1982 is dead

The thought, or mention, of the year 1990 immediately sets off one emotion, one memory in my head, the song. That song. Not Pavarotti's World Cup theme song but the cheesy "Notte Magiche", played to a background of images of Toto Schillaci looking like a man possessed, and trying desperately to get whatever it is out of himself, every time he scored a goal. The little Sicilian came out of nowhere, became the leading character, and scorer, at the World Cup and then slipped back into relative obscurity.

Luciano Pavarotti was not far behind in his representation of all that was good at Italia '90. Every night we would hear a few bars of his "Nessun Dorma" and we knew the evening match was about to begin. It was hot, all the windows were open, we could hear people on the street, tv's from neighbours all watching the same thing. The song climaxed with the "Vincero" bit and that was probably it for me. Why does a song trigger certain emotions? It must be the subconscious self that wants to reach that apex of victory, vicariously through the team you wish to win. And maybe, just maybe, the realization that those players out on the pitch are living the dream you had a as young boy.

So Pavarotti sang, Toto scored, Gascoinge cried and Gary Lineker had some of us dreaming again. But overall, Italia '90 associates itself with terrible, boring matches. There was a few I watched, where I really wondered what had got me hooked in 1982. But there is also an overriding memory of a great summer which bad football couldn't destroy. We had moved, which in Malta is never a great distance. The short distance had taken us from the small, sleepy village where watching who was sitting where in church on Sunday was exciting to the big town in the centre of all the action. Beaches for daytime fun, and bars for late nights out were all within walking distance.

But the football, yes the football. It was, to borrow an expert opinion "cynical and defensive". One of the highlights, ironically, was Argentina beating Brazil 1-0 with a  counter attacking goal. Argentina spent the rest of the time cynically defending. This was a different Brazil, a sad representation of the country that gave us Pele, Garrincha, Carlos Alberto and the class of '82 and '86. They didn't excite anybody. They had, as the tactical experts said, tried to play the European way, to play to win, not excite. The breathtaking play of '82 brought them nothing, and this new style didn't make them winners. It also didn't win them any admirers. The nine year olds watching football for the first time in 1990 would have nowhere near the same experience as this nine year old in 1982.

Italia '90 was also the World Cup of the Irish. Ireland, the Republic, had qualified out of Malta's group. Their final, historic, qualifying match was played in Malta. And the Irish had come to celebrate. For us the fun was being there . We had seen the big teams, Italy, Spain, Germany play in Malta, but never supporters like this. I can still hear "Que Sera, Sera........we're going to Italy" And if you ever hear stories of Irish supporters still turning up at half-time, it's true. I saw them walking in with their suitcases. The Irish and their non-stop supporters made it to the quarter finals before Italy narrowly beat them.

It was also the World Cup of Roger Milla and Rene Higuita. Cameroon's Milla was of undetermined age, anywhere between 32 and 42 but he entertained, he scored and he had the best goal celebration jig. Higuita was Colombia's colourful, eccentric goalkeeper. The two came up against each other in the second round. After Milla scored a pretty special first goal, Higuita's attempt at playing as a  defender well out of his penalty area gifted Milla the second goal.

Cameroon, the neutrals' favourites, were leading England 2-1 in the quarter final, before they, unfortunately enhanced their reckless defending reputation, giving Gary Lineker 2 penalties to give England the win.

England in the semi-finals. Was this it, the self-redemption for 1982 when I switched allegiance only to be let down so miserably? No. And I knew it was not going to happen because of the dream. http://dinoworldcup.blogspot.ca/2014/03/the-dream.html
The dream that England lost in the semi finals was so strong that I never doubted it. In England v. Italy crazed Malta, it looked like it might be the perfect ending for one half of the country. Italy had lost the night before. Diego Maradona, playing in his beloved Naples in front of his adoring local fans, helped Italy to a somewhat surprising win on penalties. So England were now poised to beat Germany and we could all laugh at the Italians that we went better than them in their home World Cup.

A brief detour to explain that come the World Cup, I was somewhat justified in using "we" in reference to England, even though I very rarely did. My English mother had given me that right. Although, in effect, there was more "we" in watching Malta play.

I knew that the night was going to end in disappointment. The media's often mentioned memory is of Gascoigne's tears when he was yellow carded and realized he would be suspended for the Final. I do not remember that at all. What comes to mind is the German free kick deflecting off Paul Parker and over the oh-too-short Peter Shilton. And at that point I did not think, that's just what the dream said would happen. I knew England would score. It would be a dramatic loss, one of close misses in extra time and the terrible defeat after penalties. It was over. Gary Salt 'n Vinegar couldn't do anything now. But the dream, sadly, of England playing Italy in the 3rd/4th place play-off in Bari had come true. That Italy won, and Toto scored to become top scorer was a ending with all the excitement of anticipation taken out of it.

The Final itself was really the worst ever. Argentina had a game plan. Kill the game, suck the life out of it and hope the Germans collapse under the weight of cynicism. Germany had a plan too. Expect the Argentinian negativity and attempt to be even better than it than them. Two Argentians were sent, the only game came from a penalty and the whole football world was happy it was finally over.

Germany won, but please really do excuse the cliche, beautiful football lost. Zico said that when Brazil lost to Italy in 1982, football died. It was a slow death. Brazil and France still lit up Mexico '86. That neither triumphed was maybe the reason that 4 years later France weren't there and Brazil were there in a completely different form. How all their wonderfully talented footballers could disappear in 4 years is beyond me. As further evidence of the death of football, look at what happened to the creative genius, Maradona. His magic was the difference in 1986. In Italy he was, in reported hindsight, under the influence of his environment in Naples. The magic was gone, replaced by a obsessed determination that helped present a different Argentina. Things could only get better in 1994. They had to.

The summer of 1990 still had a lot to offer after mid-July. Notte Magiche played on, with a tinge of sadness. A few weeks later I was in Rome to play a tennis tournament. The flags were still hanging out of apartment windows and the Italians still blamed the poor coach. The rest of the summer was again a haze of heat and beaches. Even the poor football could not take away that it had been another World Cup summer.