Cauliflower ears and headbands - Memorable Forwards

Even after fifty years of watching rugby, the world of the pack remains a mystery to me. As a youngster I would gawp in bewilderment as sixteen enormous hairy cauliflower-eared blokes meshed together in a scrum, made crunching tackles, launched unsubtle haymakers or just trampled over each other in the mud. They may not, with a few exceptions, be as hairy these days. The kit is tighter and the players fitter, but the riddle rumbles on like a permanently rolling maul.

The front three offer the greatest enigma. At least Max Boyce created celebrities of Graham Price, Bobby Windsor and Charlie Faulkner in the mid-Seventies in his celebratory song “The Pontypool Front Row”. I’m not sure which has a tight head, and which is loose, but the props look the scariest of all. I guess that goes with the job, as does immense strength, given the dangerous physical pressures the have to withstand in the scrum’s engine room.

From Fran Cotton to John Hayes and Dan Cole, these giants have thundered around pitches over the top yet under the radar. I can’t honestly say I’ve had favourites, although I had a soft spot for the shaggy Italian Martin Castrogiovanni. Perhaps the most memorable of all were the equally shaggy-haired pair of Welsh props straight out of central casting. One was blonde, one dark, but each had a striking mass of permed curls more commonly spotted on four legs adorning Welsh hillsides. I doubt they ever visited the barber's to cut their hair; the local shearer would be more appropriate. The media labelled them the ‘Hair Bears’. In my household they were affectionately dubbed the ‘Sheepies’. I’m referring, of course, to Duncan and Adam Jones.

In between the props crouches the hooker. With scrums taking so long nowadays the Number 2 shirt is rarely spotted, as elusive as a Siberian wader on the Norfolk marshes. With wonky put-ins apparently accepted by refs, they no longer have a ball to hook so presumably all they have left in the setpiece is to bite the opposition’s ears off. Not even Brian Moore at his most effusive on the commentary box dares to reveal all the secrets: I guess what goes on in the scrum stays in the scrum. Luckily they are occasionally allowed out, blinking in the daylight, to throw the ball to the lineout jumpers, an increasingly specialist skill. 

The second-rowers are just props stretched out on the rack. They also seem to enjoy a penchant for the bandage headband look (e.g. England’s Bill Beaumont) or scrappy rags fluttering from the ears (Alan Wyn Jones) as they stride around the pitch a few inches taller than anyone else. Before lifting became legal, the numbers four and five used to dominate lineouts purely because they could simply reach higher than their fellow forwards. When I think of the lock forward, the likes of Gordon Brown (no, not the Prime Minister!), his Scottish 6 foot 10 successor Richie Gray, Moss Keane and Donncha O’Callaghan spring to mind, along with the ‘Toulouse Lighthouse’ Fabien Pelous or South Africa’s Victor Matfield.

Then there was Alan Martin of Aberavon and Wales. Draped in a loose red shirt the size of a superking sheet, he would often be the lineout target man who ‘palmed’ the ball back to Gareth Edwards. However, he didn’t win a shedload of caps so his place in my memory bank owes more to his value as a distance penalty-taker. If the kick was beyond the range of Edwards, Bennett, Fenwick or JPR, it was Martin’s job to heel out a mud pie on which to set the ball barely angled above horizontal, then give it an almighty toe-poke punt. Raw, rough and ready, perhaps, but surprisingly effective.

I suppose the back three are the glory boys of the pack. The flankers are the ones with the strength and pace while the mighty Number Eights hold it all together at the back, always in tune with the scrum-half with regard to the agreed ‘plays’. Back in the Seventies, there were great exponents like Tony Neary, Fergus Slattery and Jean-Pierre Rives. The French skipper, together with his number eight Bastiat, was a nasty so-and-so who had a dreadful reputation for the rough stuff, even in the era when blind eyes were normally turned from brazen violence on the rugby pitch. I always admired the French way of playing but it was hard to love what Rives and his pack were doing.

A generation later, France boasted the likes of Serge Betsen and the cool-as-a-cucumber Thierry Dusautoir, while the Nineties All Blacks featured Zinzan Brooke. Besides boasting a Christian name to die for, the number seven was a superstar forward, as was South Africa’s World Cup-winning captain Francois Pienaar.

Wales, too, have revelled in some talented and versatile twenty-first century back three exponents, so vital in their Grand Slam successes. Lydiate, Faletau, Ryan Jones and Warburton have all run, scrambled, foraged and tackled like Trojans but for me two others have stood out even more. Colin Charvis was unmissable in his scruffy semi-dreadlocks but the red-headed Martyn Williams was outstanding. He wasn’t as big as many around him but was superb around the fringes and, like Charvis, also collected many great tries. Nobody in Wales begrudged his contrived substitution against the Barbarians in 2012 which welcomed him to the 100-cap club.

Another Welshman, Mervyn Davies, was probably the first number eight I would readily recognise. It wasn’t his prowess on the field, although that was legendary, but his trademark moustache and broad white headband. He wasn’t bulky by modern standards but was a Wales and Lions mainstay in the Seventies before illness intervened. Another memorable back-rower from that decade was England’s Andy Ripley. I distinctly remember his head-down-high-knee action when sprinting away from chasing defenders, a style which also served him well when competing in TV’s Superstars. Like Merv the Swerv, sadly he died far too young.

Two other pack leaders I enjoyed watching are very much alive. In the Noughties, Sebastian Chabal was probably the most distinctive rugby player in world rugby. His epithet of ‘The Caveman’ was incredibly apposite. It wasn’t just his fearsome long, lank dark hair and beard, but also that unchanging expression which said: “Me, rugby player, me stop you running”, albeit in French. Obviously. 

Wild man Chabal is poles apart from balding, multilingual Sergio Parisse. The Argentine-born long-time captain of Italy seems the archetypal modern rugby forward. An athletic six foot five, he seems capable of playing anywhere and doing anything. There he is beneath the drop-out, leading a rolling maul, catching in the lineout, delivering an exquisite behind-the-back pass and storming over for a rare Italy try. I’ve also seen him plant a perfect drop-goal between the posts. I feel so sorry for him in that he has carried such a relatively weak side for so long. Had he been born a Kiwi or Englishman he’d be a genuine superstar of world rugby. If I had to pick a favourite player of all time, Parisse would surely sit in my top three. 

Crossing the Line: Memorable Tries

As with goals in football, tries are the lifeblood of the rugby historian. I daresay a crunching ‘hit’ will live long in the memory of the sport’s connoisseurs but for me it’s a player crossing the try line and the ref raising one arm in acknowledgement. These days, they’re more likely to signal to the video ref (TMO) for all but the most patently obviously legal scores, but you know what I mean.

Tries come in all shapes and sizes, of course, from the scrum-half’s burrowing through a forest of calves and a slow-moving morass of maulers to the neat passing move and thrilling solo run. For me, the ones which stand out are those in the latter categories. The Five and Six Nations competitions have served up some beauties over the years.

I was brought up on admiring the slick, rat-a-tat cross-field passing of the French and skilful breaks of the Welsh. Phil Bennett’s completion of a wonderful team move against Scotland in 1977 was one of the best. Wales have fielded some superb speedy ‘three-quarters’, too, from JJ Williams and Nigel Walker to Shane Williams. However, I recall this mazy run from Ieuan Evans also against the Scots, in 1988. Yes, there were missed tackles but he escaped from a touchline cul-de-sac with elan. I even had to applaud the occasional England effort, such as the Guscott break and Rory Underwood finish for the second try in the 1993 Calcutta Cup fixture.

Throughout the Eighties, nobody was more enterprising, or unpredictable, than Serge Blanco. As full-back, the Frenchman rarely took the easy option in his own ‘twenty-two’. Instead of booting into touch, he would often launch seemingly kamikaze attacks. Some failed within metres. However, when they paid off, he was in a league of his own. This amazing gallop the full length of the pitch stunned the Wallabies in 1987. France could also leave gaps or others to exploit. For solo efforts, Rob Howley’s tantalising run for Wales in 1999 was brilliant.

It’s not only the flamboyant backs who grab the glory. Sometimes the forwards get to stretch their legs. I remember Scotland’s Jim Calder finishing a fantastic move with barely a double-figure shirt in sight back in ’82, while Scott Quinnell and Andy Ripley were always a good bet for unlikely running try scorers. However, perhaps the greatest instance of a forward with a winger’s mentality was Italy’s Mauro Bergamasco. His brother was supposed to be the quick run, but flanker Mauro’s devastating sprint against the Scots in 2001 was incredible.

New Zealand’s Jonah Lomu looked more like a number eight than a three-quarter but he was a twentieth-century rarity in that he combined enormous power, pace and tackling strength. It was a case of give him the ball and watch him steamroller any defender who dared attempt to block his path. He scored many tries for the All Blacks in his illness-curtailed career but I’ll never forget the way, aged just 20 and in a 1995 World Cup semi-final, he trampled over the hapless Mike Catt as if he was just a troublesome divot. He went on to score another three in that match, too. No wonder the England skipper Will Carling called him a “freak”.

However, when it comes to all-time faves I’ve watched, I reckon two team moves top the list. In 1991, a cunning combination of speed, support and sleight of hand and boot created a glorious try under the Twickenham posts for Philippe Saint-Andre. It wasn’t enough to win the match, though. I was aged 29 at the time, well able to appreciate classy play.

Back in January ’73 I was a mere eleven, untutored in the niceties of rugby union. Nonetheless, watching Grandstand with Dad on Saturday afternoon I was left incredulous having witnessed possibly the finest twenty seconds of sport not only in my then rather short life but probably for as long as I live. It was a blistering start to New Zealand’s showpiece fixture against the Barbarians, and the All Blacks were on the attack. Phil Bennett struggled to retrieve a bouncing ball heading towards his own posts. Suddenly, instead of kicking for safety he opted instead to launch a counter. My sixth form Maths teacher Mr Smith (a proud Welshman) later described the fly-half as being able to “sidestep a house”, and he was probably not wrong. And so began a seven-man combination, six of them Welsh, which was to demonstrate an exhibition of flowing rugby which, even with repeated viewing 45 years later, never, EVER fails to cause goosebumps and tears in my eyes. Tom David’s one-handed pass was amazing but when Gareth Edwards popped up and dived full-length for the try, it seemed like perfection. It still does. As stand-in commentator Cliff Morgan exclaimed: “What a score!” It certainly was.

My Most Memorable Rugby Matches

While the three rugby games I’ve seen in the flesh have not been classics, there have been many memorable matches over the years I’ve enjoyed on TV. With the help of a trawl through old diaries, and the further memory-jogging aid of YouTube, I’ve come up with a selection of the best I have watched.

They tend to fall into a small number of categories. Some stand out for being agonisingly close encounters, often with dramatic conclusions. Others are memorable for their significance, while my contemporaneous notes indicate the warm, fuzzy feeling engendered by superb attacking play. Then there are the pleasant surprise results or the frankly bizarre.

The first Five Nations fixture which has stayed in my mind without any recourse to research was the Scotland-Wales clash in 1971. Seen in black and white, of course, it now serves as a reminder of how bewitching the Welsh side were in their early-Seventies pomp, how small the players look compared with today’s giants and also how loose defensive tackling could be in those days. For all the thrilling tries by Barry John, Gareth Edwards and Gerald Davies, the definitive image I have in my head is that coolly-taken towering conversion decider by the flanker John Taylor.

That ended 19-18, but I also waxed lyrical 28 years later when France and Wales served up a 34-33 cliffhanger in Paris. The peroxide-haired Tomas Castaignede and triple try scorer Emile Ntmack starred for the home team but Neil Jenkins’ boot made the difference. I was with Kim at the time so didn’t watch many rugby matches but I was thankful for the opportunity to witness this one. Six weeks later, well into April, the final Five Nations championship was determined by another nail-biter, although sadly this one eluded me. In the very last game, Wales came from behind to defeat the English favourites by a single point and hand the trophy to the free-scoring Scots.

More recently, the Scots were on the receiving end of another emotional cliffhanger. In the 2015 World Cup, they were robbed of a semi-final place by a dodgy penalty decision as Australia pipped them by 35-34. Ouch! However, for sheer disbelief, nothing can ever compete with the astonishing finale to the France-Wales encounter in the 2017 RBS 6 Nations tournament. At eighty minutes, the Welsh were five points ahead thanks to Leigh Halfpenny’s six penalties. However, a controversial reverse substitution, relentless French attacks and desperate defence created an incredibly tense situation. France were awarded a sequence of penalties but needed a converted try to win. When Chuly finally bundled over the line, the clock on the screen registered 100 minutes. Record-breaking for the tournament and heartbreaking for Wales, while as a TV spectator I felt totally drained.

That match didn’t affect the destination of the overall trophy but there have been many dramatic title-clinchers watched by me from one settee or other over the years. An early example came forty years ago, when Wales claimed a Grand Slam by beating France 16-7 at the old Arms Park. Much as I loved the French at the time, there was something awe-inspiring observing Edwards and Bennett in tandem. And three drop-goals was almost unheard of in the Seventies.

Two years later, it was England’s turn to win all four matches, including an “exciting, free-flowing” 30-18 defeat of the Scots at Murrayfield. It must have been a brilliant performance for me to praise England! Fast forward ten years and the Five Nations went to a last-game shootout between the same countries. On this occasion I cheered Scotland to a 13-7 triumph and their second Grand Slam in six years.

In the new millennium, since the arrival of Italy, it has been harder to achieve a 100% success rate and yet there have been several Grand Slams. 2009 produced another winner-takes-all finish, although Wales needed to beat Ireland by more than 13 points to take the Triple Crown and overall title.  It proved an attritional contest with the men in red 6-0 up at half-time. However, with skipper Brian O’Driscoll crossing the try line yet again and Ronan O’Gara kicking the goals, the Irish won 17-15 to achieve their first Grand Slam for 61 years.

In 2012, I was in the process of becoming an honorary Welsh citizen. With perfect timing I was able to absorb the very special Grand Slam fever which permeated the entire principality. It wasn’t a new experience for my fellow Cardiffians; Wales had won in both 2005 and 2008 with a new adventurous style. Whilst the dashing Shane Williams had retired, by 2012 Sam Warburton was leading an array of talent and, despite having scrambled wins against Ireland and England, went into the last day determined to beat France. They didn’t disappoint. Alex Cuthbert scored the only try, Dan Lydiate tackled like a trojan and even football fans went wild with delight.

Low-scoring attritional forward battles can make for absorbing television but for me, creative running is what rugby is all about. In this respect, two matches in particular have stood out. Both involved Wales, but in different ways. In 1991, after watching France romp home 36-3, my diary reported: “Brilliant back play in massacring Wales was so heartwarming to watch. Magic”. Twenty-two years later my loyalty was directed towards the men in red as they put the preening primadonnas of England to the sword by 30-3.

In 1993, too, Wales got the better of England but it was a much tighter affair. Will Carling’s side were the favourites but Ieuan Evans’ pace and resilient second half defence ensured a surprise 10-9 result. “One in the eye for the jingo boys”, I wrote breathlessly. In 2015, England were again hotly fancied, this time in their own World Cup. They were drawn in the group of death with Australia, and Wales were expected to miss out. The home team played all their fixtures at Fortress Twickenham so it was especially extraordinary to watch the Welsh upset the applecart with a vibrant 28-25 victory, having once been ten points adrift. That tournament also featured a match I missed but so wish I hadn’t: Japan’s nailbiting injury-time finale against South Africa. An astonishing upset.

A couple of summers previously, no fewer than ten Welshmen were in the British Lions XV in Australia. I’d never shown much interest in Lions tours. They take place in the cricket season, the games often kicking off at inconvenient times on the other side of the globe, and I struggle to understand what the Lions represent. 2013 saw a significant shift in my opinion.

It felt like we were watching a powerful Wales outfit (plus a handful of guests) take on the Welsh bêtes noires, the Wallabies. The first two Tests had been decided by extremely narrow margins and the whole series came down to the Sydney decider on the morning of Saturday 6^th July. We had been renting a cottage in the Carmarthenshire village of Llansteffan, and had to be out after breakfast. Luckily we were granted permission to keep our car outside in order to hang around for a few extra hours so we could sit in the Castle Inn and join the locals watching the rugby. The atmosphere was wonderfully convivial, boosted by the pleasure of experiencing a resounding 41-16 thrashing, So what if we faced lengthy jams on the M4 in a heatwave; we were on a rugby-induced high!

The background story can be the crucial ingredient in what makes a match memorable. My final choice is a perfect and unique example. It was Italy’s Six Nations fixture against Wales on 26^th February 2011. With exquisite symmetry, I saw the first half in an Italian restaurant, the second half in a Welsh pub. The score was irrelevant. What made it unforgettable was that it was my first date with Angie. For the record, Wales won the game but I won The Match!

Rugby Union - The Same only different

While football was always my first love, the oval ball game has constantly nibbled away at its supremacy. I never played it as a boy. It was only introduced at school for the lower school once I had advanced to what we then called the 4^th Year, ensuring I missed out. Just as well. With my lack of height and spindly legs, I’d never have survived to take my O levels had I been sent into the fray! But there was always the telly.

As a youngster, I found it difficult getting my head around rugby’s contrasting terminology. Having the backs, not forwards, scoring most of the points seemed particularly perverse. And why does the number 10 answer to stand-off, outside half and fly-half? One of many questions posed by an inquisitive boy and - let's be honest - a baffled 50-something.

Rugby League may have been on Grandstand every week but it was the short burst of Five Nations activity every fortnight between January and March which lent Union greater lustre. It was a very different sport in the early Seventies. Still strictly amateur, there were no organised leagues – the first attempt at a national ‘pyramid’ structure within England wasn’t introduced until 1987 - and the Final Score results section comprised a lengthy stream of seemingly random fixtures featuring places I’d never heard of. Where the hell were Rosslyn Park, Abertillery, Orrell or Heriots FP? (Actually I answered the final question when by chance in ’92 I stayed in an Edinburgh B&B directly opposite the ground!).

When I first started watching the BBC’s live coverage on Saturday afternoons, points totals were much lower than they are today and – let’s set my rose-tinted specs of nostalgia to one side – the play was more boring. That’s largely because a try earned only three points. As it was the same reward as a penalty, Rugby Union was much more of a kicking game. A free-running try was worth little on the scoreboard but its weight in gold for young spectators like me, especially when executed by France or Wales. And such creativity was carried out without spin passes which have so improved distance and accuracy

The 1971 Five Nations tournament was the last one before the try gained a point and it was a further two decades before its premium was raised again to its current five. I doubt very much that Wales’ Paul Thorburn would have been tempted to attempt this record-breaking ‘monster’ penalty from 1986 against the Scots in today’s game. His captain would have told him to kick for touch, take a lineout and fashion some kind of break for the posts.

The set-pieces have changed considerably since that time, too. The kickers had no benefit of those poncey plastic tees which some lackey has to bring on to the pitch these days. Instead, they had to mould a mud pie from the turf on which to place the ball. Watch the exemplary French full-back Pierre Villepreux go through the motions in ’72 for an idea of how ‘twas done.

The lineout has undergone more refinements than most. Five decades ago, it resembled a crowd of desperate refugees clamouring for food parcels, with only the tallest lock forward able to leap high enough to ‘palm’ it back to his scrum-half who could then launch an attack through the back line. Crucially, ‘lifting’ was outlawed. Only in the Nineties did the law-makers relent and make the illegal ‘hoist’ part of modern rugby. In my view, they have made it far more boring. Cleaner, perhaps, but the practice of catching and starting a slow-moving maul of meat is dull for those of us untrained in the dark arts of forward play.

Which brings me onto the scrum. Like many TV viewers, I’ve had to depend upon commentator Brian Moore for explaining infringements, for what the whistle had been blown and what the forwards were getting away with. Back in the day, scrums were probably more frequent but mercifully brief. The twenty-first century version is borne of our health and safety obsession but, with umpteen iterations of “Crouch, touch, set”, they can drag on for ages. Watch these Ireland-All Blacks set-pieces from 1973 for an amusing retrospective! And they are reminders of an age when the put-in had to go straight into the channel so that the hooker actually had a ball to hook. No matter how much rule-tinkering goes on, sides will always infringe to gain advantage, keeping one step ahead of the authorities. It would appear that sorting out the scrums is as intractable as Brexit.

Baggy shirts condemned once England sneakily discovered that by donning tightly-fitting shirts and shorts it made it much harder for opponents to stop them in full flight. Prior to the Nineties, a lot of ball-carriers were dragged back by handfuls of baggy material instead of text-book tackles. The highly successful national set-up under Will Carling’s captaincy owed almost as much to pushing refs to the limit as fine rugby. I’ll never forget Richard Hill’s penchant for dummy passes behind the scrum with the sole intention of fooling opposing players into moving offside, thus conceding a penalty. It was borderline cheating but within the laws of the game at the time. Consequently they had to be rewritten to halt this reprehensible practice. The new body-hugging kit must be a lot lighter and less likely to become weighed down with mud. Poor Gareth Edwards looks the worse for wear after this famous try for Wales in 1972 but for the forwards it was part and parcel of winter afternoons. For club players around the world, it still is.

Watching in black and white, it was necessary to identify teams by means other than kit colour. Wales v Ireland was the worst, their red and green shirts sharing an almost identical shade of grey. When stained with slime, even the English lilywhites were problematic. Fortunately the Irish shirtback numbers were larger than anybody else’s, while the French were distinguishable by the unique continental ‘font’.

In more recent times, the autumn internationals have become another major bookmark in the sporting calendar. In my schooldays, I would take mild interest in the All Blacks when they toured these shores every four years or so. I think this owed everything to the media focus on whether anybody could actually beat the all-conquering New Zealanders. The first I remember was at the age of 11, and their visit ran from October to February. Some tour! Hardly any games were televised but in the few I did see, the most memorable ingredient was the visitors’ rendition of the intimidating ‘Haka’ before the start. It’s still supreme theatre but has lost some of its attraction through over-exposure. With other South Pacific nations like Fiji and Samoa also performing their own choreographed tongue-waggling war dances, they are more likely to induce shrugs of shoulders rather than knee-trembling fear.

In 2018, Rugby Union appears to be thriving. It’s no longer a sport of fifteen-a-side (how I hate the haphazard rabble of multiple 'replacements' sullying the final quarter!) and the players are faster, fitter and stronger than ever before. Professionalism has lured major league sponsors, the Six Nations generates large TV audiences and matchday revenues, while most leading club competitions around the world are holding their own. But it’s not a level playing field. The Welsh heartland is struggling to support just four pro regional clubs and these are dependent on the WRU and autumn internationals for funds to retain the best homegrown talent. I can’t comment upon what’s happening in the southern hemisphere but as long as the Six Nations dishes up appetising fare each winter, hopefully the sport will continue to preserve my own trifling interest for years to come. And it would help if Wales didn't wait to go 0-16 down before remembering how to play....

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 - 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 - 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.