

Frustratingly I missed the first half but was very much caught up in the tense drama of the second half, extra time and those blasted penalties. Brehme’s deflected free kick over Shilton’s head looked to have won it before the lethal Lineker equalised. After that, it was all about Gazza’s yellow card and babyish blubbing, Chris Waddle blazing over and manager Bobby Robson’s rueful smile in defeat. It had been so close.

It was also a case of ‘so far’ as indeed was the 1994 tournament. With Graham ‘Turnip’ Taylor in charge and a largely new-look side, England failed to emerge from a group including Holland and Norway, whose total dominance against us in Oslo was the decisive result. As in 1981, our boys “took one hell of a beating”.

The next World Cup was one of my least favourites. With none of the home nations competing, Ireland became honorary Brits for three heady weeks in June. It also offered up the most turgid two hours of football ever seen in a final: a nil-nil more cagey than a night at the zoo. Thus the defining image of a tournament held in the USA, a country with no idea of what football was about, was of the ponytailed one slumped in despair on the Pasadena pitch after firing his penalty miles over the bar.

That was a shame because there were more positive elements to remember. The stadia were full, the spectators enthusiastic and Mexican ‘keeper Campo’s jersey was such a kaleidoscope of colour that it hurt your eyes (“I wouldn’t wear a shirt like that”, said ex-goalie Dad, predictably).

There were also a few surprises. The USA pushed Brazil close and South Korea scored two against Germany. Ray Houghton’s speculative lob beat Italy but Ireland were as goal-shy as they had been in Italy. It was fun watching highlights of Russia’s demolition of Cameroon; Oleg Salenko scored a World Cup record five goals!

I didn’t see many live matches; Rotaract and the small matter of moving house frequently intervened. However, I was able to catch a few gems. I was ecstatic when Stoichkov and Letchkov helped Bulgaria beat the Germans in the quarter-finals but the most thrilling attacking encounter was the second round clash between Argentina and Romania, for whom Hagi and Dumitrescu were outstanding. A drug-fuelled Maradona had already been sent home in disgrace so it was left to Brazil’s twin strike-force of Romario and Bebeto to bring some Latino flair to the closing stages. Roll on, France 98…. 

World Cup memories - 1982 and '86

By the Eighties, I was no longer a naïve and wide-eyed teenager. Maybe still naïve, but as my full-time education bowed out in favour of the wicked world of work, sport wasn’t always a high priority. In the summer of ’82, I was fortunate that my Finals exams ended six days before the World Cup began in Spain. With favourable match times, I was able to binge on football in the TV lounge of my halls of residence. 

A week into the tournament I joined my fellow undergraduates queuing in the Maths building corridor to peer apprehensively at the results list on the information board. Phew! I’d somehow managed to achieve a “wholly satisfying” 2:2. And what form did my wild student celebrations take? Did I run naked across the university campus? Did I paint my name in red on the door of Exeter Cathedral? No. According to my diary “I rang home then watched USSR 2 Scotland 2”. I obviously had my priorities right!

I even found time to write a preview, review at each stage and comments on each game I watched, all of which comes in mighty handy to jog my memory for this blog.

Assisted by the expansion of the finals to accommodate 24 countries, there was plenty of UK interest. A dull-as-ditchwater England side had managed to qualify alongside Scotland and, for the first time since 1958, Northern Ireland. FIFA had sensibly kept England and Argentina apart (we were at war over the Falklands) but inevitably we ended up playing old rivals West Germany in the second group stage.

Scotland found themselves in the same group as Brazil and the USSR but, unable to cope with the stifling heat of Seville, were soon heading back to cooler climes. England got off to a flyer against highly-fancied France, Bryan Robson taking advantage of horrendous marking to volley an opener after 25 seconds. However, two nil-nils in the second stage – all huff, puff but no end product – meant no semi-final appearance. Northern Ireland actually topped their first round group after Gerry Armstrong drilled home the only goal against Spain. However, even with the peerless Pat Jennings in goal, they shipped four against the French in the second phase decider and that was that.

I felt desperately sorry for Cameroon. In their first Finals appearance, they didn’t lose a match yet failed to progress. Italy also drew all three matches but crept through by scoring two goals to the Africans’ one. If only Cameroon could have learnt how to shoot, their free-flowing football would have attained the outcome their exuberance deserved. That would also have changed the course of history given what happened to Italy. A Boniek-inspired Poland won the group and eventually finished in third place overall.

Elsewhere, Hungary demolished El Salvador 10-1, Belgium surprised Argentina on the first day and newcomers Algeria upset the Germans 2-1. Unfortunately the North Africans were disgracefully robbed of progress by blatant match-fixing by West Germany and Austria. In the final match, the only result which would enable both the European neighbours to advance was a German win by one or two goals. After Hrubesch put them ahead early on, both sides indulged in a pathetic aimless kickaround for eighty minutes. Even many German fans were disgusted, Algeria protested but rules are rules. Rules which were changed in time for the ’86 Cup.

As a result of that disgrace, the Germans became football’s public enemy number one. But matters were to get even worse. Like everyone else, I was appalled by an incident during their semi-final against France. With sweeper Marius Tresor behind a magical midfield comprising Michel Platini, Jean Tigana, Alain Giresse and Luis Fernandez, they were clearly capable of some gorgeously fluid football, and they produced when it mattered. The West Germans were an excellent side, too, and it made for a thrilling encounter. I wrote afterwards that it was “one of the most exciting I have ever seen” and one that was eventually decided by a penalty shootout. Penalties? Germans? Guess who won that one!

But amidst all the beauty of the play occurred probably the ugliest foul ever committed in the World Cup or indeed anywhere. In the second half, with the score 1-1, French full-back Patrick Battiston was sent clear. With German goalie Harald Schumacher haring out of his area, Battiston reached the ball first and tapped it past him. The camera followed the ball as it trickled wide of the post. But the view from behind the goal revealed the cynical bodycheck committed by Schumacher. The ball had gone so he deliberately smashed into the Frenchman with such ferocity that the victim was knocked unconscious, jaw broken, and slipping into a coma. After receiving lengthy medical attention, Battiston was stretchered off and play resumed - but not with the expected free-kick. The ref, in his wisdom, awarded a goal-kick and Schumacher received neither card nor any admonishment of any kind. Incredible.

If possible, the Section C match between Italy and Brazil had been even better. The South Americans boasted players of high calibre: Zico was the flashy forward, Falcao a creative goal-scoring midfielder and captain Socrates seemed to glide with grace and power all over the pitch. It would take a mighty fine side to beat them, and Italy hit their stride with perfect timing. As my contemporary comment stated, “An outstanding match, in which Italy proved they can attack brilliantly when necessary. Bruno Conti was wonderful on the wing but Paolo Rossi hammered a hat-trick for a 3-2 victory.

The Juventus striker also opened the scoring in the final at the Bernabeu. However that match is best remembered for the second goal – and the manic celebration in particular. If watching Schumacher being beaten wasn’t heartwarming enough, I and anyone outside West Germany shared Marco Tardelli’s emotions as he hared towards the ecstatic Italy bench, eyes staring, arms flailing and screaming “Marco… Marco…. “

                                              

For the record, Italy won 3-1 and 40 year-old goalie Dino Zoff was the man presented with the trophy by King Juan Carlos. For all the dominance in Europe of clubs such as Liverpool and Nottingham Forest, England’s lack of attacking imagination let them down but they would improve.

1982 was also the last World Cup when ITV had the superior studio panel. The staid BBC were no match for the name-dropping George Best, humorous Jimmy Greaves and opinionated sparring partners Brian Clough and John Bond. Two months later, though, any favouritism towards the commercial broadcaster was abandoned permanently as I began my own career at the Beeb. Four years is a long time and by 1986 the working life of a commuter, plus a hectic schedule of evening activities with Billericay Rotaract, offered priorities other than watching the World Cup on the telly.

Mexico had stepped into the breach as hosts after Colombia’s withdrawal four years earlier, and this was the summer which introduced the ‘Mexican Wave’ to our sporting vocabulary. Originally a great way of enlivening a dull football match, its over-use in the 21^st century has made it a tiresome chore. Thanks, Mexico. Maybe if the football had been more enthralling, there would have been no need for it.

Red cards were in vogue, too. A Uruguayan was sent off in the first minute against Scotland and even mild-mannered Ray Wilkins got his marching orders for petulantly throwing the ball at the ref in England’s goalless draw with Morocco. ‘Butch’ never played for England again but at least he gave QPR some good years at the end of his career.

Penalty shootouts were also popular; three of the quarter-finals were settled this way. For all their drama, I am firmly in the ‘anti’ camp, although I appreciate that if you can’t settle inside 120 minutes and there’s no chance of scheduling a replay, there’s no satisfactory alternative. The best game I watched was the Brazil v France game, in which the European champions edged the shootout despite Platini’s hopeless attempt. Another classic was Belgium’s defeat of the Soviet Union 4-3 after extra time.

However, the tournament really belonged to Diego Maradona. He’d made his mark in Spain ’82 but in Mexico he was in his pomp, aged 25 and not yet addled by drugs or crippled by celebrity. Of course, he achieved notoriety in that quarter-final against England, who had overcome a dreadful start to the competition thanks to a Gary Lineker hat-trick against Poland and another 3-0 win over Paraguay. I only half-watched the Argentina match, my attention diverted by the tedious task, along with Rotaract colleagues, of unravelling miles of tangled Town Show bunting! However, we did stop work to gawp at the replays of Maradona’s ‘Hand of God’ goal in the second half.

Just twelve minutes later, we could only sit and applaud the Argentine captain for his amazing individual effort. He collected the ball inside his own half, waltzed through the England team at will, the ball seemingly glued to his left foot, gave Peter Shilton ‘the eye’ and slid home for 2-0. After John Barnes injected some pace and skill, Lineker pulled one back and very nearly equalised but it wasn’t quite enough. Maradona had tied England in knots but we fared rather better with the bunting.

Another Diego double did for Belgium but he failed to score in the final. Perhaps reacting against the post-Falklands media nonsense, Dad and I supported Argentina against West Germany. It wasn’t a classic but produced an exciting final twenty minutes, crowned by Burruchaga’s 83^rd minute winner.

Lineker won the Golden Boot but Mexico, and the World Cup, belonged to Diego Maradona.