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 21st 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 83rd
minute winner.
Lineker won the Golden Boot but Mexico, and the World Cup,
belonged to Diego Maradona.
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