World Cup memories: 1990 and 1994

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

World Cup memories - 1982 and '86

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                              

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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