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 - 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 - 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.

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.