Foreigers play abroad, too

The Champions League is back on the box, spread across umpteen channels and timeslots, but it wasn't always so.  For many years, my only opportunity to watch European clubs in action were in competitive matches against English opposition.

In the Seventies and Eighties, Football League clubs were regulars in the European Cup, UEFA Cup and Cup-Winners-Cup finals which had a fair chance to be snapped up by the BBC or ITV come May or June. Thus my younger self occasionally caught the likes of Bayern Munich, Borussia Moenchengladbach, Anderlecht, Valencia, FC Brugge, Roma or Benfica, featuring stars like Falcao, Beckenbauer, Camacho and Kempes. I probably saw – in black and white – the great Ajax team play Inter Milan in 1972 when Cruyff and co were in a purple patch.

It seems strange to think that Spain’s La Liga or the European Cup (now Champions League) wasn’t always dominated by Real Madrid and Barcelona, nor that Paris St Germain didn’t always win Ligue 1 or Juventus and Bayern Munich had, respectively, Serie A and the Bundesliga in their generously-proportioned back pockets. Real didn’t even hold that humungous hunk of silver at all between 1966 and 1998, and Barca had to wait until 1992 for their very first European Cup triumph.

In the Eighties and Nineties, Italy was the central focus of European club football. Serie A was the richest league on the continent, the prime destination for many of the most celebrated world players, including Brits such as Trevor Francis and Graeme Souness (Sampdoria), Ray Wilkins (Milan), David Platt (various), Ian Rush (Juventus) and, for three injury- and controversy-plagued seasons, Paul Gascoigne (Lazio).

It was when Gazza forsook Spurs for the cultural delights of Rome that Serie A attracted a bigger buzz amongst English football supporters and media alike. Channel 4, never a channel to mix with mainstream sports, took a gamble on broadcasting live matches on Sunday afternoons so we could see what all the fuss was about. I don’t think Dad and I cottoned on at first. However, with the new-fangled Premiership surrendering its soul to Rupert Murdoch’s fledgling Sky, to which we were seriously antipathetic, we found a new home for football after Mum’s roast dinner.

Football Italia altered my impressions of the Italian game in all sorts of ways. I’d previously had it drummed into me that it was dour and defensive, all catenaccio, designed to stifle attacking flair and generate a glut of goalless draws. I soon realised it wasn’t. Italian ‘calcio’ was about more than merely the back-line brilliance of Paolo Maldini, Alessandro Costacurta, Pietro Vierchowod and Giuseppe Bergomi; the Baggios, Francesco Totti, Attilo Lombardo, Alessandro del Piero and imports including Zinedine Zidane (Juve), Gabriel Batistuta (Fiorentina), Zvonomir Boban (Milan) and Marcelo Salas (Lazio) were amongst the forwards on display.

Another stereotype ripped up and chucked on the fire was that it’s always hot and sunny in Italy. It was partly disappointing yet also somewhat heartening to sit in our lounge and watch, say, Parma versus Sampdoria in cold, driving February rain every bit as miserable as our own. Under James Richardson’s presentation, the programme was far more cheery, and Football Italia also ventured outside the stadia for a cultural and culinary break, albeit not without some intelligent humour.

In the end, the fact that Serie A football was not much different from our own Premier League, with its own increasing number of top-notch foreign buys, killed our interest and, with other demands on my time, I stopped watching altogether. There remain, however, memories of AC Milan’s mastery under Fabio Capello in the early 1990s, the highlight being their European Cup success – shown on BBC – in 1994. Several years later I enjoyed reading Tim Parks’ book A Season with Verona which details the experience of following the frailties and fortunes of the Hellas Verona club, reviving images of those games, crowds and banners I’d once watched on Football Italia.

In the early twenty-first century, ITV’s Champions League coverage occasionally deviated from the usual dull preoccupation with Manchester United, Arsenal and Chelsea to showcase some extraordinary matches. Those Tuesday and Wednesday evening live broadcasts were by no means regular dates for me. Nevertheless, I did tune in to watch Monaco’s breathtaking destruction of a galactico-laden Real Madrid (Ronaldo, Beckham, Zidane, Figo et al) in a 2004 quarter-final to win on away goals. It was also a rare privilege to watch the French side meet the similarly unheralded Porto of Jose Mourinho in the final. I didn’t know who to support so didn’t mind when the Portuguese ran out 3-0 winners.

A year later I was on holiday in Sicily when Liverpool achieved their astonishing comeback against a Milan side which had ripped Gerrard and co so convincingly to shreds in the first half. Perversely unpatriotic as I am, I’d wanted the English team to lose. Our Italian courier told me afterwards that many of her countrymen and women were actually quite pleased Liverpool won on penalties because they hated the corrupt billionaire, far-right politician and Milan owner Silvio Berlusconi. Fair point!

In the last decade, the emphasis has shifted towards Spain as an alternative to the bloated beast that is the EPL. In particular, towards the cult of El Clasico and of Messi v Ronaldo. Even though I now live in a digital-subscribing household, the Sky and BT Sport channels featuring plentiful coverage of Spanish (or indeed French, Dutch and German) club football has been insufficient to lure me (or Angie) away from our domestic appetites of PL, soaps and thrillers.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the genius of Lionel Messi. Quite by chance, one evening in March 2012 my channel-hopping led me to ITV as a backdrop to a tedious session of ironing. They were showing Barcelona’s Champions League fixture against Beyer Leverkusen and pretty soon my domestic god credentials were seriously bruised by the necessity to stop and watch what was unfolding. The champions were rampant. It wasn’t that the German side were atrocious; but whenever Pep Guardiola’s side attacked, they seemed to score. Prompted by Xavi, Iniesta and Fabregas, Messi scored five, finishing with such contemptuous ease I had to put the shirts aside and applaud. He couldn’t see me but I didn’t care. That’s how good he was. I had seen Messi with Argentina in the World Cup but here he was in his natural habitat, at the Nou Camp, a bird of paradise in red and blue plumage. I realised what I had been missing the past several years.

Since then, the Champions League has mainly been a battle between Real and Barca, with Atletico Madrid, Bayern, Juve and even Liverpool sneaking onto the top table when the opportunity presented itself. The 2014 final featured a Madrid derby in which Atletico shared equal billing. I fervently hoped they’d thwart Real’s push for La Decima, their much-vaunted tenth title, and it seemed my wish had been granted until Sergio Ramos powered an unstoppable injury-time header. Bale popped up on the far post to put Real ahead and who else but Ronaldo applied the coup de grace.

However impressive Pep’s latest charges, Manchester City, may appear, there’s always a certain appeal in snooping around the obscure fringe channels to spot contests in Barcelona, Breda, Bologna or Beijing, players adorned in exotic purple, green and white stripes or red and white quarters. Football is universal. Wherever the location, the grass is always green, the lines are white, fans sing, chant and wave banners and the emotions of joy, disappointment, indignation and fury are the same everywhere, regardless of local language or dialect. I’ve watched in hotel rooms around Europe, loving the ubiquitous manic Latin “Gooooooooaaaaaallllllllllll” commentary, even Thailand, and seen how TV football unites multinational audiences in many a continental bar. There’s more to the sport than the Premier League. Lots more.

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 - 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.